The Princess of Las Pulgas by C. Lee McKenzie Read Free Book Online Page A

myself. The box lands with a thud between Undecided and
Treasures where I’ve stacked my journal.
    Keith shuffles past my open
door. This is his fourth trip in an hour, his arms loaded each
time. Slung over his shoulder are four tennis shoes tied together
by their laces. He’s tucked his freshman yearbook under his left
arm and cradled his basketball against his right side. That mole
hole of a room should be empty by now.
    “How come no
boxes?”
    “I don’t need boxes.” He
looks at my floor. “What’s all that?”
    “I’m culling. No sense in
taking everything I own to Las Pulgas. You saw my new bedroom; it’s
about this big.” I hold my thumb and index finger about an inch
apart.
    “Where’s Mom?”
    “I guess she’s still in
Dad’s office.” I stretch and get to my feet. I’d decided it was
better to stay in our separate places. We’ve been growling at each
other all week.
    Keith shakes his head, then
bounces down the stairs two at a time, tennis shoes slapping at his
back.
    I should ask Mom if she
wants some cocoa. Just don’t say anything
rotten, Carlie.
    Dad’s office is down the
hall at the back of the house. On the door used to be a small brass
plaque, our Christmas present to him from three years ago that
read, MR. RICHARD EDMUND. Now only two small screw holes remain.
Mom’s taken the plaque off. If she’s sorting possessions into
piles, I wonder where that plaque goes?
    I lean my forehead against
the wooden panel, trying to remember what his room looks like. I
haven’t been inside since last summer. I’m about to knock when the
sound of something shattering against a wall brings my hand to a
halt. “Mom?”
    She doesn’t answer, so I
press my ear against the door. Mom’s crying. I back
away.
     
    In the morning, Leo, Jake,
and Tom enter wearing Shamrock green uniforms with their names
stitched above their hearts. When they step into the living room,
Quicken hisses, cat-leaps up the stairs and crouches at the back of
my closet. Even her favorite catnip crunchies can’t coax her from
the corner where she sits, growling.
    “I’ll get the cat carrier,”
Keith says. “There’s no way she’s mellowing and I’m not getting
shredded.”
    Later, as the moving truck
pulls from the curb, I stand in the center of the empty living
room. The only sound is the steady hum of the Sub Zero refrigerator
Mom sold with the house. There’s no room for the luxury-sized
appliance in Apartment 148 in Las Pulgas.
    When I walk to the stairs,
my footsteps ring hollow. Sitting on the bottom step, I watch Mom
move through the house like she's lost, slipping into the empty
dining room, staring down at the rug, glancing at the walls where
sunlight has etched the impressions of frames onto the wallpaper.
The depressions in the rug where the table and chair legs have been
for so long are all that remain of the dining room set. It sold at
the auction along with the living room sectional and king bed with
matching dresser.
    Mom starts into the
kitchen, but stops at the doorway. With a quick turn she walks back
to the fireplace and sweeps her hand along the mantel. When she
glances over her shoulder I’m looking into a face I’ve known
forever, but don’t recognize at this moment. I’ve watched storms
gather over the Pacific, and I know how they bring lightning to the
land midsummer when it’s most likely to ignite dry California
grasses. Right now, her face is that storm.
    She opens the front door
and without turning to look back, steps outside. “Let’s go.” Not
closing the door behind her, she walks toward the car, her head
down as if she’s looking for something she’s lost.
    I remember Mom when she’d
be in one of her thoughtful moods, sitting with her knees pulled to
her chest, watching Dad and Keith huddled over a board game. Dad
had called her Mona.
    “Who’s Mona?” I remember
asking when I’d been about eight.
    “The woman with the most
beautiful, mysterious smile in the world before