Immaculate, page 12
And there was something more that kept me there, another reason to keep pushing through. There was a powerful, almost masochistic need to be connected to Iris. I was scared by the memory of her, terrified, really, but I still clung to it, wrapped my arms and legs around it like a little kid hanging onto her parent’s leg. I needed that memory as validation—the clear, definite moment that marked the beginning of my new, alternate existence. It’s not that I expected her to walk back through the front door—I had a sickening feeling that that was a one-time-only appearance—but I was desperate for more answers. There were so many questions and explanations that I needed to hear, and being at Frankie’s gave me a small seed of hope—as if by going back to the beginning, I could gradually start to unravel the middle and the end.
I drove straight to the restaurant from school and changed into my bright green Frankie’s T-shirt and my alarmingly tighter-than-usual jeans in the staff bathroom. I couldn’t stop playing over what my mom had said the night before, and no amount of sucking in made me feel safer or more invisible. Tucking in our shirts was mandatory, but I tugged the extra material out from my waistband, carefully bunching and scrunching, making a loose, billowy cloud of cotton to block what may or may not have been a conspicuous bump. As a secondary precaution, I tied my apron on above my hips a good few inches higher than usual so that it flapped down over my stomach. Slightly awkward-looking, sure, but better than the alternative.
Satisfied that I’d done the best I could do with my limited wardrobe options, I stepped out into the kitchen, already warm and sticky from the heat of the brick ovens, and went to help Frankie prep the counter.
The first few hours melted away before I’d had the chance to even think about looking up at the clock. At eight or so, when there was a small lull between the main dinner crowd and the second string of stragglers, mostly kids my age and younger couples, I pushed through the back kitchen door and stepped out for some cool, clean, pizza-free air. The worst of the nausea had passed by then, thank God, though the omnipresent, stinking haze of oozing mozzarella and garlicky tomato sauce still didn’t smell nearly as good to me as it had a few months ago. But I could fight through it. I could smile while I sliced up steaming hot pies for customers, swallow the gag reflex that threatened to come out with an especially strong whiff from the ovens.
I closed my eyes as I leaned back against the outside brick wall, breathing in the scent of the late-September evening, the smell of grilling steaks from a nearby backyard barbecue, fresh grass clippings from the soccer fields across the back alley. It would have been so easy to walk just a few more feet to my car, to drive away and lose myself on some winding back country roads with old-school John Mayer blaring from the speakers. But I couldn’t let myself give in to that impulse, just like I couldn’t quit altogether, not yet. There was more money to make first, before I was too far along, before the jig was up and all eyes really would be on me. And I knew I would need that money, when I had a newborn to support. Besides, I was getting so used to fighting myself—I seemed to be doing it all day every day lately. It was getting harder to separate what I actually felt from what I thought I should feel, or what I actually wanted from what I thought I should want. The line was so faded and fragile, I could blink and miss it, almost like it hadn’t existed in the first place. And maybe it hadn’t. Maybe I’d never really listened to myself before now.
The door next to me swung open with a bang, colliding with the wall only a few inches away from where I was leaning. My eyes split open and I jumped forward, startled.
“Oh, hey, Mina, didn’t mean to scare you there, kiddo,” Carl said in his jolly round voice that so perfectly suited his jolly round body. Sweat was pouring from under his white cook’s cap as he heaved a massive carton of what looked like plates and glasses from the top of his shoulder down to the pavement in front of us. “Just getting ready to clean out the back of my van and load up some supplies. Frankie’s catering a party in the morning, before the lunch rush.” He paused, huffing as his bright red cheeks mellowed back to their more normal shade of light, rosy pink. “Jesse should be right behind me with another big box. He has a list with him. Would you mind seeing if he needs any help? I know he’s been here a few months now, and he’s a smart enough kid, don’t get me wrong, but his head’s not always on the ground if you know what I mean. Too much of a thinker and a dreamer for his own good, that one. He looks like a space cadet most of the time, floating around the kitchen here with stars in his eyes. I don’t know where he actually is, but it sure isn’t Frankie’s,” he said, chuckling as he winked at me conspiratorially. “Must be from his mom’s side of the family. Didn’t come from my brother or me, that’s for sure.”
I grinned at him. Carl generally had that effect. Everyone loved Carl. He was like a younger version of Santa, a big, happy man who made everyone else around him happy, too, just by the sheer proximity of his presence. It was a shame he was hidden away in the back, slaving in the kitchen, but he seemed perfectly content dicing onions and frying cheesesteaks on the griddle, as if there was no better job to be had anywhere in the whole entire world.
“Sure, no problem,” I said, slapping him on the back as I reached behind him and pulled the door open. “Whatever Carl asks, I do. You know that. I’ll keep tabs on that nephew of yours.”
I sounded more confident than I felt, but that was the power Carl had over people. As soon as I’d set foot back in the kitchen, my stomach fluttered with doubt.
