Dark Song Read online

  Next night: “How was school, Ames?”

  “Good, Em is pregnant. Me too. Alien abduction, I’m thinking. But I aced my literature quiz.”

  “That’s excellent.”

  “That’s what I thought you’d say.”

  Night three I bailed on kitchen duty and followed Dad to his study. I knocked but didn’t wait for an invitation to enter. I strode in and sat down in the Chair. The Chair was a leather wingback, big, cushy-soft, kind of cavelike. A family member sat there for the “important” talks. It was a signal. Serious business ahead.

  “Okay, spill,” Dad said.

  “Things aren’t fine.”

  Dad sighed and slumped in his ergonomically correct desk chair. “Not at the moment. True.”

  I waited.

  Dad rubbed his forehead, like he was easing a headache. “Things have been a little, um, tense.”

  “You think?”

  Dad grinned and almost, almost chuckled. “Sarcasm usually never helps — but just this once…”

  Now I grinned.

  “Seriously, Ames. This is just a rough patch. Your mother…” He trailed. Sighed. Started again. “You already know Robin and your mother didn’t have much money, but you don’t know how bad it was. They were poor. Terribly poor. Your mom doesn’t talk about it. It embarrasses her. How they had to live. Robin — she never thought that being without money made you poor, so she still doesn’t think they were. Your mother is frightened right now. She’s afraid — terrified, really — of being poor again.”

  “She’s acting mean, not scared,” I said.

  Dad turned back toward his computer. “Being mean is easier than admitting you’re scared.”

  I waited for him to say something else, to turn around and hug me or something, anything. I stood up.

  “Close the doors on your way out,” he said.

  Week Two: Looked like the ladies who lunch actually do speak to their daughters (who do not eat actual food at lunch). Kim Banks was rearranging and separating her mixed green salad alphabetically when I sat down. “Have you heard, LayLay? Ames’s dad got fired. They are, as my mom puts it, ‘Soooo WF.’ ” In a moment of pity or just to make her spite arrow stick, Kim added, “Without Funds.”

  “Where did you hear that stupid rumor?” I asked.

  “Mom had lunch with Em’s mom,” Kim said. “Em’s mom had the info.”

  I turned into a statue.

  Kim continued. “I guess that means community college for you, Ames. That will keep you close to your family.” She dinged the last word with a high-pitched, nasal tone, then brayed in laughter.

  “Kim, your only shot at Ivy League is if your dad keeps a lawyer on retainer to wipe the coke off your nose before the police find it.”

  “It’s called a trust fund, baby. Too bad you don’t have one.”

  Layla sniffed. “My mom said that she noticed the Fords never have anyone over these days. That’s true, notice that, Kim? Reggie?”

  Reggie nodded. “I think they have us over once a year and rent furniture for the event. Perfect family, my butt.”

  “Which appears prominently on the front of your head,” Em said as she walked up. “Does it hurt to sit on your face all day?” She turned. “Let’s go, Ames.” She sniffed the air. “As Shakespeare once said, ‘Me thinketh someone stinketh.’ ”

  We walked to another table. I shook Em off my arm.

  “Your mom had lunch with Mrs. Banks and told her my dad was fired?” I shook. Not with anger. I was stunned. How could this be happening?

  Em’s expression was equally stunned. Then she looked over her shoulder at Kim and the anger flushed. “What comes out of that girl’s mouth is exactly what comes out of a pig’s ass. Looks, smells, worth the same.”

  “That’s disgusting, Em.” I snorted. Relieved. “And I love it.”

  “My mother had lunch with her mother. That’s a fact. But the exchange of information was the other way around. Kim loves to make as much trouble as she can. Because she can.”

  I now had only one friend. She was a good one.

  Week Three: It was late and I was trying to sleep, but sleep must have been out rumpusing. It wasn’t in my queen-size canopy bed. I had a gazillion down-filled pillows and I had thumped and fluffed and tried every one of them, but nothing. Was there a pea under my princess mattress? My door edged open a sliver, shut again, then a warm body with cold feet wedged against me.

  “Mr. Brown and I need hugs.”

