Center of Gravity Page 10

  She inhales through her nose. “Oh yeah. I’m fine. Just need to lie back down for a while, I think. Your dad took your bike out of the garage before he left.”

  I hesitate. I don’t want to say what I know I should. But I do anyway. “Do you want me to stay?”

  She shakes her head, and I’m relieved. I’ve made the effort. That’s all I can do. I take my bowl and glass to the sink and run water in them. And then I realize it’s still only eight o’clock, and I’m not sure what else to do.

  An hour sitting in the kitchen with Lila will feel like a year.

  “I’m grocery shopping today,” Lila says. I think about the stock in the garage. She probably doesn’t actually need to shop for a year. “Is there anything I can get for you?”

  “The other guys bring snacks,” I say.

  Lila reaches for a big binder sitting on the table, and I see that it’s filled to overflowing with cut-out coupons. “Perfect.”

  I don’t want to show up in the clubhouse empty-handed, so I make myself ask, “Is there anything I can take for snacks today?”

  Lila doesn’t look up from her coupons. “There’re apples in the fridge. And cheese sticks.”

  I shove five green apples and a handful of string cheese in my backpack and get out as fast as I can.

  * * *

  I’m so anxious to leave the house that I don’t realize until I’m standing on the little square of lawn that I don’t actually have a plan for the morning.

  I don’t know if I should get my bike now, or go meet the boys in the clubhouse, or maybe knock on Jay Jay’s door.

  I walk around the corner to the front of his house.

  It’s like something I’ve only ever seen on television or read about in fairy tales. I can imagine Snow White or Sleeping Beauty locked in an attic bedroom by an evil stepmother.

  Or a cranky grandmother.

  The house is three stories, the same as Lila’s, but it takes up half a block and is much taller. It has towers and spires and windows that are all divided into diamond-shaped panes.

  There’s a weeping willow tree in front that I wish I could crawl under to see what it’s like inside those branches that reach all the way to the grass.

  I could live in there, I think, with the birds and the squirrels. At least for the summer, until it gets cold. Does it even get cold in California? Maybe it doesn’t. Maybe I really could move into a weeping willow tree permanently.

  I stand there, lost in a daydream about sneaking some of Lila’s garage hoard under the branches of the tree. It could be my own secret garden. The branches are so long and thick, no one would see me under there unless they came looking for me.

  I look up at the house and think about Jay Jay there alone with his grandmother, like a couple of marbles rolling around in one of those empty industrial-size coffee cans Mom used to store my Legos in.

  The front door is massive, at least twice as tall as I am, and there is no way I’m knocking on it. Maybe someday, when I know Jay Jay better, but not this morning.

  Instead I walk toward the bluff. There are already people jogging and walking their dogs on the grass above the beach, and mothers with their small children setting up on the sand for the morning.

  When I’m halfway down the stairs, I turn and look through the risers and see them there. All four boys are huddled toward the back of the clubhouse.

  Pretty much no part of my life feels quite right. I don’t belong in Los Angeles. I wouldn’t belong in Denver anymore either, without Dad, no matter what kind of daydreams I might have.

  I miss everything and everyone, and it makes me feel like I’m not heavy enough to stay on the ground.

  But I get a boost of confidence when I hear their voices. They’re waiting for me, I think. Maybe it’s just because I know how to play foosball, but it’s something. It helps, like it’s poked a tiny hole in my homesickness, relieving the pressure a little.

  I come all the way down and turn the corner to join them. “Hey, guys.”

  Oscar raises a hand toward me and says, “Shut her up.”

  I blink and take a step back. The tiny new bubble of belonging bursts. Jay Jay’s head pops up from the back of the group, and he waves me over. “Don’t be a jerk, O.”

  “This isn’t her business,” Oscar says before I can move—either to come closer or to leave. “We don’t even know her.”

  Something has happened. Jay Jay, Oscar, and Petey all stand around Marvel. Like they’re protecting him.

  I stay where I am. “What’s wrong?”

