Out of Order (6 page)
“What?” I don't get it.
Zelia drums her fingers on her thigh. She is always impaÂtient, always two steps ahead. Sometimes I wonder why she hangs out with me.
“You know. Panhandle. Beg. Sit on the sidewalk and ask for money.”
I tug on a lock of my hair and twist it slowly around my finger. “What's the point?” I ask.
Zelia shrugs. “Exactly.”
THE GLARE OF
the hazy gray sky hurts my eyes after sitting in the dimly lit washroom. Zelia says they keep the lights low in the washrooms so that junkies won't go there to shoot up. I don't see how she could know something like that, and anyway, the washrooms are always locked. Still, I don't say anything.
We find a spot on the sidewalk, and Zelia arranges us. She is like a stage director, telling me how to sit, where to place my hat, making sure all the details are just the way she wants them. I surrender myself to her sense of purpose.
We sit and wait, not talking. Zelia puts on headphones and turns on her
MP3
player. The air is damp and stinks of car exhaust. A woman is walking toward us. Zelia looks at her; then she looks at me. She raises one eyebrow in an unspoken question.
I study the woman. Carefully highlighted hair, pale lipstick, smooth tan. Long legs tightly encased in what Zelia calls spray-on jeans. High-heeled pink sandals cage her feet and shorten her stride.
“An easy one,” I say, grinning at Zelia.
She wrinkles her nose. “Yeah. A Tiffany, for sure.”
The woman averts her gaze as she approaches us.
Zelia holds out her hat. “Spare any change?” she asks, as if she has done this a thousand times before.
The woman pretends not to hear and walks right past us.
“God,” I say. “I'd rather be shot than wear shoes like that.”
Zelia shifts to face me. She flips her straight fall of hair back over her shoulder and pulls her headphones oV so they hang loosely around her neck. I can feel my own hair curling in the damp air in deWance of the no-frizz leave-in conditioner I always use.
“Next one's yours,” she says.
I shrug. “Whatever.”
The next person to approach is a woman carrying a baby and pushing a stroller. As she gets closer, I can see that her stroller is full of groceries. The baby is squirming and fussing as she tries to balance him on her hip as she walks.
Zelia nudges me with her elbow, hard.
“Spare change?” I blurt. The woman has already passed us, and I brace myself for Zelia's criticism of my performance. To my surprise, though, the woman stops and turns. She looks at us for a moment and sighs. She is younger than I first thought, and she has shadows under her eyes.
“Sure,” she says, “I think I have some change.” She shifts her baby onto her other hip, bends over and fumbles in her stroller. A package of diapers tumbles to the sidewalk, and she swears under her breath. The baby starts to cry, a high thin wail.
I find myself mumbling an apology. I get up, step toward her and pick up the diapers.
She finds her wallet and shakes a few quarters into my hat.
My cheeks are burning. “Uh, thanks,” I say as I hand her the diaper package.
I watch her walk away. I can feel Zelia glaring at me. “What?” I ask.
“What was she?”
“A Martha,” I say.
“Right,” says Zelia. “Right. A Martha. Someone who spends her life wiping butts and mushing up carrots. Someone who can pick up her own damn diapers.” She is eyeing me suspiciously, as if she can read my treacherous thoughts.
What I'm thinking is: Zelia always goes too far.
Zelia slips her headphones from around her neck and puts her
MP3
player in her bag. “You can do the next one too,” she says.
It's a challenge, a test. I chew on the inside of my bottom lip. “Okay,” I say.
Zelia's mouth is a hard line, her eyes an empty blue.
I wait for the next person to walk past. I'll only look at the shoes, I decide. I'll stare at the sidewalk and I'll only look at the shoes, and when I see shoes, I'll say, “Spare any change?” I'll say it as if I've said it a thousand times before, and I won't look up.
I stare at the sidewalk for what feels like a long time. Pale blades of grass are pushing up through the cracks. Finally I see a pair of feet approaching. Women's shoes. Old lady shoes. A Gertrude, I think. I bite down on my lip nervously, taste metal, suck a Wne thread of blood across my tongue.
The shoes are closer now, white orthotic shoes below
bulgy veined ankles. “Spare any change?” I ask. My voice sounds stronger this time, more like Zelia's.