  I gathered the two hug-starved ones into my arms and squeezed.

  “More,” Chrissy said.

  “Does that mean hug harder or more hugs?”

  “Hug longer and more hugs.”

  “Your wish is my command,” I said.

  “It’s Mr. Brown’s wish.”

  “Does Mr. Brown want to sleep here tonight?”

  “I have to ask,” Chrissy whispered.

  “If he’s a smart bear he’ll say yes.”

  Chrissy sighed. “He’s always been a smart bear.”

  I hugged. Longer and more.

  The next day I told Mom I was going to Em’s after school, but I caught a bus and went to Robin’s. She answered my knock.

  “It’s my favorite grandchild. What are you doing at Dysfunction Junction?”

  She held the door wide for me to enter, then kicked the door with the back of her heel while she swooped me into her herb-scented embrace.

  When Robin released me I said, “You tell Chrissy that favorite grandchild thing, too. I’m on to your tricks, Grandmom.”

  Robin wore one of her three shapeless dresses made of hemp. Her skin, free of makeup, was still soft and smooth, except for the smile lines around her mouth and eyes.

  “You teaching the old ladies anything new?”

  “Phooey, the old ladies are at the clubhouse with their codger husbands. Can’t teach any of them a thing.”

  When Dad bought our Boulder house he bought Robin a small condo in a retirement community. I know he paid cash for it, because Grandmom didn’t want to take it and he said it was a done deal. She told him it was a good thing it wasn’t in a gated community or he couldn’t have gotten her in it with a catapult.

  “Have you been cheating those old folks at poker again, Grandmom?”

  “I don’t have to cheat. They’re so busy talking about their latest bowel movement or their next surgery that they don’t know what’s in their hand. I have no remorse over taking a fool’s money.”

  How could anyone not love Grandmom Robin?

  Mom didn’t.

  “You didn’t come here to tell me how good-looking I am,” Grandmom said. “So — it’s got to be — yup, that’s it. It’s high time for boy problems. I was wondering when some boy would break your heart or, more likely, you’d be dragging your feet because you’re afraid he might.”

  Somehow I found myself in a chair with a cup of chai tea on the table in front of me. I wanted to tell her about Dad, his job, Mom, Chrissy, but… now, it seemed… disloyal, or… like it would be loading my problem onto Robin.

  “Wrong. Not a boy. It’s Mom.”

  Grandmom sat in a chair across the small, round kitchen table from me. It was one of those tiny chrome things that looked like it came out of a ’50s diner. Not a new retro, this one had a Dumpster rehab look. She put her mug of chai down. “You two butting heads like a couple of mountain goats again?”

  “Sort of. Dad told me that I need to understand her. That she’s scared of being poor.”

  “Randal said that, did he?” She picked up her cup and sipped. “That’s true.”

  “So, how poor were you? Why is she like this?”

  “We had everything we needed. When your mother was young we had adventures. We saw this country from the swamps, to the deserts, to the mountains, and a few skyscrapers.” Grandmom smiled but not at me; she was caught in memory. “We met storytellers and poets and artists and fools and tramps and kings and a few saints. I was never so happy.”

>   Grandmom came back to Dysfunction Junction. “I wish I could take you on a journey like that.”

  “Why don’t you?”

  “Your mother said that if I didn’t learn to lead a ‘normal’ life I couldn’t be around you or your sister. She thought I’d be a bad influence.”

  “Mom blackmailed you? With this condo?”

  “No. Randal gave this to me. So I could be close.” Her words were right. Her tone wasn’t.

  “Then why does Mom think she was poor?”

  “That’s her story to tell.”

  “Mom is barely decent to you. How can you love her?”

  “I do. I love her completely. Understand her? No.”

  Grandmom Robin patted my hand. “Love’s not always rosebuds and bluebirds, my girl.” She shook her head. “No, love can be a wicked thing.”

  Week Four: Mom went from stressed to wired to the snapping point. Dad was always home when I returned from school. He didn’t eat with us. I don’t know for sure if he slept upstairs with Mom or not. He was up there in the morning when I awoke, but Mom was in the kitchen by then. Today, I would try again to get my dad to be my dad again. I missed him.

