Chapter 13 Way, Way Back When
Way, Way Back When
“Paloma, it’s time to get up, hon.”
Paloma’s eyes flew open in the pitch black. Even after ten days of staying with the Morries, every morning there was a moment of panic before she remembered where she was.
Her breathing started to speed up, and her heart began banging against her ribs.
She reached for the lamp on the bedside table; it cast a yellow glow across the twin bed, the walls decorated with cheap reproductions of Monet’s water lilies, and the black garbage bags of clothes on the floor.
The warmth of the light helped her focus her attention on calming down, and she chanted what had become her mantra over the last few days:
Everything will be okay.
You’re safe here.
Everything will be okay.
Finally able to get out of bed, Paloma pulled jeans, a floral long-sleeved T-shirt, and underwear out of one of the bags and walked down the hall to the bathroom.
Without having to compete with Dustin for the shower, she had plenty of time to wash off the flop sweat of insomnia before starting her day.
Still, she was on the Morries’ schedule, so she didn’t dawdle.
In less than twenty minutes, she was clean, dressed, blow-dried, and made up: the perfect image of a typical fifteen-year-old sophomore.
Not that it was going to matter the moment she got to school.
The scent of bacon and coffee drew her toward the kitchen, where Mr. and Mrs. Morrie were bustling.
Standing in front of the stove, Mr. Morrie greeted her with a grin.
“Look at that. The sun is up!” He worked the afternoon shift at the GM plant.
Paloma knew if it wasn’t for her, he’d be asleep instead of making her breakfast in his robe and pajamas, his graying short-cropped hair skewed by bed head.
He looked down at the frying pan. “Over easy, right?”
“Yes, please.” It was a new experience to have someone cook breakfast for her, much less remember how she liked her eggs. Frankly, it was a new experience to have breakfast on the regular; by the time her mom remembered to buy cereal, the milk had usually run out or soured.
Mrs. Morrie was dressed in a navy pantsuit with a blouse the color of pink carnations, her dark brown hair a little lighter than Paloma’s and recently permed.
Paloma watched as she sliced a tomato and put it into a tiny container before slipping it into a paper bag.
Reading her confusion, Mrs. Morrie smiled and explained, “I made you a turkey sandwich, and you can put the tomatoes on right before you eat it so the bread doesn’t get soggy.
Just bring the Tupperware back, please.” She put the sandwich in the bag along with a green apple and a small bag of potato chips and folded the top down twice, neatly creasing it with her fingers before handing it over.
“Remind me to give you a buck so you can get a pop at the cafeteria, okay?”
The effortless kindness flowing from both adults almost made Paloma cry. “You’ve been so nice, letting me stay with you for so long. You don’t have to make me all this food.”
Mr. Morrie clucked his tongue as he flipped two eggs at once with a large metal spatula. “You look like you could use all the food you can get, girl. It’s my pleasure.”
Mrs. Morrie checked the clock and poured three mugs of coffee. “Okay, fifteen minutes to showtime. Let’s eat.”
After breakfast, after thanking Mr. Morrie one more time, after rechecking her backpack to make sure she had all the homework that Mrs. Morrie had brought home for her to do while she was on suspension, Paloma got into the passenger seat of Mrs. Morrie’s Caprice Classic.
They pulled out of the garage slowly and wended their way down the suburban streets carefully in case there were patches of black ice.
Even with the heat on full blast, Paloma felt ice cold, from her brain to her stomach.
She tapped her fingers on the armrest in time to her mantra:
Everything will be okay.
Everything will be okay.
“Are you warm enough? Want me to turn up the heat?”
She didn’t want Mrs. Morrie to worry about her; she didn’t want to be a burden; she didn’t want her to reconsider taking her in. She flashed a smile. “No, I’m fine. Thank you.”
Mrs. Morrie kept her eyes on the road as she spoke. “I know today is probably going to be awful. Kids are ignorant and cruel, and so are a lot of educated adults, unfortunately. Just focus on getting to the end of the day, and hopefully, tomorrow will be easier.”
Paloma was flooded with embarrassment. Why had she ever thought giving Brenda Finney a Valentine was a good idea in the first place?
She should have known that a few stolen kisses underneath the bleachers in the gym weren’t going to make Brenda brave enough to admit she liked her, much less stick up for her; besides, she was probably just getting off on the thrill of being reckless and sinful.
And Brenda’s bitchy friend Jessica was jealous that they had been getting close; she probably couldn’t wait to swipe Paloma’s pathetic little red-and-pink Walgreens card and run to Principal Tucker’s office to rat her out.
Plus, Paloma’s parents were already down her throat after finding her diary before Christmas.
