But she is not a good girl. Even Carly says so.
“How’s that for starters?”
The chair doesn’t answer.
And then there is the constant hum of Reid. Louder now because of Carly. Reid, unbuttoning her blouse. You’re beautiful, Zoe. So soft. Reid. Touching her breast. Kisses. Tender. Only fifteen. Only looking forward, when she was only looking back.
The air conditioner shuts off, and the silence buzzes in her ears.
She looks at the empty seat across from her.
The bell rings.
Group is over.
Forty-Six
“What’s wrong?” Zoe flies out of her car. “Is it Kyle?”
Uncle Clint breathes deeply, shakes his head, winding up his way to speak.
“Uncle Clint! What is it?” Zoe fights panic rising in her.
“No, no.” He pats his hands in the air like he is putting out a fire. “Nothing like that.”
But Uncle Clint never comes to the diner. He has never waited in the parking lot for her before. It’s something. Maybe “nothing like that” but something worth bringing him to town and interrupting his dinnertime. Zoe tightens, draws in to herself. They stand between her car and the groaning oil pump on the edge of Murray’s parking lot. He shifts his feet and rubs his left forearm with his hand.
“I just need to talk to you, Zoe. About keeping this room.” She waits, letting her silence percolate through him, letting the pause relay that it’s no business of his. He brushes his hand over his thin, closely cropped hair. “You wouldn’t do something stupid like quit school, would you?”
She relaxes. “You came here for that?” She is almost touched. Is someone finally concerned about her? “I’m fine, Uncle Clint, and no, I’m not quitting school, and yes, I am keeping the room.”
“What are you trying to prove, Zoe? Smoking? Moving out? We know you’ve had it hard, but what does any of this prove? You trying to get back at your mama?”
It’s there again. Even with Uncle Clint. It’s really not about her or whether she might quit school. It’s what it’s always about. “Mama? Does everything have to be about Mama? For God’s sake, Uncle Clint! Can’t it ever just be about me?”
Uncle Clint moves closer and tucks his chin to his chest. “Don’t go raising your voice now, Zoe—”
“I’ll raise my voice if I want to!” She throws her hands over her head. “I’ll raise it so all of fucking Ruby hears!”
Uncle Clint stiffens. “Your grandma’s talking about calling you a runaway. Calling the police so you’d have to go home.”
Zoe folds her arms and leans against her car. “Really?” She leisurely draws out the word and smiles. “Whose bluff do you think she’s calling? Wake up, Uncle Clint. She won’t call. Do you think she really wants the police to see what they’d be sending me back to? Come on. Think it through. I have.”
She turns to leave.
“No matter what, your mama is family. Don’t you think you owe her that much? To see her through some tough times? Families—”
“I know, I know! Families stick together. Give it a rest, Uncle Clint. What? Have you been going to Grandma’s school of guilt? What did she have to do to get you here? Threaten to send Kyle back to Mama?” And knowing the spoken name of her aunt is the period to all conversations, she throws out, “And if families do so damn much sticking together, where the hell is Aunt Nadine? Couldn’t she take any more of that sticking together?”
He puts his open palm out and sighs. “The keys, Zoe. She wants the keys.” With his other hand he gestures over his shoulder. She sees Grandma sitting in his car. An arm hangs out the window with ribbons of smoke rising from a cigarette pinched lightly between fingers of a dangling hand. So comfortable. So sure.
Zoe’s fingers curl into her palm. Nails dig into flesh. “When hell freezes over,” she says in a low voice. “You lay a single hand on this car and I’ll break it.” She yanks her purse from the front seat and slams the door. “And I don’t mean the car!”
Uncle Clint shakes his head. “I don’t know you, Zoe.”
She stops and looks full into his face. “Of course you don’t. How could you? You haven’t had the time.” It’s said as a fact, almost kindly but it cuts just as deeply. She can see it in the wrinkling of his eyes. She would ease the words, backtrack if she could, because Uncle Clint is a kind man, a soft, quiet man manipulated into something beyond his understanding, but there isn’t time, and another glance at Grandma’s dangling hand spreads heat like a fire past her temples.
“Go home, Uncle Clint. You’ve never been part of this. Don’t start now.” She leaves, working her way across a parking lot that stretches and lengthens with each step. Miles and miles of asphalt because she will never get far enough away. Never.