“And don’t forget, your transportation fees have to be paid to the finance office by the end of next week,” he says. “It’s gone up this year to forty-five dollars.”
A flash of adrenaline pierces her chest. She did forget. Every year they have to pay it. The school doesn’t cover optional activities. And it doesn’t matter if they take the lousy bus or not, they still have to fork over the bucks. Forty-five dollars by next week. Do football players have to pay their own way? she wants to ask. She is going to have to perform magic with her tips to have the money by then. She gets her paycheck from Murray next Friday—but that would be after school—too late. She swings her racket over her shoulder, and heads for the locker room. She’ll figure it out somehow. She’ll go home to her room and count the pennies. Her room. No excuses. She’s had enough of them. Make it work, Zoe.
But how? she wonders. She showers. She stuffs damp, stinky clothes into her bag. And then she throws her racket into the back of the Thunderbird that is already down to a quarter of a tank.
She stops at Taco Shack, where tacos are two for a dollar and soda refills are free. Her hands shake as she orders. She sits alone, the fluorescent light flattening her against the booth. The tacos are small, and after two she is still hungry. She drinks more soda and refills again before she leaves, and once more an unwanted thought slices through her concentration. Mama loves tacos. Should she take her one? But the answer is no. Of course, no. One or two tacos will not change Mama. They barely keep her own stomach from rumbling. And Mama’s hunger runs deeper than a dozen tacos could reach.
Eighteen
Metal against metal. The scrape of her key in the lock has a peeling effect, like layers of tight clothing being torn away. Mama. Money. Grandma. Until she is down to lightness. The room. Like tennis. A corner of control. Forward. Future. She enters into her space and soaks in the clean, the polish, the humming refrigerator, the fading shafts of light. The order.
The panther’s faint tick floats across silence. Six-fifteen. She told the twins she would come to their sister’s Quinceañera tonight. She remembers back to Monica’s fifteenth birthday. Half of Ruby seemed to be there. The party was rolled out from the backyard to the front, and the overflow spilled out to the street. And there was lots of food. Tables of food.
She will go.
But before she leaves she must do laundry. She only has one tennis skirt, and she needs it for her match in the morning. She pulls off one sock and then the other, her feet hot on the cool, polished floor. She pauses, startled, but absorbed in the simple sensation of her feet on a smooth, clean floor. She looks around the room. Is it really hers? Clean. Empty of past. She sits on the window seat and props her feet on a lavender pillow. Before laundry, before anything, she needs to sit. She needs to be. Just be. She closes her eyes, leaning back against the alcove. Zoe. Zoe listening to evening chirps through an open window. Zoe fingering a golden tassel. Zoe tasting space. Zoe owning the room. Zoe, owning her life. She is not invisible. Zoe asking and answering questions that are all her own. Her thoughts come in no particular order, some questions, some observations, none pressing, like a meandering stroll that still has destination. Breaths and half-thoughts barely fill the crevices in between.
Will I win my match tomorrow?
leg stubble
My nails look like shit.
my room
tell Carly Reid too
What was that book guy reading? Did he notice me at all?
who
I wonder what is Mr. K’s “difficult” name?
laundry only my laundry
Pick up Kyle’s gift at the kite shop.
breeze jasmine or is it honeysuckle?
my window mine
a lavender pillow for my feet
Kyle should see this
Should I take a salad to his party? Something?
count the pennies
My legs need shaving.
Mama
Have I always had that white dot on my shin?
a white freckle? a star on my shin
What made Opal paint stars on the ceiling?