No Place (18 page)

“Can we talk later?” she asks. “I have a yearbook meeting at lunch, but I could do it right after school.”

I can’t imagine what she wants to say, but we were together for two years. I owe it to her.

*  *  *

In government and politics Meg smiles warmly and gives me a happy little wave. I hope she’ll understand when I tell
her I’ll get to the hospital a little late this afternoon.

Ms. Mitchell waddles in, her face flushed as usual. But instead of going to her desk, she stops in front of the class. “Anyone see the
Median Buzz
this morning?”

No one responds.

“So you haven’t heard about the protest?” she asks.

“You mean the homeless march on Washington?” Ben asks.

“No, I mean right here,” Ms. Mitchell replies. “There’s going to be a demonstration at Town Hall for more police protection for the homeless.”

When half the class turns and looks at me, Ms. Mitchell realizes why. Instead of pretending otherwise, she follows their lead. “Well, Dan, how do you feel about it?”

At this point being singled out doesn’t bother me anymore. “I’m in favor of more police protection for everyone.”

Ms. Mitchell chuckles. “Thank you for that glib reply, Dan. I’m sure it was deeply heartfelt.” Having drenched me with sarcasm, she looks for someone else.

But she’s right. So why not say what’s really on my mind? “Okay, seriously? That protest may be happening here, but for most of the kids in this school it might as well be in another country.”

Ms. Mitchell studies me. “You sound angry.”

Yeah, well, it’s hard not to be. I still can’t put my mother’s positive “pioneer” spin on Dignityville. “Try humiliated and embarrassed. It’s like everyone thinks there’s something wrong with you.”

I catch myself and stop, startled by what I’ve just blurted out. But now everyone in class is looking at me and I feel the urge to go on. “But that’s not the worst part. Want to know what the worst is? The hopelessness. Not for me, but for my parents . . . and all the other ones around their age? Like never being able to get jobs again doing what they used to do. I mean, for so many people there’s nothing to look forward to.”

Silence, and that slightly eerie, unexpected feeling when you realize they’re actually listening. Ben nods like maybe there’s something other than rosin in my skull after all. Ms. Mitchell clears her throat. “Thank you for sharing that with us, Dan. I know it can’t have been easy, and we all appreciate it.”

She invites other opinions, and the GPA zombies leap at the opportunity to score class-participation points. I’m still finding it difficult to believe that I just vented so publicly about something so private. Has my body been taken over by aliens from Planet Emo?

In the hall after class Meg has an earnest expression, like she’s going to say something about how impressed she was that I spoke out.

But I’ve got something I need to tell her. “Listen, about this afternoon . . .”

“You can’t come?” Her face falls.

“I can. But I have to take care of something else first. It shouldn’t take long.”

That earns a half smile, and she says, “I can wait.”

“It would be better if you didn’t.”

Good-bye half smile. As if she knows it must have something to do with Talia, she slides her eyes away. “Okay, then I’ll see you there, I guess.”

For some reason I can’t just spin on my heels and go off toward my next class. Something makes me want to give her spirits a lift, so I place my hand on hers and gently squeeze. “I promise.”

*  *  *

I don’t expect the meeting with Talia to go very long. I mean, what’s there to talk about once she tells me that she’s thought it over and realized that we’ve grown apart and we’re not the same people that we used to be and she’ll always remember the good times we had?

School ends and I dawdle inside for a few minutes while the herd heads for greener pastures. When I do get outside, a couple of small groups are hanging around talking, while a few others wait at the curb for rides. Talia’s by the flagpole, the strap of her book bag over her shoulder. I walk over, tempted to say,
Listen, this isn’t necessary. Let’s just shake hands and part friends.

Except Talia says, “I don’t want it to end like this, Dan.”

Does she mean that she wants it to end, but in a different way? No, that’s not what she means.

“I care too much about you.” Looking up into my eyes, she moves closer.

I’m completely flummoxed. “I . . . I care about you, too, Tal.”

She slides her arms around my waist and hugs, but I’m still
in shock. This is so
not
what I anticipated. But at least I was truthful. I
do
care about her. I’m just not sure it’s the kind of caring she’s talking about.

