Prettiest Doll (7 page)

“His apartment's really nice,” I said. “I've never been there, but he sent me pictures. His front window looks out over the street, and there's a tree that grows up from the sidewalk, and in the spring he can see the new green leaves up close. And there are two fireplaces: one in the living room and one in the bedroom. They don't work, so he put stuffed gorillas in them. He has a thing about gorillas.”

“I didn't say I was definitely going,” Danny said. “That's kind of weird, a grown man who collects stuffed animals.”

“What's weird about it?” I asked, even though I knew. “Don't say he's weird.” I was afraid I might cry. “Don't
ever
say a mean thing about him.”

“Sorry.” Danny looked over at me and then back down at the ground. The dead hickory leaves looked like shattered pieces of frosted glass. “I'm sorry.”

“He's my daddy's brother. Was.” I blinked hard. “He's all of my daddy I got left.”

Danny didn't say anything more, but I could tell he was thinking
Sorry
again and meaning it.

“After my daddy died, Uncle Bread wrote me a letter a day. He knew I liked getting mail. I kept every one of those letters,” I said.

“Wow.”

“A hundred and twenty-three, I think. I sent him drawings and then some letters, after I learned to write. He stopped writing after a while. But I keep every one of those letters in my treasure box, tied with a blue ribbon.”

He stopped writing when I stopped writing back. I didn't feel like telling Danny that it was too hard, that I was too angry.

“I never get letters,” Danny said. “I get e-mails. But letters would be nice.”

I was quiet. My anger about Danny saying Uncle Bread was weird was getting all mixed up with the anger about Uncle Bread leaving Luthers Bridge. I tried to sort it all out until it just got too complicated and I stopped.

“It must be hard not having a computer,” I said finally.

“I miss virtual chess,” he said. “And YouTube.”

“The thing is,” I said, and then stopped. Mama always says I'm a worrywart and not to borrow trouble. But I couldn't help it. “Let's say you get to Chicago, and you don't call him. Then what?”

“I haven't thought that far ahead.”

“I don't believe you.” That was when I realized he was going to Chicago for a reason that he wasn't telling.

When he didn't say anything, I said, “Playing chess is all about thinking ahead, isn't it?”

“Okay, so I've
thought
about it. I just haven't decided yet. But I'll figure it out.”

“You won't have a computer or a phone.” I didn't say that people would notice him, thinking he was a little kid cutting school.

He sat up straight to look at me. “I've been doing all right so far, haven't I?”

“Don't be mad.” Almost without thinking, I reached out and let my hand rest on his arm. I felt it then: all my insides rearranging themselves, making room for this new thing.

In your head, you think it's going to be a kiss on a beach at sunset, the sky lit in red and purple streaks. Or maybe in a fancy restaurant and he reaches across the table to grab your hands, and the candles throw up a flickering light so you can see his eyes are wet.

You don't think it's going to be on the basketball courts at Dale Hickey Junior High, with his underwear flapping in the breeze behind you.

“I'm not mad,” he said.

My phone rang just then, making it so we had to look away from each other. When I answered, Mama said, “You been running all this time, Olivia Jane?”

“Yeah,” I said. “Pretty much.”

Anger, shoving at me from the inside, pooling under my skin.

“You don't sound very out of breath,” she said.

“I'm taking a break,” I said. “Those weights are heavy.”

Danny and I looked at each other, and he smiled, like it was both of us lying instead of just me.

“Where are you, honey?” Mama asked.

“Near the school.”

“You want me to drive over and pick you up? Sky looks awful dark.”

“It's okay. I'll be back in a few minutes.”

“Well, all right. You remember what I said about muddy shoes?”

“I
remember
.”

“I don't like that, Olivia Jane.”

“Sorry.” I rolled my eyes at Danny, not wanting him to think that I was
really
sorry, willing him to forget that thirteen is two years younger than fifteen. “I'll be right there.” I snapped my phone closed. Looking up, I saw that Mama was right: the clouds were low and looked full to bursting. A wind rustled through the woods around us. The trees shook themselves, whispering
Hurry.

“You got a pen?” I asked.

Danny fumbled in his jacket pocket. When he handed me a pen, I grabbed the bus schedule and started writing in one corner.

“This is Uncle Bread's number, just in case you do end up in Chicago. Tell him you're my friend. And this is my cell phone number, so you can call me when you get to wherever you end up. Just so I know. I won't tell anyone. I promise.”

He stared at the number. “I know.”

I stood up. “I've got to get back.”

He nodded. “I'm going to stay here awhile. Just until my jeans dry a little.”

“Good luck,” I said. “If you do decide to call Uncle Bread, he'll take good care of you. Even if you don't need taking care of,” I added, knowing he would want to start an argument.

When I turned toward the schoolyard, I felt the first drops. I wanted to ask him wouldn't his jeans just get wet all over again in the rain, but I knew if I did that, he would know that I didn't want to leave—didn't want him to leave—so I forced myself to be still and just start running.

IT rained all night. I know because I didn't sleep. I lay in bed listening to the sound of the drops on the metal awning, wondering if Danny had gone back to the church shed or if he'd just stuck it out in the woods behind the school, thinking maybe the trees would keep him dry. I figured he'd gone back to the church: maybe he'd left things, assuming he'd sleep there. Also, it would be risky to camp out in the woods so close to a school, where kids showing up in the morning might wonder who he was and report him.

I wondered about a lot of things, lying there. I thought about Luthers Bridge, the ramshackle, mismatched shops on Mound Street, church bells ringing on Sundays. Sweet corn in summer, prairie king snakes smelling of musk, sliding through the downed fall leaves, the first snow glittering on the patchy lawns. Mrs. Hayes keeping her stretch of sidewalk clean. Mrs. Fogelson. Imogene at the barn, nudging Honey with her knees, neither of them minding the flies and the dust. Mama. It was everything I knew, the whole world, except for the world out past the hills, where Danny was heading. Danny, who thought I was smart.