I was being ridiculous, I reminded myself. I could talk to Jesse. We were both outcasts, so why not at least be friendly to each other? So what if he thought I was a little weird, especially since it seemed as if he was a little weird, too, based on what Carl had said and my own observations. And besides, it wasn’t as if I could really have avoided him altogether forever, given the fact that we worked at the same restaurant and went to the same school. I wasn’t even sure why it mattered that I tried to anymore.
I walked across the deserted kitchen and poked my head into the storage closet. He was sitting on top of another enormous box, his forehead wrinkled in concentration as he stared down at a grease-stained, crumpled piece of paper. His fingers were knotted up in his dark brown mop of hair, a Medusa-like mass of wild curls that looked outraged by the steamy heat pouring out from the kitchen.
I bit back the small smile that was creeping up my lips. “Hey there.”
He jumped up in surprise, his customary distracted haze slipping off as his eyes focused on me.
“Your uncle . . . asked me to check in. Give you a hand if I can.”
He grinned at me, the same grin I suddenly remembered with a flash from that first night, so shockingly bright and genuine. Infectious smiles seemed to run in the family.
“Old Carl doesn’t trust me, does he?” He shrugged, waving the paper in the air. “I’m just going over the list for the last time, but I think everything’s crammed into this box now, so I should be all set. But thanks for the offer. Really. I appreciate it.”
He put a slight emphasis on those last words, like he wanted me to know that he really meant it. That he was touched that I’d gone out of my way to help him, probably because it was so entirely out of character based on the Mina he’d witnessed for the past few months. I blushed and looked down at the ground, scraping my foot against the light dusting of flour.
I watched from the corner of my eye as he folded the paper into his apron pocket and bent over, hunching his shoulders as he started to pick up the box.
“Let me help with that at least,” I said, rushing forward to grab the other side. My fingers had just barely grazed the cardboard when Jesse put his hand on my wrist to stop me.
“Wait,” he said, sounding panicked. “You shouldn’t be lifting that.”
I looked up, confused. My eyes met his, dark honey brown and rimmed with worry.
“What’s wrong?” I asked. “I know I’m not exactly Superwoman, but I think I can help you move this box to the back door.”
“No, it’s just that . . .” he started, and stopped, his cheeks flushing a deep red.
“It’s just that what?” A slow burning ache gnawed at the pit of my stomach.
“It’s nothing. I mean, I shouldn’t have said that. It’s not any of my business . . .” His face was tilted down, his eyes hidden from me behind thick black lashes.
“What were you going to say?” I needed him to answer. Now.
“It’s just something I overheard,” he said, still refusing to make eye contact. “Two girls sitting in one of the back booths yesterday, at the very end of the night. They were the only two people in the restaurant at that point. I was wiping down a table near them, but I don’t think they even realized I was there. I tend to be kind of invisible, I’ve noticed . . .” He was still staring down at the floor, where his ragged blue and white Converse sneakers were rocking back and forth to a nonexistent beat.
“What did you hear?” I asked, more hesitant this time.
“I . . .” He broke off as he raised his eyes to face me. There was so much regret and sympathy looking out at me that I gasped and stepped back to move away from him. I felt entirely too vulnerable, as if he was gazing straight through my clear blue eyes while I laid out every last intimate detail of my life for him to see all at once. I couldn’t look away, though, either unwilling or unable to break the connection, I wasn’t sure.
“I heard you were pregnant, and I just assumed it was true. It seemed as if the girl knew what she was talking about, but that was still really out of line for me to say to you. It’s your business, not mine. I just got nervous when I saw you trying to lift such a heavy box, and I didn’t think before I spoke, that’s all.”
The words fell on me like a collapsing ceiling, as if the whole restaurant were crashing down, beam by beam and brick by brick, burying me in the wreckage. But I had to keep going before I was cut off completely. I had to know everything.
“Is that all she said? If she said more, I really want you to tell me. I can handle it.”
His cheeks turned an even more intense shade of red. “The girl, she said that you were claiming to be . . . Jesus, this is hard to say out loud. I mean . . . shit, no, not Jesus. No. Bad word to use there.”
He winced, cursing under his breath before he composed himself and started again. “The girl said that you’re claiming to be a virgin. That you didn’t have sex, and there’s no actual dad. That’s why you had some big breakup recently, because the boyfriend didn’t believe you.” His body slumped as he exhaled, emptied of all the details. I watched as he reached out to touch my arm and then stopped his hand midair, shoving it back into the pocket of his jeans.
“What did they look like? The girls who were talking about me?” I forced myself to ask, even though I already knew the answer. There was really only one possibility.
He shook his head at me, his eyes glazing over. “I didn’t pay that much attention at first, and after I overheard them, I kind of rushed off before they could realize I’d been there. But they were our age, I guess. The girl who was talking had dark hair pulled back in a ponytail, and I don’t really remember the other girl. She didn’t say much, just a lot of gasping and squealing while she listened. I wish I could give you more. I’m sorry. I really am. I don’t know anyone around here yet.”
Dark hair was enough evidence to clinch it. Though he could have said red or blonde or white or even hot pink for that matter, and I still would have found a way to link it all back to Izzy.