The shoes stop, and there is a long silence.
Slowly, almost against my will, my eyes travel up, past the bulgy ankles, the green floral skirt, the round swell of belly, the cardigan buttoned over sagging breasts. I close my eyes and feel a dizzying rush of shame.
“Young lady,” says my grandmother. “What in God's name do you think you are doing?”
I open my mouth, but no words come. A tight lump is swelling in my throat.
My grandmother is shaking her head. “I don't know what to say. Have you been drinking?” She bends closer and I pull back, not wanting her to smell the alcohol on my breath.
“You are completely out of order,” she says.
“IâIâIt was just a game,” I say.
Out of order.
She's right. That's how I feel. Like something within me is broken. I press my hands against my mouth and swallow hard.
She stands still for a moment, her body rigid and unyieldÂing. She looks me straight in the face, and her brown eyes are bruised and bewildered. I stare at her. I stare across the space between us. I can feel my heart pounding at my temples; my face and ears are on fire.
I want to say something. I have a bizarre impulse to jump up and throw my arms around her, but I am frozen to the sidewalk. And then the moment passes. She turns and slowly walks away.
IN BED THAT
night I lie awake, wondering if Gran will tell Mom. I pull up my comforter and Gran's quilt, curl onto my side and clutch a pillow to my chest. When I close my eyes, it is Zelia's face I seeâher eyes are knowing and blue, and her mouth is twisted in a half smile.
ON MONDAY, ZELIA
doesn't show up at school until after classes are over. She is sitting outside on the steps at 3:30, waiting to talk to me. I want her to ask me how things are going, whether things are okay with my grandmother, but she doesn't.
“My mother is so freaking selfish,” she says. “I hate her.”
I sit down on the steps beside her. “What's going on?”
“Michael. My mother. She just wants to do this honeymoon thing. I'm in the way.” She gives a humorless laugh. “I faked sick so I could stay home today. That really pissed her off.”
“You actually look kind of sick. You're really pale.”
“Just tired. Can't sleep. I was up all night and just napped a bit this morning. I feel like hell, if you really want to know.” Zelia looks at me and scowls. “I suppose you have to be home by four o'clock or something.”
I can feel her anger flowing thick and hot beneath the surface of our friendship. She could turn on me in a flash.
“Whatever,” I say. I flip my hair out of my eyes carelessly, a gesture I've picked up from her. Then, with something
like relief, I remember that I'm riding tonight. My mother will be here any minute to pick me up.
IN THE CAR
, I lean my cheek against the cool glass of the window and think about Zelia. She seems so angry sometimes, like she hates everyone and everything, including me. I don't know how she can hold in so much anger. I am afraid it will overflow and come spilling out, scalding everyone around her. I don't want to be standing too close when it happens.
The car pulls to a stop in front of the barn, wheels crunchÂing in the gravel driveway.
Mom loosens her seat belt and twists to face me. “Sophie?”
“What?” It has begun to rain; drops of water tap and splat on the windshield.
“You're very quiet.” She hesitates, pressing her fingertips lightly against her lips. “Are you feeling okay?”
I wonder if Gran will tell her today.
“I'm fine,” I say. The anger I felt a few days ago has evapÂorated; the hard shell around me got torn away when Gran saw me panhandling. What do I feel? I don't know. Empty. Apprehensive. Nothing I can explain to my mother.
Mom sighs. “Honey...you don't seem fine. Is school going okay?”
I nod. “Yeah. It's fine. Really, Mom.” I put my hand on the door handle.
“I just feel like I never see you anymore. You're never home, and when you are you never come out of your room.”
“I'm busy, Mom. I have riding, I want to spend time with Zelia, I have homework to do...That's all.” I open my door. “Okay? Quit worrying about me.”
She shakes her head and gives a rueful half laugh. “I'm your mother. I'm never going to quit worrying about you.”
I slip out of the car. That half laugh means I'm off the hook, for now anyway. “Well, try, okay?” I say. I smile, trying to reassure her. “I really am fine.”
I DUCK INTO
the barn, out of the rain. Sebastian, the big gray gelding, is standing in cross-ties, freshly groomed. Max's head pops out from behind him.
