Zip, Zero, Zilch
Page 62
I look up and see Logan leaning against the kitchenette counter. “He deserved it,” he says. He holds out his phone. “He just texted me, by the way.”
I follow Logan to the back of the bus. “What did he say?” I feel like a dog begging for a treat.
“Said he was sorry he misunderstood and he should have known better.”
“Did he say anything about me?”
He shakes his head. “But he sent some tickets over. We’re going to be in the same city as the team tomorrow. He wants us to come to the game.” He shrugs. “It’s our night off.”
“Is there a ticket for me?” I ask.
Logan holds one up and it has my name written on it. My heart leaps.
But I shake my head anyway. “I’m not going. If he wanted to talk to me, he would have called or responded to one of my million texts.”
Logan tucks the tickets in his pocket. “Whatever you want.”
I go back to the bench and sit back down beside Marta. “I want to talk to you about your mother,” she says.
“What about her?” I nibble on a fingernail. My mother is nowhere near the top of my thoughts.
“Honey, she overdosed again,” she says quietly.
My heart aches for what could have been. “When is the funeral?”
She smiles. “Oh, she’s not dead. Emilio checked her into rehab. Don’t worry, he’s paying for it.”
“Oh.”
“I went to talk to her.”
“Why?” Why would she willingly do that? Why?
“Because I love you. That’s why.” I expect her to thump the back of my head any second, but she doesn’t.
“What did she say?” My curiosity is growing.
“She’s not remorseful. Not yet. Right now she’s angry.”
“Yeah, so am I.”
“When you get home, I hope she’s at a better place in her life and you can talk to her.”
I shake my head.
“I want you to talk to her.” She squeezes my hand.
“Okay.”
I always do what Marta tells me to do. Because I know she loves me. I have never, ever doubted it. Not once.
“I had another visitor this week,” she says. She stares hard at me.
I snort. “Who else is left?”
“Mrs. Derricks had a son. He came to see us.” She makes a noise with her teeth. “He wanted to bring something for you.” She reaches into her purse and pulls out a leather-clad book. “Apparently, Mrs. Derricks kept a journal about each of the kids she helped.”
“Must have been a lot of books,” I mumble.
Marta laughs. “This one is for you. He thought you might want it one day.” She holds it out to me. I take it. Mrs. Derricks saved my life and I almost feel like reading her journal would be prying into her secrets. I’ll save it.
“Read it,” Marta says.
“I will.”
“Read it now,” she says. She motions toward my bunk. “Don’t come out until you’re done. Off with you, now.”
Emilio bellows from the front of the bus. “Marta, come and play blackjack with us. And bring some cash! The girls won’t let me play unless I have money!”
Marta rolls her eyes. She brushes her hand down the length of my hair.
“What about your car?” I ask.
She waves a breezy hand through the air. “Emilio paid some roadie to drive and follow the bus in it.”
I laugh. Leave it to Melio to find a way around anything.
She points to my bunk again. “Go.” She takes me by the shoulders and turns me around. Then she slaps my bottom. I climb into my bunk and roll onto my back. I flip the light on and open the journal. Then I start to read.
August 9
I met a young girl today. She’s in second grade, and one of the teachers came to me with concerns. The girl barely speaks and the teacher was troubled about it. I met with Renee at lunchtime and asked her to come and see me in my office. She sat down in the chair across from my desk and swung her feet forward and back, but she didn’t say a word. I wanted to engage her, but I didn’t want to force her to talk, so I pretended to get a handful of change out of my purse and I dropped it all on the floor.
She immediately scurried onto all fours to help me pick it up. It broke the ice as we crawled around on our hands and knees. I asked her if she had any brothers or sisters, and she shook her head no. With more innocent questions, I finally managed to get her to say a few words.
The teacher was concerned not only about her lack of speech, but also about her home life. Just after talking with Renee for a moment, I realized that she had a debilitating stammer. She is troubled even by simple words, and works to get them out. More often than not, she gives up and just sits quietly.
But what bugs me most is that the teacher says she often comes to school with no lunch money. She rarely has breakfast and the teacher can hear her stomach growling. When she offers her food in secret, Renee gobbles it down like she’s starving.
I keep boxes of crackers in my cabinet, so I took them out and Renee eyed them like she might a Thanksgiving dinner. I let her eat until she was full, and finally she started to talk. Her stammer is bad, but it’s not so bad that I couldn’t understand her. She is exceptionally bright, and she has a wonderful spirit. Her teachers say she is quiet in class, but helpful and polite. But I know that she is hurting. Don’t ask me how I know, but I do. I can see it in her eyes. In her soul. And I am going to help her if it’s the last thing I ever do.
