Page 46 of The Big Easy & Other Lies
I’d been angry at my mom after she died because she left me. It’s normal, I hear. The guidance counselor at my elementary school had brought me in a whopping total of two times: first, to hand me a brochure on the five steps of grief, then to ask me if I had any questions about it. Yes, but none she could answer. So I never asked her why my mom died or why I didn’t have any parents like other kids, or why Aunt Delphine yelled at me when I cried. So the counselor patted me on my head, satisfied that I was composed and coping well, and that was the extent of my grief counseling.
I kept the stupid pamphlet, though. It was the only thing I had to tell me that the feelings constantly boiling beneath the surface were maybe okay. They didn’t feel okay, but whenever they threatened to overwhelm me, I’d pull out that list and read about what was happening to me. It must have happened to other people too, I reasoned. How else would they know to write it in a pamphlet?
Eventually I wasn’t mad at my mom anymore. Just sad. Until now. Now rage prickled beneath my skin. But this wasn’t the rage of abandonment. This was the rage of the underlying question I’d asked myself in confusion for years. Why had she left me toDelphine?
I’d tried to take care of her like I promised to. When I was little, I cleaned and straightened things while my mom was still alive. After the funeral, Delphine freaked out every time I tried. I quit that, but I was determined to keep my word, so I’d run and fetch and carry and try to satisfy every one of my great-aunt’s whims. It kept her off my back, which was something. But it never made her happy. For two years, I did every kind thing I could think of for her, things my mom used to do for me. I’d make her cards at school or try to brush her hair. I even attempted a few disastrous meals in the kitchen before I understood how to follow a recipe correctly. Delphine either yelled at me or ignored the attempts.
In fifth grade, I quit trying to be close to her. Whatever my mom thought Delphine needed from me, whatever care I was supposed to give her, I had failed. Instead I worked to make myself the smallest target possible. Unless she needed something from me, Delphine was content to ignore me, and I was content to be left alone. And there it was: my whole high school coping mechanism explained.
If this was truly the anniversary of my father’s and Remy’s deaths, Delphine would be a nightmare. There was a tiny moment before she had ordered me out when I had glimpsed sadness in her eyes, the first soft emotion I ever remembered seeing her express. I’d had this split-second thought of calling Livvie and canceling for the night, sticking around to make sure that nothing more was really going on with Delphine, even if it meant trips up and down the stairs all night while I searched for the owl. But then Delphine rained the hate down.
I had to wonder what my mother ever thought I could do.
I hopped up and jerked open my closet. Shrinking to become a small target had accomplished nothing.Nothing.I still had Angelique breathing down my neck. The eyes of the entire school followed me any time I was with Rhett. And Delphine hated me more than ever.
So screw Delphine and my mother’s stupid request. Screw it all. I yanked things from the closet with abandon, clothes I had stumbled across on discount racks and in thrift shops but would never wear to school. They were intended for my future New York wardrobe, not for right now.
But why shouldn’t they be? Let my freak flag fly, right?
I shoved stuff in my backpack and stormed out of the house without a word to Delphine. At the end of the driveway, I hooked a left in the direction of Livvie’s house and called her. “Come and get me,” I said. “I’m on the way over. Watch for me on Palmer.”
“What the—”
“Just come get me.”
I’d gone about a half mile when I saw Jelly Bean tearing down the road. Livvie flipped an insane U-turn to pull up beside me. I threw my stuff in the back and climbed in.
“Where are we going?” she asked.
“Your place.”
She drove us back, reading my mood well enough that she didn’t ask questions. I couldn’t have answered without flying apart. At her house, her youngest brother, Trey, yelped and wrapped his chubby five-year-old arms around my legs. “Cam!”
Her mom came out to greet me. “Hey, Cam. I didn’t know you were coming over tonight.” Her tone was quizzical. I knew the Duprees’ door was always open to me, but I didn’t come over nearly as often as Livvie would have liked. I saw her mouth to her mother, “Delphine.”
Miss Trish nodded. “We’re glad to have you. Swat the boys if they pester you.”
“Thank you, Miss Trish,” I said.
The Duprees’ house was a single-story rambler built back when even tract homes sprawled over generous lots, but it was forty years old and showed its age: nicked and dinged door frames, a couple of water stains in the ceiling where the roof had leaked, badly patched holes in the drywall. Miss Trish taught second grade, and Mr. Dave, Livvie’s dad, worked for the power company. They did all right, enough to keep up with the basics and a few extras, but Livvie paid half the car note on her used Kia, plus all of her auto insurance. I followed her down the long hallway covered in years of the kids’ school pictures.
When I dropped my backpack onto her bed and collapsed beside it, she shut the door. “Tell me what’s going on,” she demanded.
I did, with as little emotion as possible.
Her jaw tightened. “Delphine’s a—”
“Don’t,” I said. “I don’t even want to think about it anymore.” I stood up and dug stuff out of my backpack, flinging it on the bed in a growing pile of color and textures.
For the first time, Livvie looked truly concerned. This was not my uniform of dark colors and simple cuts. Some wild stuff was landing on her comforter. She sat on the floor and watched me sort through it. “Are you sure you want to do this tonight?” she asked as I held up a silver tank top.
“Yes.”
I didn’t elaborate and she didn’t push. “We have almost two hours to kill before we meet everyone for dinner. What do you want to do?”
An eruption of knocks sounded from the door and two dark heads poked around it. It was Trey and seven-year-old Newton. “Want to play Legos, Cam?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said.