And Uncle Bread, in Chicago.

The anger came and went.

Some people never get farther than where they start from, never find out what else there is, or ask questions, or get answers. Cal Burney, who works behind the counter at Nine Lives Pets and Feed, told Imogene and me he'd never been anywhere he couldn't ride his horse to. Don't you ever think about Paris? Imogene asked, or Rome? And Cal said no, he never did.

It was one way to live, I guessed, as I lay there trying to stop myself from shaking.

I got up at 5:30, just as the darkness started to fold over on itself into the gray, damp morning. I tiptoed around so Mama wouldn't know I was up, getting ready. I left the note I'd written the night before on the kitchen counter, near her purse.

 

Dear Mama,

When you get this, I'll be gone. I'm with a friend, so don't worry. Not Imogene. Someone you don't know but you would like. I'll call you when I can. Don't worry. I know you will anyway. But don't.

I am a terrible singer and I always will be. Lessons won't help.

I'm through with pageants for good.

Don't worry.

Love,

Liv

 

I closed the front door as quietly as I could. Everything was soaked with the night's rain. The air smelled like wet dirt. I walked until I was in front of the Dotsons'. Figuring I was out of earshot, I pulled out my phone.

“What?” Imogene's voice was ragged with sleep. “It's still nighttime.”

“It's after six.” When she didn't answer, I said, “Imogene! Don't fall back asleep! This is important!”

“What?”

“I'm leaving.”

I could hear the rustling of her sheets as she sat up.

“What do you mean you're leaving! ”

“Shhh. Don't wake up your dad! Now listen,” I said. “I'm leaving. I'm taking a bus.”

“What bus?”

“You're the only one who knows,” I said.

“What bus? Where?”

“I'm not going to say, because if you know, you might tell. And I can't answer my cell if you call. But I'll call you when I can.”

“What about school? Liv, you can't just not go to school! ”

I thought about first period, how Mrs. Fogelson would ask, “Anyone seen Olivia?” when I hadn't shown up for three days in a row. It seemed hateful not to tell her what I was doing, to explain that it had nothing to do with American History. I wished she could know how it was my favorite class, my favorite subject.

“I'll figure that out later,” I said.

“What are you saying? You're thirteen! ”

“Imogene, I'll be okay. Trust me.”

I hate it when people say “Trust me.” It usually means they're lying or up to something and just want to shut you up.

“Really. You've known me almost my whole life. I wouldn't do something stupid.”

“What about your mom?”

Imogene's mom had died of some rare disease when we were in first grade. We were friends in kindergarten, but we got even closer after. We knew things the other kids didn't. We both felt it was like God gave us to each other after taking one of our parents away.

“I left her a note. I told her I'd be okay,” I said. I could feel my brain shutting down, not wanting to think about Mama alone.

“Is it the singing?” Imogene's voice was starting to rise again. “Because I can't believe you're running away because of singing! ”

“Not just that,” I said.

I couldn't explain it to her: how I couldn't sing “Beautiful Doll” again, ever, or look over my shoulder and wink, or answer another idiotic question about what my favorite color is and why, or which do I like better, cats or dogs.

And how there were things I had to ask, things I had to find out for myself.

And then there was Danny and everything that went with that.

“Running away isn't going to help. You
know
that.”

“Imogene! Shhh!” And when there was silence, I said, “I'm sorry. But I have to.”

“But what about me? Who will I eat lunch with? Who'll hang out at the barn with me? Who's supposed to be my best friend now?”

She was panicking. Imogene never thinks about how something is going to affect her unless she's scared or angry.

“I am. I'm your best friend,” I said. “You can eat with Jenna and Marlena.”

“Great.”

I knew she was thinking how Jenna and Marlena are always talking about shopping and being on diets, and how even though they're our second- and third-best friends, they're boring to eat lunch with every day.

“If I were you, I'd be saying the same thing,” I said.

“Well, see?” She sniffed. “But you're doing it anyway, aren't you?”

“I have to.”

I looked at my phone. It was quarter after six.

“I have to go,” I said. “Don't be mad.”

“You call me. You
call
me, do you hear?”

“I hear.”

“Because this just sucks, that you're doing this.”

After a second I said, “You're my best friend.”

“Call me, you bitch.”

I smiled. I knew she was making a joke.

“I will. As soon as I can, I will.”

“Liv,” she said, “you're not being kidnapped, are you? There's no one pointing a gun at you, making you say all this, is there?”

“No,” I said. “It's just me.”

It was starting to rain again. The clouds looked like growling animals, low and threatening in a burrow.

“I have to go.”

“Is it a
boy?
”

“It's not a boy,” I said, which felt like the truth and a lie at the same time.

 

The bus was in the station, belching out smoke and fumes when I got there. An old married couple wearing matching blue visors and a guy who looked like he was either a college student or homeless were sitting on the benches in the waiting room. The college student had a backpack. The old married lady had a little pink suitcase on wheels. I wondered where Danny was and thought,
I'm going anyway, whether he goes or not.

I had to get out.

I went up to the ticket window and shoved my money under the glass. “Can I get a ticket to Chicago?” I asked.

The ticket seller was a man I'd never seen in town, too young to be the father of anyone I knew. He had pimply skin and looked as though he was embarrassed to be wearing a uniform. “One-way or round-trip?” he asked, not looking up from his cash drawer.

“One-way.” I didn't know he was going to ask. The words just spilled out of my mouth, like a mistake, but even though I knew I could take them back, I said nothing and waited patiently for my change.

Only when I turned around did I see Danny coming out of the men's restroom, his hair wet and combed.