  “Go home, Tessa,” Petey says. His voice cracks on the word home.

  “No.” Marvel’s small voice sounds calmer and stronger than his brother’s. “We need her.”

  I am rooted in my spot. I don’t want to butt in where I’m not wanted. I don’t want to leave.

  I finally just ask again, “What’s wrong?”

  Jay Jay walks toward me. I look at his green eye and then his blue eye and wrap my arms around myself. He takes my elbow and pulls me back out of the clubhouse, into the sun. It’s a little like coming out of a cave, and I find myself blinking at the people, half surprised to find that they’re so close.

  “They had a bad night,” Jay Jay says, his voice low.

  “Who did?” I look back at the stairs, at the boys under it.

  “Petey and Marv.” Jay Jay exhales slowly. “Mostly Marvel.”

  I’m missing something and I know it, but I don’t know what it is. I can’t figure it out. “What kind of a bad night?”

  Jay Jay seems to make some kind of a decision. “Their mom, okay? When she drinks, she does things. And she gets mean.”

  “Mean.”

  “Especially to Marv.”

  “She’s mean to Marvel?” I hear myself just parroting back what Jay Jay says to me, but I can’t seem to stop. “Mean to Marvel?”

  “Tessa,” Jay Jay says sharply. “She does stuff to him, okay. Bad stuff.”

  Bad stuff. My imagination is strong enough and has had enough experience imagining bad stuff happening to the kids in my shoebox to make me yank my arm away and take a step back. “Well—you have to tell someone.”

  “We can’t.”

  I want to understand, but I really don’t. “Why not? If their mom is … if she’s hurting him.”

  “We’ve tried.” I turn back to the stairs. Petey stands there with his hands shoved into the pockets of his Levi’s.

  “Is Marvel okay?” Jay Jay asks quietly.

  “No. He’s not okay.” Petey’s voice, his face—his whole body—is stiff.

  “You told someone?” I put a hand over my mouth as soon as the words escape me. Jay Jay and Petey both look at me like I’m an idiot. At least I manage to keep my next question inside my head. Then why is it still happening?

  “Yeah. We told someone, okay?” Petey shakes his head. “We told our dad.”

  “Well, why doesn’t he do something?” Yep. The nosy questions just keep rolling off my tongue like I have some kind of verbal diarrhea.

  And the second I ask that question, I know the answer.

  I can see it in the way Petey’s chin lifts and in the hollow sadness in his pale eyes.

  His dad knows and he hasn’t done anything to protect Marvel. It doesn’t matter why he doesn’t do something. What matters is that he doesn’t. He hasn’t.

  I think about how upset I’ve been because Mom died. Because Dad married Lila, and there’s a baby coming, and we had to move away from Denver.

  I think about how I’ve never even been spanked before.

  “He did something,” Petey says. “He left. Without us.”

  “That’s why you need the money,” I say. “So he can take you and Marvel away.”

  Jay Jay shakes his head, and Petey says, “We need the money so I can take Marvel away.”

  “You’re going to run away?”

  Petey takes a step away from me and turns back toward the clubhouse where Oscar is still with Marvel. “Damn it.
”

  “I won’t tell.” I say that without really thinking it through. Because maybe I should tell. Dad would do something. He’s a teacher. He has to do something.

  “You can’t,” Petey says, an edge of panic in his voice, and I know there are still things that he hasn’t told me. Like how his mom reacted to his dad leaving.

  “I won’t.” This time, right or wrong, I mean the promise.

  * * *

  Marvel and Oscar come out from the clubhouse, and Marvel looks a little pale, but I don’t see any marks or bruises on him. No one tells me exactly what happened the night before, so I still don’t know just what bad stuff means, and I don’t ask.

  The three older boys rally around the smaller one, keeping him between them like they can protect him now from what happened the night before.

  We make our way up the stairs to the street.

  “You’re going to practice with us, right?” Marvel asks me. “The first day of the tournament is tomorrow.”

  “Sure,” I say. “Of course.”