“I know you’ve been going through a really rough time,” she says, still hugging me. “I just never imagined that things could get this . . . this extreme.” She presses her cheek against my shoulder, which is good because she can’t see the stunned expression that must be on my face. The sweet scent of her perfume brings back lots of pleasant memories. Meanwhile I’m totally reexamining the past. Does the fact that she’s paid for everything we’ve done for months show a greater degree of understanding and sympathy than I’ve been willing to admit?

And she’s done all the driving and paid for all the gas. And never once complained about any of it.

An unsettled feeling envelops me. Have I been totally unfair and judgmental, and maybe just plain wrong? With Talia in no rush to let go, I glance around to make sure Meg didn’t stay after school to see what my delay was.

No, she’s not that kind of person.

Talia raises her head. “Who are you looking for?”

“Uh, no one.” Who am I trying to fool? She’s way smarter than that.

She leans back and studies me. “What’s going on with you and that girl?”

“I told you, Tal. We have things in common.”

“But you’re not . . . involved with her, are you?”

I shake my head.

“You
sure
?”

I nod, even though I’m not sure of anything. Talia relaxes and seems mollified. “Can I give you a ride?”

I point back at the school entrance. “Gotta practice with Noah.”

“Okay.” She stretches up and kisses me. “Talk to you later.” She bounces away, clearly pleased that we’re still a couple.

Why can’t I be honest with her?

Is it really that hard to give her up?

Or is it just hard to give up what she represents?

*  *  *

At the hospital Meg gives me a crooked smile as if she’s torn between her joy for her brother’s recovery and her concern over why I couldn’t leave right after school to see him. I shoot her a cheerful nod even though inside I’m blown away by what just happened with Talia.

Aubrey’s sitting up in bed with a blue cast on his left arm and an iPad on his lap. He looks gaunt and pale. The tubes have been removed from his mouth and nose, but are still in his right arm. “How are you?” I ask.

“Okay,” he answers in a hoarse whisper, as if his voice is rusty from lack of use. “I’m awake.” But the effort to say those few words seems to tire him.

I gesture to the iPad. “Nice.”

“It’s not his,” Meg says. “A nurse here’s letting him use it.”

“Not like . . . I’m going anywhere with it,” Aubrey quips, then waits expectantly.

So I grin. “Good one.”

He grins back and I sense he’s relieved. As if my reaction means that he still has a sense of humor. But now the smile disappears and he looks serious. He slowly inches the iPad in my direction. On the screen is the
Median Buzz
’s home page with a headline:

RUMORS OF COUNTERPROTEST GROW

I skim the story about opposition gathering against the demonstration for more police protection. It’s the same argument we heard at the Town Hall meeting: The homeless don’t pay any taxes. What right do they have to demand more than anyone else?

“How did they know . . . she was homeless?” Aubrey asks, referring to the woman who was threatened at the Stop and Shop.

“The same way they knew you were homeless, I guess.”

Aubrey’s forehead furrows. “Who knew?”

I glance at Meg, wondering what she’s told him about the attack. She looks wary. Aubrey sees this. “Tell me.”

“You were attacked in the parking lot behind Ruby’s,” she says. “I told you, remember? The baseball bat? That’s why you were in a coma.”

Aubrey blinks as if this is all new information, but people often can’t remember traumatic experiences. “What did . . . she say happened?”

“I don’t know. She doesn’t want to talk about it.”

His eyebrows rise and dip with consternation. “But she told . . . someone.”

“My dad. He’s the only one who knows who she is.”

Aubrey’s eyes dip further. “
You
 . . . don’t know who she is?”

“No one except my dad.”

Meg’s brother goes silent and looks away. Several moments pass before he says, “Don’t demonstrate.”

It’s hard to know how to take this. Is he thinking clearly? As if he senses this concern, he takes a deep breath. “They attacked me . . . because they wanted to. . . . It was deliberate.” He closes his eyes and sighs as if this conversation is taking way too much energy.

“Maybe we should drop it,” Meg suggests protectively.

“No,” Aubrey insists. “If there’s violence, it’s going to polarize . . . give the other side a reason . . . to feel threatened.” He leans back in bed and closes his eyes again.