I follow Logan to the back of the bus. “What did he say?” I feel like a dog begging for a treat.
“Said he was sorry he misunderstood and he should have known better.”
“Did he say anything about me?”
He shakes his head. “But he sent some tickets over. We’re going to be in the same city as the team tomorrow. He wants us to come to the game.” He shrugs. “It’s our night off.”
“Is there a ticket for me?” I ask.
Logan holds one up and it has my name written on it. My heart leaps.
But I shake my head anyway. “I’m not going. If he wanted to talk to me, he would have called or responded to one of my million texts.”
Logan tucks the tickets in his pocket. “Whatever you want.”
I go back to the bench and sit back down beside Marta. “I want to talk to you about your mother,” she says.
“What about her?” I nibble on a fingernail. My mother is nowhere near the top of my thoughts.
“Honey, she overdosed again,” she says quietly.
My heart aches for what could have been. “When is the funeral?”
She smiles. “Oh, she’s not dead. Emilio checked her into rehab. Don’t worry, he’s paying for it.”
“Oh.”
“I went to talk to her.”
“Why?” Why would she willingly do that? Why?
“Because I love you. That’s why.” I expect her to thump the back of my head any second, but she doesn’t.
“What did she say?” My curiosity is growing.
“She’s not remorseful. Not yet. Right now she’s angry.”
“Yeah, so am I.”
“When you get home, I hope she’s at a better place in her life and you can talk to her.”
I shake my head.
“I want you to talk to her.” She squeezes my hand.
“Okay.”
I always do what Marta tells me to do. Because I know she loves me. I have never, ever doubted it. Not once.
“I had another visitor this week,” she says. She stares hard at me.
I snort. “Who else is left?”
“Mrs. Derricks had a son. He came to see us.” She makes a noise with her teeth. “He wanted to bring something for you.” She reaches into her purse and pulls out a leather-clad book. “Apparently, Mrs. Derricks kept a journal about each of the kids she helped.”
“Must have been a lot of books,” I mumble.
Marta laughs. “This one is for you. He thought you might want it one day.” She holds it out to me. I take it. Mrs. Derricks saved my life and I almost feel like reading her journal would be prying into her secrets. I’ll save it.
“Read it,” Marta says.
“I will.”
“Read it now,” she says. She motions toward my bunk. “Don’t come out until you’re done. Off with you, now.”
Emilio bellows from the front of the bus. “Marta, come and play blackjack with us. And bring some cash! The girls won’t let me play unless I have money!”
Marta rolls her eyes. She brushes her hand down the length of my hair.
“What about your car?” I ask.
She waves a breezy hand through the air. “Emilio paid some roadie to drive and follow the bus in it.”
I laugh. Leave it to Melio to find a way around anything.
She points to my bunk again. “Go.” She takes me by the shoulders and turns me around. Then she slaps my bottom. I climb into my bunk and roll onto my back. I flip the light on and open the journal. Then I start to read.
August 9
I met a young girl today. She’s in second grade, and one of the teachers came to me with concerns. The girl barely speaks and the teacher was troubled about it. I met with Renee at lunchtime and asked her to come and see me in my office. She sat down in the chair across from my desk and swung her feet forward and back, but she didn’t say a word. I wanted to engage her, but I didn’t want to force her to talk, so I pretended to get a handful of change out of my purse and I dropped it all on the floor.
She immediately scurried onto all fours to help me pick it up. It broke the ice as we crawled around on our hands and knees. I asked her if she had any brothers or sisters, and she shook her head no. With more innocent questions, I finally managed to get her to say a few words.
The teacher was concerned not only about her lack of speech, but also about her home life. Just after talking with Renee for a moment, I realized that she had a debilitating stammer. She is troubled even by simple words, and works to get them out. More often than not, she gives up and just sits quietly.
But what bugs me most is that the teacher says she often comes to school with no lunch money. She rarely has breakfast and the teacher can hear her stomach growling. When she offers her food in secret, Renee gobbles it down like she’s starving.
I keep boxes of crackers in my cabinet, so I took them out and Renee eyed them like she might a Thanksgiving dinner. I let her eat until she was full, and finally she started to talk. Her stammer is bad, but it’s not so bad that I couldn’t understand her. She is exceptionally bright, and she has a wonderful spirit. Her teachers say she is quiet in class, but helpful and polite. But I know that she is hurting. Don’t ask me how I know, but I do. I can see it in her eyes. In her soul. And I am going to help her if it’s the last thing I ever do.
