Chapter Twenty-Eight
Twyla was done with her finals. And, even though they didn’t have to at all, and grades weren’t due until next week, her teachers had all graded her exams right after she handed them in.
It was funny, in a way, how hard they had been rooting for her since she’d come back from spring break. No, not precisely then. It had taken a couple of weeks for them to actually believe she had changed, that she genuinely wanted to do well and that she gave a shit. Fair enough—she’d spent almost five years doing almost everything she could to convince them otherwise.
But with everyone’s help, especially Mr. Fox’s—she still couldn’t think of him as Gunnar even though she knew that was his name—she was going to pass. Barely, because even though she’d been busting her ass for the past few months there were a lot of rotten grades to overcome, but still—she was going to pass. And as long as she didn’t have any more unexcused absences, she was going to graduate. And Mr. Fox seemed to think that she could get into college if she wanted to, which was crazy.
His faith in her overwhelmed her sometimes but she loved it. She needed some time to think about what she actually wanted to do with her life because in all honesty she never really had before. She’d assumed she’d be like her mom and drift from job to job, where she’d get fired from each one for not showing up, for stealing, whatever she’d done to sabotage it. But now it seemed like she had options, and she’d need some time to think about what to do with all of them. Luckily Mr. Fox seemed more than willing to let her have it.
She slung her backpack over her shoulder and started walking home. Sometimes she walked with Mr. Fox or he gave her a ride home, but he had a meeting at school he had to stay late for and it was a beautiful day. All sunshine and warmth and vibrant early summer colors. Everything felt new and bright, including herself.
Twyla had gone about a block when the familiar sound of a poorly maintained pick-up sounded in her ear. Immediately, her stomach clenched. That sound meant Wade, and Wade meant yelling, cursing, violence, the smell of his foul breath, the swampy heat of it on her neck as he grabbed her.
But she must be making things up. No reason for him to be here, now. She hadn’t heard from him or her mom since she left in March and she liked it that way. All the same, she walked faster and tried to control her breath while hearing Mr. Fox’s voice in her ear:It’s okay, sweetheart. You’re okay. I’m not going to let anyone hurt you.
And he wouldn’t. She just had to get home, and she’d be fine. Stop having these silly hallucinations.
But instead of a beater passing her, the vehicle slowed to a crawl to keep pace just behind her. Every cell in her body screamed at her to run, but what the hell good would that do her?
Finally she gave in and turned her head in case it was some townie guys who wanted to give her a hard time. If it was, she could put on a tough act and crawl into Mr. Fox’s lap when he got home that evening and he’d hold her tight until she stopped shaking, tell her she was a brave girl. He was good at that.
But it wasn’t local boys. It was Wade. If the glance of the man behind the wheel wasn’t enough to confirm it, then the hideous tan color of the ancient pick-up with splotches of rust would have.
The impulse to run screamed through her, but he’d just catch her in the end and she didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of her fear. And foolishly, she didn’t want to trip and ruin her pretty purple dress. Not that her daddy would care; he would be far more concerned with her wellbeing than anything else, but she would still be really mad if Wade ruined anything else of hers. He’d ruined enough.
So she stopped, turned, and gripped the straps of her backpack so he wouldn’t see her hands shaking.
“What do you want, Wade?”
“For you to come home, Twyla. We miss you.”
She wanted to laugh, wanted to shout at him that he and her mother had a funny way of showing it. They could’ve called, they could’ve written. Heck, they could’ve stopped by if they wanted to see her. Neither of them had.
“That’s not true. Tell me what you really want.”
Wade’s eyes narrowed and Twyla felt her spine straighten. He hadn’t expected her to be calm and collected, to stare him down. He’d expected hysterics. Well, he wasn’t going to get any. She didn’t owe him anything, especially not good behavior, but she wasn’t going to give him any pleasure from making her upset either.
She could see the moment when he decided to change tack, and she braced for whatever lie he was going to throw at her next.
“Your mom fell. Broke her wrist, got a concussion, can’t work. We need you to get a job and contribute to the household for once.”
“No.”
There was no way her mom “fell.” Wade had beaten her up—again—of that Twyla was almost certain. And while her heart ached because she was still her mom and she loved her, there was nothing she could do if Debra didn’t want to leave Wade.
Twyla had tried before to get her to leave. Begged, actually, but for nothing. If her mom changed her mind and asked her for help getting away from this asshole, Twyla would do anything she could to help but she wasn’t going to keep trying to keep pushing that rock up a mountain. Oh, Mr. Fox would be so proud of her for that reference. She’d have to remember to tell him later.
Her refusal made Wade’s face redden with rage, and he slid across the bench seat in the old truck and got out of the passenger side door. It took everything she had to not back up, to not run away. He was taller than her which meant longer legs. And while he wasn’t in good shape, running had never been her strong suit. She didn’t doubt that he’d catch her and hurt her when he did.
“You little bitch. We’ve kept a roof over your head and food in your belly for years, and you’ve never contributed a dime. Never did any chores, either. Just take and take and take, that’s what you do.”
She wanted to argue, fight. Did buying half the food she ate with money she’d made at odd jobs and anywhere that would hire her for menial labor count? It was hard to get a job when people knew whose kid you were. As far as chores, she did her laundry, dragged an overfull duffel bag to the laundromat because their machines never worked. Spent a fortune in quarters to do it. She would’ve been happy to chip in to clean up the shithole she used to live in, but no one seemed to care if the place was filthy—why should she?
Mr. Fox loved his home, took care of it almost as well as he took care of her. She’d had to learn to clean up her things, but he’d showed her how to do things like clean the tub and sweep and mop the floors, and reminded her to put away her books and her clothes and her toys. She had clean laundry every week and she helped him put it away.
It’s not that she loved chores, but she loved having a nice orderly home and she loved her daddy so she tried as hard as she could, without complaining. Mostly.
“I’m not going back there and you can’t make me.”