“Hey,” she says, “you riding?”
I nod. “Yeah.”
“Cool. Hurry and tack up. I'll wait for you. Want to ride around the lake?”
I nod again. “Yeah. Okay.” Max is grinning widely at me, her face alive and happy. I can feel a smile starting to play at the corners of my lips as I groom Keltie.
I slide the bit into the horse's mouth and slip the bridle over her head. Keltie leans into me, trying to rub her big head against my shoulder. I scratch between her ears for a minute before I lift the heavy saddle onto her back.
Max is wrapping blue support bandages around Sebastian's expensive legs. She is wearing black suede chaps over her blue jeans, a black hoodie sweatshirt and a green Gore-Tex jacket. There is no dark makeup around her eyes, but she still looks like herself.
She crams her helmet over spiky, dark brown hair. “Ready when you are.”
I tighten Keltie's girth. “Let's go.”
A fine light rain, almost a mist, is falling. Everything seems very quiet and still, and we ride in silence for a few minutes. We follow the road for a short distance, and then we cut down a path that leads to the main trail circling the lake. I focus on the rise and fall of Keltie's hooves and the gentle bobbing of her head.
The area around the lake is usually busy with joggers, dog walkers and moms with small kids, but because of the rain, the trail stretches ahead, empty and inviting. I push Keltie into a steady trot, and Max follows a couple of horse-lengths behind.
After a few minutes, she calls out, “Sophie, would Keltie be okay if I brought Sebastian up beside her?”
“Yeah, she's fine.” I steady her and slow down to let them catch up.
Max looks over at me and shakes her head ruefully. “He spent a couple of years racing when he was a baby, so he gets a bit silly sometimes if he thinks he's getting left behind.”
Sebastian is sweating and tossing his head in excitement. I stroke Keltie's silky neck, and we ride on in a friendly silence, the trail curving along the edge of the flat gray lake. I wonder if Max feels the same sense of peace that I do. I don't know her well enough to ask, and I can't think of any way to say it that doesn't sound stupid.
Around the bend in the trail is a gentle slope, and we let the horses have a good gallop. When we pull up, Max is out of breath.
“Shit. Can we walk a bit?” She shakes her head. “I have got to quit smoking. I can totally feel it, can't you?”
For some reason, I don't feel I need to pretend. “I don't really smoke. I just started, kind of. I just do it sometimes.”
“I hate it,” Max says, her voice low and intense. “I hate spending money to support tobacco companies. I hate the smell on my clothes and my hair. I hate how hard it is to stop. I hate that I'll probably end up getting cancer or something.” She scowls. “I hate everything about it.”
“So why do you do it?”
She unzips her jacket. “It's stopped raining.” She lifts her face toward the sky for a moment; then she turns back to me and gives a little shrug. “My older brothers smoke, my mom used to smoke. I started when I was eleven. I was too dumb to know any better.”
“Are you going to try to quit?”
“Yeah. Again. I'm starting on the patch tomorrow.” She holds her reins in one hand and twists her body to face mine. “Don't keep smoking, Sophie. Seriously. You're way too smart to do something that stupid.”
Warmth spreads in my belly. She thinks I'm smart, and she says it like it's a good thing. I remember the taunts:
think you're so smart, teacher's pet, brainer girl
. The sting is less sharp though, and instead of the usual instinct to smother the voices, I feel a frightening urge to tell Max about them.
“Let's go. Let's have another gallop,” I say, pressing my heels into Keltie's sides. She leaps forward, indignant at my abruptÂness, and I lift my face into the cool damp air.
Sebastian pulls ahead of us, and Max shouts over her shoulder at me, “Hey! Give us a little warning next time!”
She is half-laughing, and I can see she isn't mad. I grin at her a little wildly and we gallop, hooves pounding the soft dirt trail, until both horses slow on their own, breathing hard.
Back at the barn, we rub our horses dry with empty burlap feed bags that feel rough and scratchy and absorb water well. They smell sweet, like alfalfa and molasses.
A pair of boots and skinny jean-clad legs appear through a hole in the ceiling. Tavish, the guy who helps out at the barn, ignores the ladder resting beside him and jumps lightly onto a bale of hay.