  “Do you need Olivia’s bike again?” Oscar’s voice sounds like the words are too big for his throat.

  I shake my head. “My dad fixed mine.”

  “Okay,” Oscar says, drawing the word out. Ooh-kaay.

  While the boys go to Jay Jay’s house to get their bikes, I walk around to get mine, glad that none of them came with me. I don’t know if the garage door is open, and I still don’t want them to see Lila’s stuff.

  Dad has set my bike on the driveway and the garage is locked again, keeping Lila’s stash safe. What would he do if Lila was mean to me the way Petey and Marvel’s mom is mean?

  If she was, and I told him, would he believe me?

  Would he make excuses, because she’s his brand-new, pregnant wife and I’m his daughter who carries around a shoebox full of missing kids cut from the backs of milk cartons?

  A deep shudder runs up my spine, and I roll my bike down to the sidewalk before I can think on that any harder.

  * * *

  Jessica isn’t at the desk this morning. Another girl sits in her place. She’s Jessica’s age, probably in high school. Her name tag says Jennifer.

  Jennifer’s looking up at a teenage boy in a Greater Los Angeles Community Center T-shirt. His name tag says Marcus. Neither of them is paying attention to us at all.

  Marvel runs ahead of us into the game room. The bike ride seems to have helped. He’s his old self again, as far as I can tell.

  If I hadn’t seen what I saw in the clubhouse this morning, I wouldn’t have any idea that something wasn’t right with him. Except that since I do know, I can see him favoring his right side. Just enough for me to notice.

  He’s so small. Watching him jog toward the game room, so he can slap his hand on the foosball table and save it for us, I see how delicate his bones are.

  He jumps in the air and brings his hand down on the rim of the good foosball table and yells, “Next game!” even though the only other kids in the room are two girls his age who are setting up house under the Ping-Pong table. They’re building furniture out of wooden blocks for a pair of baby dolls.

  Oscar rolls his eyes. “Good thing you screamed, Marv. I’m sure they heard you at their houses.”

  “It’s all right,” Jay Jay says, winking at Marvel. “Maybe they’ll stay home then.”

  “Ha!” Oscar takes his place. “Like that’s going to happen.”

  “Could,” Marvel says.

  “No.” Petey takes his place next to Oscar. “It couldn’t. Let’s play.”

  * * *

  Jay Jay, Oscar, and Petey are good. They’ve been playing together for a long time. I can tell without being told. They have a groove, like Megan and I used to.

  Marvel stands at one end of the table and shouts directions.

  Don’t spin! You’re not allowed to spin, O!

  You always go that way, Petey. You should mix it up.

  We’re in our own groove an hour later when a hand slaps the rim table between Jay Jay and me. And an unfamiliar voice calls out in my ear, “Next game.”

  I look over my shoulder, and Oscar slams a shot past my defense. The boy behind me shrugs and goes back to his friends.

  Marvel tugs on my arm and says, “Pay attention!”

  I turn back to the game. Jay Jay and I hold Oscar and Petey off for a few more plays, then they score again and it’s over. The four boys waiting for our table are the same kids from the day before. Ricky and Aaron and the twins whose names I can’t remember.

  “Threesies?” one of the twins asks.

  “Yeah, sure,” Jay Jay answers.

  We do the same thing they did: stand back, pretending like we don’t care, but watching their game pretty intensely. They’re good—but I think maybe not as good as we are. If we only had to beat them, I’d feel pretty confident.

  “What’s threesies?” I ask.

  “They’ll play three games, then we will,” Oscar says.

  Even though there isn’t anyone else waiting, Marvel goes to slap the table for the next round of “threesies.” One of the boys goes for a save at the same moment and drives an elbow into Marvel’s rib cage.

  Marvel stumbles back and makes a sound I’ve never heard a person make before. Something between a whimper and a terrified squeal.

  Something like the sound a dog makes if you accidentally step on its tail.