Tears started pricking at the corners of my eyes, and I turned toward the door.
“Thanks for telling me. Really. It was only a matter of time before it got out anyway, and you just confirmed my suspicions. It’s almost a relief to know that there’s nothing I can do to stop it now. Do you know how impossible it is to keep secrets in this town? Everyone in Green Hill will probably know about this by the time the first bell rings on Monday.”
“So . . . it’s true then?” His question was so faint, I almost missed it under the hiss of the old air vent on the ceiling above us.
I opened my mouth to respond, but something inside of me snapped before I could speak. I couldn’t be standing here in this dingy back room for a second longer, crying loud enough for everyone in the restaurant to hear me. I ran through the kitchen and out the back door, but I only made it as far as the stoop before I couldn’t go any farther, not without completely falling apart along the way. I sat down on the cold cement step and cradled my head in my knees, rocking myself back and forth as the tears ran in sloppy streams down my arms and legs. I heard Jesse step out and close the door behind me, but I didn’t move or look up to acknowledge him, even when he sat down next to me and put his arm around my shoulders. I heard Carl come and go, too, and heard Jesse mumble something about him needing to cover the front for the rest of the night.
After what could have been ten minutes or an hour, the tears finally seemed to reach their peak—all of the water had been drained from my body into a puddle on the pavement beneath me. The orange light of the streetlamps sparkled against the slick asphalt, lighting up my tears with a fiery glow.
“You didn’t have to be out here with me,” I said at last, when I was able to speak again. “But I’m glad you were. Thanks for that.”
“No problem. I didn’t want you to be alone. You can talk to me if you want. Or we can just sit here. Your call.”
I sniffed, wiping my dripping face and nose against the sleeve of my T-shirt. “You don’t have to believe me, of course. I don’t expect you to. But everything you heard that girl say was true, even the part about me claiming to be a virgin.”
He didn’t say anything to that, just sat there staring out at the fields across the street, a faraway look in his eyes, as if he was on some other stoop, in some other place entirely.
I realized suddenly how much I wanted him to believe me. Needed it, even. It didn’t matter that I barely knew him, that I’d ignored his existence for the last few months. There was something about him, the sense that he was so much older and wiser than his years, maybe, or the feeling that there was something so genuine and real and good about him, despite or even because of his quirks. He didn’t seem to care about what other people thought, at least not superficial high school kids. I wanted him on my side. I wanted him to trust me. Before I could stop myself or rethink what I was actually asking, I opened my mouth.
“Do you remember your first night here at Frankie’s? The old woman I made you more or less kick out while I ran away through the back door?”
He nodded, and I could see the surprise on his face, that of all the questions or things to say about what was happening, I was babbling about that strange old lady.
“I was running because she scared me. What she said to me scared me.” I paused, picking at a hangnail on my thumb while I collected my thoughts. “She told me that I would be pregnant, and that it was her job to keep me safe. To protect me. She said that it was time, and that they were ready—whoever they are—that the whole world was ready for it to happen. For me to have this baby. Then she asked for my approval, and I said yes. I said yes to her. You were there already when that happened. I ran out saying yes, just to make the getaway easier. I didn’t have time to think about any of it. Not that any amount of time thinking about that question could have helped me to answer better.”
I watched his profile while I talked, trying to gauge at least some tiny piece of what he was thinking. There was no gaping jaw, no crinkled forehead, no squinting eyes. That alone gave me hope.
“Something happened that night. I don’t know why or how or any of the questions that really matter to everyone, but it did. I had a strange dream afterward, too, strange but beautiful, with all sorts of bright, amazing colors I can still see every night when I close my eyes.” I sighed, wishing that those colors would suddenly light up the whole sky above us—that life and God or whatever and whoever was in control of all this would give me some kind of sign. Give me some kind of proof that I wasn’t just creating some insane fairy tale in my mind. Didn’t I deserve that? Didn’t I deserve some reward for trying to believe? For fighting through the doubt? But the sky stayed dark, the same old stars and the same old moon shining down on me. I guess that was maybe how faith worked, though. Faith was trusting in the absence of all the facts; it was an active, constant attempt at believing in someone or something I couldn’t understand.
Faith, I was learning, wasn’t easy. But then again, wasn’t I carrying around the proof of a miracle, every minute of every day for these nine months? Wasn’t that why I had a bump that I couldn’t hide anymore? Maybe it was selfish of me to think that I needed more evidence than what I already had. Maybe this baby had always been more than enough.
After all, people had believed—had had faith—without this kind of tangible proof for thousands of years. People had believed enough to start wars over it, to lose their lives for it. Faith in something more had been part of the human race from the very beginning of existence. If anything should seem strange to me now, shouldn’t it be that I’d never believed in anything more than my everyday life before this baby?
“She talked to me,” he said, turning to face me, instantly pulling my mind back to that stoop. His cheeks were strangely white, drained of any color in the hazy light. “She talked to me after you left. I would have told you sooner . . . I wanted to, actually, but you haven’t exactly seemed interested in talking to me, so I guess I sort of forgot about it somehow. Until now.”