“Maybe it’s time to go, Dan,” Meg says softly.

Aubrey opens his eyes. “I’m not . . . finished.”

“We can talk about it another time.” Meg’s clearly worried that he’s stressing too much.

But her brother perseveres. “It’ll scare people away from Dignityville. . . . They’ll be afraid . . . of more violence.”

That makes sense. But my father’s in favor of the demonstration. I have to think carefully about this.

This time when Aubrey closes his eyes, they stay closed. Meg tilts her head toward the door and raises a finger as if
I should wait for her. A moment later she joins me in the hallway.

“It’s posttraumatic amnesia,” she whispers. “He forgets things. In a few minutes he may not even remember what we just talked about.”

“But when he does remember, it seems like he thinks pretty clearly,” I whisper back. “How long does he have to stay here?”

“It depends. They’ve started him on physical therapy to get his strength and balance back. But he still has a long way to go.” She glances into the room. Aubrey’s reclined in his bed, his eyes still closed. I take her hand and squeeze it. When she looks up at me, her eyes are watery and she blinks back the tears. “Thanks for coming,” she croaks, then turns away down the hall so I won’t see her cry.

*  *  *

When I leave the hospital in the dark, I discover that the back tire on the bike I used has gone flat. By the time I walk it back to Dignityville, they’ve stopped serving dinner. Spaghetti was on the menu tonight, but the servers and big pots are gone. All that’s left are some pats of butter and stale bread.

With a plate of bread and butter, I find Dad at one of the dining tables, looking gloomy. I wonder what he’s been doing all day. Organizing the demonstration at Town Hall? Collecting bottles and cans? Selling blood?

“Where’ve you been?” he asks.

I’m about to tell him about Aubrey when I hear a heated
conversation nearby. Mom, dressed in her gardening clothes, is talking to a man wearing a plaid shirt and overalls. I can’t hear what they’re saying, but the crossed arms and clenched jaws cry out disagreement.

“Mutiny in the cabbage patch,” Dad mutters.

“The cucumbers don’t want to be planted next to the string beans?” I ask.

He isn’t amused. “It’s serious.”

I glance again at Mom and Farmer Joe or whoever he is. Now there’s just silence between them. With glittering eyes, Mom abruptly turns away and comes toward us, sitting down hard. When she picks up her carry mug to take a sip of tea, her hand is shaking. “I’ve always used organic fertilizer. I know it’s more expensive and that inorganic produces a slightly better yield. But this garden was my idea. I fought for it and now he comes out of nowhere with his ‘What do women know about farming?’ routine.” She balls her hands into fists. “Oh, I’d like to kill him!”

Dad covers one of her hands in his. Mom dabs her eyes and looks at my plate of bread and butter. “Where’s your dinner?”

“I got here too late.”

Her eyebrows dip into a
V
, as if she wants to figure out how to solve this problem, but then she sighs sadly, as if realizing she can’t. “Do you want to get Subway?”

I would, but I don’t want to spend the money. “It’s okay. I had a really big lunch,” I lie, hoping the bread will be enough to get me through tonight.

Mom accepts this. “So how was your day, sweetheart?”

“I saw Aubrey. You know he woke up?”

She manages to smile. “Yes.”

I take a breath, rub my hands together, and tell Dad what Aubrey said about the demonstration being a mistake.

He nods gravely. “He may be right, but I still think we have to do it.”

“How can you say that if you think he’s right?” I ask.

“There might be some opposition,” Dad explains, “but as long as we keep things peaceful, it should be fine.”

“How do you know you’ll be able to keep it peaceful?” I ask.

“I think we will.”

“How can you be sure?”

Dad sets his jaw firmly. “Dan, this is something I have to do.”

But I don’t understand. “Why?”

Instead of answering, he stares up at the ceiling of the dining tent and rakes his fingers back across his scalp. Without another word he gets up and stomps away, leaving his dinner half-eaten.

That is so not like him. I give Mom a quizzical look.

“Stress,” she says, then slides her eyes to the table where Farmer Joe is sitting with some other men, talking. I can’t help but wonder . . . is her pioneer spirit finally fading?