  I tapped on the glass of the French doors and entered. “Hey, Dad. What’s up?”

  He tapped his keyboard. “I’m working,” he snapped. Then he stretched his arms over his head and cricked his neck. “Sorry — deep in thought and all that. You startled me.”

  “How’s it going?”

  “What?” It was just one word, but I swear, if you can be guilty and suspicious at the same time, that’s just how my dad sounded.

  “Job search? Any leads? Interviews maybe?”

  He took a long swig from his glass of Jack. “Stop nagging; you sound like your mother.” He turned back to his computer.

  It felt like a slap in the face. “I guess that would be a no.” I whisked out of the room and let the doors slam shut behind me.

  One afternoon in early March, Chrissy was in her room mushing Play-Doh through a plastic figure. The Play-Doh made hair.

  “Look, the elephant has pink and green hair.”

  “Like all good elephants,” I said. “How was school today, Missy Chrissy?”

  “Didn’t go.”

  “You didn’t go? Are you sick?”

  “Nope, Mommy called my school and said I’m not going there anymore. I’m going to go to another kindergarten starting Monday. We won’t have to pay for me twice, Mom said.”

  “Public school. Did she say you were going to public school?”

  “That’s it. She and Daddy yelled real loud. Private school costs too much money and we already pay for public school.” Chrissy nodded.

  Wow, this was big.

  “She called your school, too,” Chrissy said.

  “What?”

  “Mom’s face got red when she talked on the phone. Then she told Daddy that they wouldn’t give back the money. They paid for the…” Chrissy looked up, searching.

  “Semester,” I offered.

  “Right. That. It didn’t matter where you went to school, they couldn’t get the money back.”

  “Did they say I’d have to change schools in September?”

  “Mom did, but Dad got real mad and said he’d have a new job by then and they kept fighting. Mom threw a bunch of papers at him and said, ‘These bills won’t wait ’til September.’ ”

  Was this what Dad’s idea of “fine” looked like?

  That evening Mom had more economizing in store.

  “Ames, I’ve canceled your iTunes account,” Mom said.

  “What? Why?” I asked.

  “Because last month alone you downloaded fifty-seven dollars’ worth and this month you already have thirty-six dollars pending,” Mom snapped. “What are you thinking?”

  “I’m thinking that downloading’s much cheaper than buying the CD. Didn’t you just say we needed to economize?”

  “Ames, do you really not get this? I’ve canceled your Amazon account, too.”

  “I’m not supposed to read?”

  “Libraries are full of books. Use them. I see you ordered a book for Chrissy that I told her she couldn’t have.”

  “You were mad at Dad and taking it out on her.” I stood up. “Dad said nothing would change.”

  “Watch your tone, Ames.”

  “I feel like I’m being set up,” I said. “You tell me none of this will touch us. Nothing will change. And then when I do what I’ve always done — act like nothing has touched us — I’m the bad guy. That’s just crap.”

  “Ames, go to your room,” Mom commanded.

  “That’s where I’m fucking going.”

  Chrissy gasped and Mom looked at me like a stranger stood in front of her.

  I turned and heard Chrissy’s voice waver like she was about to cry. “Mom?”

  “Don’t worry, sweetie. Everything is fine,” Mom said.

  I went upstairs to the media room. Two rows of overstuffed chairs stadium-style in a room with no windows in front of a wall-to-wall television. I popped in one of Dad’s car-chase-fifteen-bodies-mangled-before-opening-credits action movies. Mom barged in. “Turn that off.”

  “I’m watching it.” I was determined she wouldn’t get a reaction from me.

  She grabbed the remote and punched it.

  “You’re grounded. No TV, no movies, no nothing.”

  “Big whoop.”

  “I want your iPhone.”

  “You can’t do that!” I bolted to my feet. So much for no reaction.

  “Watch me. Do you know our cell phone bill is over four hundred dollars a month?”

  “My music is on my phone. My pictures and texts and e-mail.”

  “All of that is on your laptop.”