  He stumbles back, and his brother is there. I don’t even see Petey move, but he puts an arm around Marvel and glares at the boy with the wayward elbow. “Jeez, Ricky. Watch it.”

  Ricky looks our age but isn’t much bigger than Marvel. He doesn’t look away from his game, but he does offer up an apology. “Hey, sorry, Marv.”

  Petey mutters something under his breath, and my eyes fly back to the other boys, but they’re too caught up in their game to notice.

  “I’m okay,” Marvel says. When Petey doesn’t back off, he pulls away from him and says, “I’m fine. Let’s just play on the other table.”

  Even though we’d played on the second table the day before, no one makes a move toward it today until Marvel reaches into the pocket and pulls out the ball Jessica gave him. I still don’t quite understand the superstition regarding that table, but if it gives us extra practice time, what difference does it make?

  “It’s a good thing you’re part of our crew now,” Jay Jay says to me as we take our places. He tips his chin toward the tall boy with glasses standing next to Ricky. “Aaron knows our moves too well.”

  “Why isn’t he a Loser anymore?” I ask.

  “Playing in the tournament was his idea, but he decided if we won, he wanted to keep his share.” Jay Jay takes the offense position, same as Megan always did. “So he put together a new team.”

  He points out each of the other boys.

  The redhead is Ricky Levine. He’s a real jerk. Not a friend-jerk like Oscar, I guess.

  The twins, both of them about my height with dark buzz cuts and identical round faces, are Matt and Luke Kim. They look a little older than us. Maybe ninth graders, I think.

  All of them are bent over their players, grunting as they play.

  “They’re pretty good,” I say.

  “Yeah.”

  “I think we’re better.”

  Jay Jay’s face breaks into a smile. Marvel drops the ball on the forbidden table, the Losers’ table, and we start our practice.

  I’m having so much fun that for a while, I don’t even think about the cards in their box in the room I’ll have to share with Lila’s baby.

  Or about calling Lila so I won’t get in trouble.

  Or about how Marvel’s mom is mean to him.

  Or the fact that at ten thirty, it’ll be snack time and I’ll have to face the milk cooler again.

  I forget about all those things, right up until Jennifer sticks her head into the game room and says, “Snack time, guys.”

  I exhale slowly.

  I want Jay Jay to remember yesterday
and somehow know that I could really use a friend here. For a few seconds, I imagine him putting a hand on my arm, telling me everything will be okay, then helping me turn the cartons over until I find one I don’t already have.

  Preferably quickly.

  But snack time isn’t traumatic for him. Or anyone else.

  I wish I could just skip it. I’m not even hungry, and if I were, I have a backpack full of today’s divided-up snacks. But those cartons are there, with kids staring off the back of them, whether I look for one that’s new to me or not.

  I really am a mess.

  * * *

  Dragging my feet means that I’m behind Jay Jay, Oscar, Petey, and Marvel in line. And because they were finishing their game, the other foosball team—Aaron’s team—is behind me.

  Today’s snack is a packet of cheese crackers. I have one last moment of hope that maybe milk isn’t an everyday thing. Maybe crackers are served with a juice box.

  But no.

  I watch every kid in line ahead of me pick up a carton of milk without even looking at it. I try to will just one other kid to flip their carton over and at least look at the picture on the back.

  None do.

  The guy handing out the cheese crackers puts a bag in my hand, and I move forward like I’m on a conveyer belt, toward the big silver milk cooler.

  The first carton I pick up is an eight-year-old girl named Abby. I know her well. In fact, if I want to, I can recite every bit of information about her that it’s possible to get from the back of a milk carton.

  I put Abby back, and Ricky crowds a little closer, waiting for me to get out of the way so he can go about his snack business.

  I pick up another carton and see another face I instantly recognize. I’ve done this before. I know how it will go. I tuck my crackers under my arm and start turning over cartons as quickly as I can, using both hands. Ricky lets me get away with three sets before he starts to grumble.

  “What are you doing?” He takes Abby from where I put her. I want to scream at him to at least look at her.