Chapter Two
. . . Walmart . . .
.
.
.
I knock once, then push the door open into Edward's bedroom. He's lying lengthwise across the foot of his bed, eyes closed, mouth set in a tight frown. Ignoring me.
Geeze, what's his problem now? I swear the older he gets, the more grumpy he gets, but tonight's Taco Tuesday, so I don't care if he's in a bad mood. Even if Mom hadn't have slipped a jalapeno into Dad's that one time, making him cough taco guts all across the table, this has always been our favorite meal night.
I stomp my foot, making Edward jump. His head pops up, and he raises an eyebrow at my hands-on-hips stance.
"I share a name with a short historical Frenchman, and have a red afro," I say. "Who am I?"
Groaning, his head thunks back onto the bed.
. . .
Every September we go to Walmart to get our new clothes for the school year. I didn't care when I was ten, but now that I'm almost twelve, I'm worried about what the butt of my jeans is going to say about me. Does Walmart sell Aeropostale or Planet Pink?
Edward and I follow my mom across the parking lot on Saturday morning. She's wearing a pair of Dolce & Gabbana knock-offs, the kind with the embroidered butterfly designs up and down the legs. The top of her thong is exposed, which matches the blue crop top she's wearing; my mother, the fashionista.
"It's going to rain," she says. Her bright, penny-colored hair is pulled up in a high ponytail that springs up and down against her back as she walks. I wish I had that color, but I'm stuck with Dad's nearly black, stick-straight hair that refuses to do anything fun. "That's just perfect for a day of shopping."
Edward huffs. "A day, Mom? It'll take me half an hour, tops." His jeans are almost as tight as Mom's because he's filled out so much this year. When Emmett saw them, he called Edward Slutward, and now I can't get the name out of my head.
"I was thinking we could do lunch, too," she continues as if he hasn't spoken. She does that if she doesn't like what you have to say sometimes.
"I have fencing class at one," Slutward says.
She pauses just inside the glass doors, her eyes wide and her mouth pinched. Her face changes from surprise to anger. "Damn it."
"Welcome to Walmart," the greeter says hesitantly. He doesn't have any hair. I wonder what a bald head feels like?
We stand there just inside the entrance of Walmart while Mom visibly debates the pros and cons of whatever's in her head. Thunderstorms? Veggie pizza? Maybe Uber?
My eyes bounce from her frowny face, to Edward's, and then to the greeter's. When he sees me looking, he smiles and rocks back on his feet. Just another crazy family at Walmart, the look in his eyes seem to say.
Welcome to my world, I think and sigh.
Meanwhile, Mom's digging in her purse. "Edward, why don't you go eat breakfast while I get started with Bella."
"I already ate at home, Mom," he says, but takes the money she shoves at him. Of course.
"You're a growing boy," she cries accusingly. "Aren't you still hungry?"
"No."
She pulls him to the side as more people enter the store. When her hands raise to cup his peach-whiskered face, he looks at her like all hell's breaking loose.
"If I promise to get you to your fencing class by one o'clock, can't you just slow down?" As she's speaking, her hands squeeze his cheeks, giving him fish face. "I have some stuff to get here too, so let's just, you know, enjoy being here at . . . er . . . Walmart." By this point, I figure she realizes how ridiculous she sounds.
"Can we split up?" He asks and takes a step away from her to make her drop her hands.
With a heavy sigh, she turns to me. I don't know why she seems disappointed, though. Did she somehow forget that, like Dad, Edward's never, ever, ever liked to go shopping?
"Fine, go. We'll meet back at the Pizza Hut in an hour, alright?"
He sprints away without another word, and I want to slap my hand against my forehead. I'm sure he'll have all of his clothes picked out by the time Mom finally makes up her mind about what I should wear for my first day of school.
"Shouldn't have done that, Mom," I say. "You should have gone with him to slow him down. You know, to help him choose?"
"You're right," she sighs, then taps a finger against her chin thoughtfully. "Well, maybe I just won't approve of his choices. What does a fourteen-year-old boy know about fashion, anyway?"
I'm in the changing room, yanking on a pair of jeans when I hear Mom's voice.
"Bella, I just got a call from work. I've got to go in and straighten something out. Will you be okay for an hour or so?"
