panic. Is there a piece of mascara stuck to the acrylic on my eye, or dirt from the cellar? There was so much wind. Things slip in, and I can’t tell. I check mirrors often. Bunny says it’s a habit I need to break or people will think I’m conceited.
Can’t you feel that in your eye? People have asked it incredulously, like a knife is sticking out of my stomach or something. Then I worry they will see the tiny scar, that one eyelid droops just a little more than the other and that the green iris on one side doesn’t always slide around as fast as the other one. Someone will talk too much and too loudly about the girl with the weird eye, and my father will find me. Maybe in Trumanell Town, Texas.
It takes everything in me not to look down into Loree’s little mirror.
“You seem nice. I really like your earrings.” Not eyes. Loree is looking at my ears. “I’m usually not such a mess,” she continues. “In answer to your other question: The money is still on Wyatt Branson. But the men in town stopped bugging him after he got some high-quality tripwires out there. Women here love him. To them, Wyatt Branson is the Texas Idris Elba, white with a drawl.”
I’m trying to decide if this is racist. I decide it isn’t, but I wouldn’t ask for opinions on Twitter.
Loree hands me her card. I hand her a twenty-dollar bill. “Thanks for the information,” I say. “I really appreciate it.”
It’s not like I have any money to spare. Now I need new Asics. But strangers have handed me twenty-dollar bills when I was low. Also, I need to redeem myself for wanting to draw blood out of Wyatt Branson. What if Wyatt saved me, not once but twice?
I must be in the sixth stage.
As I shove open the door, one of the men on the roof is letting loose with a loud stream of Spanish. I’m picking out a few words I learned not to use unless I was Mexican myself.
I tilt the rearview mirror and check my eye for foreign objects—all clear. I wheel the car to the top of the road and feel as alone as I ever have. In my mind, alone is second only to blind.
I uncap one of the tiny tequilas and toss it back. My aunt would be proud. It goes down like a lit match.
I swivel my head both ways, twice on the left, always so careful, before I inch out.
I don’t want to go back there.
I turn right anyway.
47
If someone catches me, I won’t be able to explain myself.
That’s what I’m thinking at the side door of the Blue House, fumbling with the lock for the second time in less than ten hours. Left, right, left. My eye scoots back and forth. The windows that can see me, in the house across the alley, are dark and still.
The Blue House seems to have withstood the storm just fine. A few twiggy branches are scattered on the front lawn and the Texas flag on the front porch is knotted around its pole. It kills me not to go over and fix the flag. If there weren’t a porch light shining on it that would expose me, I would.
Every Oklahoman and Texan I know feels this way about a twisted, disrespected flag, even if they’re a shit kind of person.
The big thing this flag tells me about the Blue House is that someone is paying attention, honoring the flag by keeping a timer light on it at night. Which means sleeping at the Blue House is a really dumb idea. I guess, we’ll see.
I’ve tried to be careful. I parked the car six blocks away and transferred a few overnight things from my small carry-on to my backpack. I scrunched low in the backseat and slipped on dry clothes, a white tank top and bright blue Tweety Bird sweats, which I figure can double for sleeping hard or running fast.
I know for sure that people are more likely to ignore someone in light clothes than dark clothes, especially walking around at night in their neighborhood. Always look normal.
The lock clicks.
I barely shrug off my backpack before I’m crashing. Head wheeling, mouth dry and tingly, all the regular signs I might faint. Four gummy worms are the last things I ate. I fumble around in the dark cabinets. Not much. I pick Ritz crackers and a can of pork