  “Like I can carry around my laptop listening to my music?”

  “Get an after-school job. Earn your iPhone.”

  “I’m not sixteen. You can’t work until you’re sixteen. It’s like child slavery or something.”

  Mom sighed and rolled her eyes. “Don’t be such a drama queen. You can babysit. Sell some of these clothes on eBay. You’re clever. Think of something. That’s what I’m doing.”

  We stood staring at each other for a moment. I had never before had this feeling of wanting to land a full-on slap across my mother’s mouth.

  Then Mom swiveled around and strode to my room. I launched after her and saw her snatch the phone off my bed.

  “Can’t you cancel the wireless and calling plan and leave me the iPhone? I could still use it for my music and pictures. Without the connection I can’t download anything that costs money.”

  “That would have been fine if you hadn’t acted like a spoiled brat. You need to learn to deal. Life is not going to be what it was. Your princess days are over.”

  Mom elbowed past me and slammed my door.

  I sat on the bed. I hadn’t thought about this. What couldn’t we pay for? No vacations? Fine. No new clothes? Not fine, but okay. No new… stuff? Bad, but we’ll live. I hated the no-phone part, but… I’m thinking it doesn’t stop there.

  Without Funds.

  What does that mean?

  Were we poor? The kind of poor I watched on TV where people lived in boxes on the street? Or just the kind of poor where you lived all crunched up together in a little apartment in a crappy neighborhood? Were we the kind of poor that had no car at all or some old beater that had rust spots, or maybe a decent-looking used station wagon? Would I have to cut my own hair? Would we even have enough food to eat?

  I didn’t know how to be poor. I know it sounds snotty as all hell, but I knew already that being poor would eat me up and spit me out.

  There was no chat driving to school the next morning. Mom didn’t even bother to say hello to Em. I couldn’t wait to get to school.

  I wasn’t going to do any work as long as I was grounded. I’d have to ask Em how to be a class washout. But then, Em always managed to pull an abracadabra and yank her grades into shape at the last mi
nute. The girl was a magician.

  “I called last night and your cell phone service is canceled,” Em said, like someone had chopped off my leg.

  “Yep. Monster Mom took the phone, and I’ve lost my iTunes and Amazon accounts, the works, and I’m grounded for two weeks because I have a bad attitude.”

  “This is serious. She has never canceled your phone.”

  “I know, she says it’s all about economizing. Like a fifty-dollar iTunes bill will make a difference.” I stopped. “You know what? I think she’s fired Carmen. I haven’t seen her in a couple of weeks.”

  Em nodded. “She did. Carmen is working for Naomi’s mom on Tuesdays and Thursdays now.” Long. Uncomfortable. Pause. “Earl said something weird last night.”

  I didn’t want to hear what Em would say next.

  “My mom’s still poking around for information. She managed to get Earl to slip up and say that he helped your dad work out a deal with his company. He said that your dad’s lucky not to have ended up in jail over it.”

  I closed my locker, then leaned my face against it. “Jail?”

  “That’s all I know. I swear. He got up and told my mom not to ask him another question. That what he already said was unethical.” Em studied her shoes. “I thought about not telling you. I figured your parents hadn’t. You need to know before you get blindsided with it from people that don’t love you.” She scrutinized me and I looked away. “You okay? Want to bail and talk it through?”

  I didn’t want to talk. I couldn’t even think. I shook my head. “Thanks, but later.”

  Em didn’t say anything. She turned and left.

  I dream-walked that day. The only answer I had for any teachers was “I don’t know.” The only word in my head was “jail.”

  Jail?

  Mom and Dad were in full-scale combat mode when I interrupted them in Dad’s study that evening. Mom was shoving papers under Dad’s nose and Dad was pushing them away. They were screaming over each other.

  “Stop. There’s a child in the next room!” I yelled.

  They turned and all the fury they had for each other zeroed in on me.

  “You know not to come in here if the door is closed,” Dad said.

  “You can add another week —” Mom began.

  “To my grounding. I think we’re past that. Please, can we go back in time to when you used to tell me the truth? Or have you always lied to me?”