I poke my head out of the door. "Um, okay?"
She's leaving?
Grabbing my arm, she pulls me out of the room. I stumble because my jeans aren't pulled all the way up yet, and holy crap, she's giving me two twenty-dollar bills.
"For lunch. My sweet, grown up girl. Oops, better pull your pants up. I'll be back in a bit!"
After she's gone, I stare at my look of astonishment in the mirror across the way. I can't believe this is happening . . . that she's going to let . . .
Me.
Pick out.
My own outfits!
Sticking the twenties between my lips, I zip up my pants and and do a little dance, until I'm caught by another girl coming in. I scoot back into the changing room and trade smiles with the girl in the mirror.
I've got money.
I am grown up.
Two hours later, Edward and I are still sitting in front of the Pizza Hut concession stand in Walmart, and I'm feeling anything but grown up. Our still-unpaid-for clothes are slung over the table's unoccupied seats. More than one employee has given us the stink eye since we've been sitting here. My insides are quivering, but I'm trying to ignore it.
Edward is almost steaming out the nostrils.
"When did she say she'd be back?" He asks for the oomph-teenth time.
I may be two years younger than him, but I have to keep my patience, or he'll lose his like he's the youngest. "She asked me if I'd be alright for an hour or two. I'm sure she'll be here any time."
"It's almost twelve-thirty and it takes at least twenty minutes to get to the other side of town," he says.
Whoa, he sounds like an adult.
"Why isn't she back yet?" he asks me lowly with an almost-glare.
I do a double-take. "You're asking me? I don't have my eight ball today. Oh, hey, I wonder if they sell any of those here?"
"Bella." He pinches the bridge of his nose. "Are you really this naïve?"
Now I'm angry on top of being scared. "What's that supposed to mean?"
He gives me a look like I should know what he means. But I don't. Nope, not at all.
"Mom. She got a call from work—"
"When she never has before on a Saturday," he interrupts me.
"—and said she had to go in to straighten—"
"And when Dad isn't around to question her."
"—something out. What? Why, you think Dad would have asked her about having to go to work?"
He rolls his eyes at me. "On a Saturday? Definitely. He's a cop, Bella. He'd know this is a bunch of BS. Haven't you heard them fighting at night? And don't say no, because your room is right next to mine."
Yes, I had heard them fighting. I was just choosing to believe that they were going to work things out. After all, everyone fought. But the look in his eyes, what he's suggesting, makes me feel like I have to barf. Where is Mom?
I push the button on my phone to call her again, and hear it go straight to voicemail. Again. Maybe she's in traffic.
"I'm sure she'll be here any time now," I say, unable to keep a tremble out of my voice. As I look over my shoulder at the entrance doors again, his hand squeezes mine, and I blink back tears.
The longer we sit here, the longer every minute gets. It feels like we've been here forever.
At one, a Pizza Hut employee finally approaches us. "Are you kids alright? You've been sitting here for a long time."
Edward smiles up at her, and her face softens almost immediately. It's funny sometimes watching the effect he can have on people. "We're fine. We're just waiting for our mom, who's running a little late. I promise we won't be here much longer."
I let his words wash over me like a prayer. Please, God.
Mom doesn't show up until one-forty. She rushes over to us at the Pizza Hut patio, all out of breath and on the verge of tears. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," she says over and over.
Edward is stoic and hardly looks at her, but I can't stop looking at her because she's finally, finally here. She seems different somehow, like she's been taken apart and put back together. Even through the worried cries and tears in her eyes, she seems almost . . . happy. Which doesn't make sense, but nothing makes sense at this moment.
I trade a glance with Edward. I feel as numb as he looks, until Mom grabs me in a hug and begs me to forgive her in a high, scary tone of voice I've never heard from her before. It scares me so much that I burst into tears. I forgive her, of course I forgive her; she's my mom. And everything can go back to normal now.
Mom pays for everything we chose without question, even the blue glitter Converse I was sure I'd have to beg for. But nothing feels fun and easy like it did this morning, when she thought she'd lost her car keys, and Dad fished them out of the crisper drawer in the refrigerator and dropped them down the back of her pants. Compared to that moment, this one feels like a shockwave, the kind that's taking something vital away from me. Like when Grandpa went to Urgent Care for a cough, then came home from the hospital a few weeks later without an esophagus, and a hole in his throat.
