Problem Child (Jane Doe #2) - Victoria Helen Stone Page 0,34
a compact of glittery purple eye shadow, then a flavored lip balm.
She’s just a girl. That’s all. There are no pieces of me here. Nothing I identify with. I’ve become some kind of do-gooder.
I leave the mauve-colored room and stride down the hallway, bored with this game and done with this town. “What’s your number?” I ask Nate, whose turn seems to be over. Someone else is firing a gun now, and Nate is packing one of the bongs.
He offers his phone number without question, and I tap it into my contacts, then immediately send a text. Send me Brodie’s info. While I wait, I peruse the figurine shelf, touching the pastel sculptures before picking out my favorite and sliding it into my purse. I’ve wanted one since I was six years old. The height of luxury and elegance. And now I have a pale, long-limbed woman reaching to drape pearls around her ice-cold neck. Just lovely. What great luck I have.
My phone lights up with the contact info, and I wave goodbye and leave, descending back into the real world down the hill and past the prison, to another grandmother’s house we go.
The smokestack taunts me, guiding me home.
CHAPTER 9
I’m not putting off seeing my parents; I’m just hungry.
I drive past the power plant, taking my hands off the wheel to give it the double finger as I cruise back into my hometown and then drive right on through it, back toward the county seat. I’m craving Sonic tater tots anyway, so the heartwarming family reunion can wait.
I frown when the giant cloud of power plant steam reappears in my rearview mirror, ever looming.
My dad worked at the A&I power plant for a total of ten months, but don’t get excited. That wasn’t a streak. It was ten months spread out over four different years. Despite that spotty history, he called himself an “A&I man” for my entire childhood. His last job might have been at a feed distribution center that he’d quit five weeks before, but he was still an “A&I man” through and through. It was the best spin he could manage on his work history.
He staffed all the jobs around town at one point or another, but his body rejected each of them, one by one, overcome by the idea of getting up at 6:00 a.m. five days a week.
He finally threw his back out hauling a deer carcass out of season, and then his glory years of disability checks began. Funny, even after that he could still rant for days about black people on the dole. Those racism muscles of his never got tired. Truly a miracle of persistence.
Setting my father aside for now, I spend the rest of the drive to the county seat planning my perfect Sonic homecoming. Chili dog, yes. Tater tots, yes. Cherry limeade, of course. But what kind of ice cream for dessert? Hot fudge sundae? Maybe, but they might have something new I want to try. Best to save that order for after the meal to see what feels right.
I pull into the drive-in stall, roll my window down, and order the perfect meal. When it arrives, it’s heaven delivered on a red tray, and I tear open the chili dog wrapper with glee. And just as I suspected, there is a new dessert. I chew my tots and contemplate the photo of mini-churros stuck into a bowl of soft-serve ice cream. I think I’ll try that instead of going for an old standard.
When I hit the button for the second time, the voice asks for my order, and a grand idea hits me square in the forehead. I grin with the shock of it and ask for three large orders of fries in addition to my dessert. An entire overstuffed bag of french fries is delivered a few minutes later along with my churros.
“Still hungry?” the server asks as she hands my goodies over. She’s not even wearing roller skates to entertain me, so I just roll up my window in response and enjoy my churro bowl in peace as the fries get cold. I’ll be sure to turn the vents on them when I start the car.
Nobody in my town was wealthy or even middle-class, but their parents worked and brought home groceries and cooked meals, even if those meals were just casseroles made with ground beef and canned veggies. In fact, those church-basement casseroles were my favorite kind of meal. Warm and good and filling.