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

your mother came
along,” Dad said. “Now Mona Lisa is second best.”
    “Not anymore,” I say to the
empty room. Mona has no competition for smiles from Mom now. I
stand with my hand on the worn door handle; its smoothly curved
brass is cold under my palm. When I’d been three I had to reach
above my head and press on the latch with one thumb on top of the
other to open it. Now, it’s at my waist. It feels small inside my
hand, yet it holds memories of all the times I’ve opened and closed
it. For one last time I pull the handle toward me, hear the click
that had always said Welcome or See you
later. I rest my forehead on the familiar
leaded glass door panels. “Adieu.”
    Our “new” car waits at the
curb—a black Tercel, only slightly dented on the driver’s door
panel, only a little dinged and pitted on the hood, a clock that
always reads two forty-five, and only driven 200,000 miles by a
grandmother the salesman knew personally. This is Mom’s first solo
car purchase. Keith and I have an unspoken agreement. We will never
say anything about that car.
    As we climb into the
Tercel, Keith sets the cat carrier behind the passenger seat, and
Quicken howls when Mom turns the key in the ignition.
    “Stifle it. You’re not
going to the vet.” Keith taps the top of the carrier, but Quicken
only howls louder.
    I dig my fingernails into
my palms and keep my eyes straight ahead.
    Mom drives with both hands
clutching the wheel, her knuckles white. The one sound in the car
besides the motor is Quicken. She’s howling for all of
us.
    It’s only a twenty-minute
drive, but while the time is nothing, the difference it makes in my
life is huge. Mom turns into the narrow driveway and winds through
the backside of the complex where dumpsters line up against a chain
link fence, cardboard boxes and black plastic garbage bags poke
from under the heavy lids. On the opposite side is a flat-roofed
carport. Some of the bunker-like spaces shelter trucks or cars that
no longer need to be smog-checked they’re so old. Moving boxes,
broken furniture, and freezer chests are the most common items
stacked along the walls.
    When we come to space 148
Mom parks. Even Quicken stops making noises and we sit inside the
Tercel in silence.
    My cell chimes and breaks
the spell. As Mom and Keith get out, I flick open my phone and a
number I don’t recognize pops up on the screen.
    “Moving day, right? Aunt
Corky knows all.” Sean’s voice sends shock waves through my
chest.
    “Right.” I climb out of the
car.
    “What’s your new
address?”
    I’m in the bowels of Las Pulgas, and Sean
Wright wants to know where I live? Is there no justice in this
world?
    “Um, I don’t know the
address yet. Can you call me later? I’ll give it to you.” Then I
remember I’ll only have my cell phone one more week. I glare at
Mom’s retreating back. She’s taking everything away. Without
explaining that all I’ll have is a home phone, I give Sean our new
number and my email.
    As I snap my phone closed,
my thoughts churn. How am I going to keep
my friends at Channing from seeing where I live? And what about
Lena? I’ve deliberately missed three calls
from my best friend already and she emailed about coming over to
see my new “house.” I can’t tell her I’ll be living in a Las Pulgas
apartment, and I have no intention of ever letting Lena see this
dumpy place with the dented refrigerator and a stove Mom calls
vintage Ark. I’m wearing out the chain on my Sweet Sixteen bracelet
by twisting it almost all the time now, counting the links—where
they begin, where they end—and pushing away the reason that makes
me ache inside.
    I follow Mom and Keith who
pick their way toward the gate that separates the carport from a
kidney-shaped pool. Quicken is curled into a silent fetal ball
inside the cage that Keith holds close to his chest. They push open
the gate and walk across the pool area where tables are littered
with overflowing ashtrays. Keith