"I know it's not right of me to ask this of you," she says when we're in the car. "But if you could keep what happened today just between us, I'd appreciate it. You know Dad would never let me hear the end of it."
"You're right. It's not fair," Edward mutters, and it's clear that he's not on board with her plan.
"Oh, baby, please. I know you missed your class, but I'll make it up to you. I promise. I promise."
But I'm pretty sure he's not going to swallow that, not after she broke the one.
"Bella? Please? This will never happen again."
Edward turns around in the passenger seat to look at me, and the car seat squinches loudly when Mom immediately follows his movement. I flinch back, my elbow mashing the bag beside me with a crinkle. And then I can't move. I'm caught between the exclamation point of Mom's eyes, of Edward's eyes. I feel my mouth gape, but nothing comes out but a squeak.
What - do I really have to - how can I choose between them?
"Bella," Edward says. He doesn't look angry anymore. More like resigned, and something else that makes his eyes shiny with unshed tears. But then Mom's glaring at him, and a spark of fear races up my back. What's wrong with her? How can she be mad at him?
Edward isn't letting me go with his stare. And suddenly I decide. I can't let him down, not when Mom already did.
"I won't come right out and tell him," I say, starting out strong, but then my voice gets weak and warbles. "But if he asks about today, I'm not going to lie. Mom, you always said we should never lie."
Her face tightens, and I can see her jaw clench as she turns to face the front. Her fingers curl around on the steering wheel, release and curl again. I swallow past the lump in my throat.
"I know, honey, and I'm not asking you to. What you've agreed to is more than I can ask. Thank you, Bella."
I feel sick. Not only for myself, but for Edward, who she used to praise for always wanting to do the right thing. She used to call him her little Dudley Do-Right. And now when she's in the wrong, she's trying to shame him? Shame us? How can she do it?
We're the kids, we're the ones who are supposed to be creating trouble and trying to lie about it. Not her.
. . .
"You okay?" I ask Edward later that night when we're watching TV after dinner.
"Fine," he says.
"Edward. I'm sorry."
"Don't be." He's short with me because he doesn't want to talk about this.
"She was wrong," I tell him. "More wrong than a cigar-smoking catfish. More wrong than Mr. Potato Head eating potato chips. More—"
He hooks an around around my neck, and drags me close to give me a noogie.
"I goat your back," I tell him when he releases me. "Baaaaaah."
And now he's laughing. Just a little, but I'll take it because it makes me feel better, too.
. . .
"Since when do you two drink coffee?" Dad wants to know the next morning. He's minutes away from walking out the door, and can't get over us sitting at the table with him at o' dark thirty.
Really, only Edward is drinking coffee. I'm just keeping him company, and hiding how awful it tastes because I want to seem older, too.
"I'm growing up," Edward tells him. "And I wanted to have a cup of joe with my dad."
Dad lowers his cup and squints at Edward, who's still dressed in his pajamas. "Don't you know this stuff'll stunt your growth, kid? You've still got a lot more growing up to do."
"I'm almost as tall as you," Edward boasts.
He is, but Dad's not having it. "No, you're not." And he tousles Edward's hair hard enough that Edward spills some of his drink. I giggle when my head tousle comes and push my cup towards him.
"Take it! I don't like it. I'd rather have hot chocolate."
"Least I have one normal kid," Dad says with a grin. "Why don't you two go back to bed? You don't have to be up at this hour for another week. Better enjoy it while it lasts."
"We will, after you leave."
"Well, I'm off then." He pushes up from the table, and rinses our cups out at the sink because he's a neat-freak. "I'll see you two tonight. Be good, or else."
Or else usually means polishing his work shoes until they shine like glass, a horribly tedious process involving wax, a candle flame, and an ice cube. Both Edward and I are reluctant pros.
We watch him go, and listen in silence to the sound of his car driving away. It kind of makes me feel sad.
"Let's watch a movie and fall back asleep," Edward says.
So that's what we do, secure in the knowledge that at least one of our parents is still the same.
. . .
Riddle answer: Napoleon Dynamite