She’d been careful not to list any of her crushes by name, but her pages of secret longing and adolescent desire were deemed scandalous enough for her father to make a show of ripping it up in front of her and making her throw it in the dumpster outside the building, consigning her dreams and wisps of poetry to the landfill.
They’d told her she ought to be grateful for three days without dinner and only her shoeboxes of cassettes being confiscated.
She shouldn’t have risked getting caught again, especially with another girl involved. She knew they’d be beyond furious.
She hadn’t expected them to kick her out of the apartment, though.
After Principal Tucker called to tell them she was suspended for a week for being a “disruptive presence,” her father tore around the bedroom stuffing Paloma’s clothes into garbage bags and shrieking that they had to get rid of the “filth” she’d brought into his house.
Her mother had stood stock-still throughout her father’s rampage, her eyes wide with fear.
She didn’t move until her father threatened to kick her out, too, if she didn’t take a stand with him, at which point she unzipped Paloma’s backpack, removed her Walkman, and crushed it under her heel.
Terrified and desperate, Paloma’s mind had raced through her limited options.
Her grandparents lived too far away; her uncles and aunts were even more homophobic than her parents.
She had a couple of friends—who were gay themselves, as a matter of fact—but with all the shit going on at school, they weren’t about to let Paloma stay with them and put themselves in the crosshairs.
She had nowhere to go, no one to stand up for her.
According to her parents, not even God wanted her.
They were about to shove her out the door when Paloma begged them to let her call Mrs. Morrie: the only teacher who’d called her folks to share what a wonderful choral student she was; to let them know she was a natural guitar player and could borrow the school instrument any time; to encourage them to come to the school concert even after they said they had to work and didn’t like secular music much.
Paloma had overheard the ladies at church gossiping with snide voices and raised eyebrows about Mrs. Morrie and her husband taking in “troubled kids” when there was a family crisis, no questions asked.
Paloma’s heart had nearly shut off when her dad said no, screaming at her mother and demanding that they teach their daughter a lesson and pitch her out on the street.
But then her mother spoke up, telling him that of course she supported his decision, but if Paloma got arrested for vagrancy, people at church would talk about them like they were bad parents. Then she handed Paloma the phone.
The last words her mother had said before Paloma left the apartment were, “If you had kept your feelings to yourself, you’d still have a family.”
When Mrs. Morrie slowed for a yield sign, Paloma asked, “Have you heard from my mom?”
The Morries were genuinely considerate and warm, telling her over and over that she could stay as long as she wanted, but it wasn’t like she could stay with them forever.
And even after all the shit that had gone down, in spite of the heart-racing nightmares fueled by that awful night, she longed to hear her mother’s voice.
She could live a long life without ever seeing her father again.
But her mother? Even if she was angry or hurtful or screaming at her over the phone, it would be better than hearing nothing, because silence meant that, as far as her mother was concerned, Paloma was consigned to hell and no longer her daughter.
“If she doesn’t call tonight, we’ll give her a ring tomorrow.
Just concentrate on getting through today first.” The car stopped at a red light about a half mile from school, and Mrs. Morrie kept talking.
“My advice is, don’t go looking for trouble.
No hanging out at Brenda’s locker or flipping off Jessica in the halls.
Keep your head high and don’t feel like you have to explain yourself to anyone.
Ignore the gossip and the bullies; they’re beneath you.
Your real friends will seek you out to see how you’re doing. ”
Paloma wasn’t sure if she had any real friends anymore.
Mrs. Morrie kept going with her marching orders.
“I have the letter from your folks allowing me to be your temporary guardian, so I’ll register that at the front desk when we go in.
I’ll make it clear to Principal Tucker that I’m supervising your return to classes, and I’ll tell Miss Trent you’re excused from gym this week because of menstrual cramps—sorry, that was the best I could come up with to keep you out of that snake pit of a locker room—so go to the library during that period.
And I’m not saying this will happen, but if you ever feel unsafe, go right to the music room and find me. Got it?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
They pulled into the teachers’ parking lot, and before opening the car door, Mrs. Morrie turned to face her.
“Paloma, believe me when I tell you you’re a good person.
You have done nothing wrong and deserve so much better, especially from people who say they care about you.
I really hope there’ll come a day when you can love who you want to and be loved back, and no one will bat an eye.
Until that day comes, I will always be in your corner. Bud, too. Got it?”
Paloma nodded, feeling a tiny bit more confident that she was going to survive this. “Yes, Mrs. Morrie.”
The lady chuckled. “I’ve told you already, that’s my name when we’re inside this building. But any other time, please call me Bobbie.”