I watch women navigate kids with wires hanging out of their ears, their heads bouncing rhythmically. I follow the wires down to little square boxes clipped onto their belts or disappearing inside jacket pockets.
Some talk into rectangular devices pressed to their ears, called “cell phones,” or hold them out in front of them, thumbs tapping wildly. If you did that in Obed, you could fall down a ravine or step on a venomous snake. Not paying attention, you’d miss the snippet of baby rabbit flashing by or the red shuffle fox who could easily be persuaded to visit from time to time in exchange for bread crusts or wild blackberries, twinkly tinfoil or a busted shoestring.
Delaney has both devices, and she laughed at me when I first asked Melissa what they were. In the middle of the conversation, Nessa’s head whipped toward me, her eyes wide as the harvest moon. I shook my head no.
“We cant call Mama.”
Why not? Jenessa’s eyes shout.
“Because Mama don’t—doesn’t—have one of those fancy phones.”
Delaney turns to Melissa, incredulous.
“She’s kidding, right? How can anyone in this century, let alone on this planet, not know what a cell phone or an iPod is?”
Melissa’s lips press into a hard line. Delaney throws up her hands, her signature gesture, I’ve learned by now. She glares at me before turning back to Melissa.
“What? What did I say this time?”
Melissa shakes her head slowly, a look passing between them.
“Fine. If you think I’m bad, Mother, wait until she goes to school. The kids’ll eat her alive if she doesn’t get with the program!”
School.
Each time I replay that conversation, my blood pounds in my ears and my stomach jumps like catfish in the Obed River.
It only takes Melissa one and a half shopping hours, the end of which I spend dozing. I quickly grow tired of scrutinizing my reflection in the mirror, studying the girl who lives in that glass. I hadn’t known I was beautiful until Melissa confirmed it. Going by her voice, it’s supposed to be a good thing—like winning the Mega Millions, which my father plays twice a week, or bringing down a fat buck.
Only, I don’t see it. All I see is me. And I know me. And that word doesn’t fit me. I still look exactly like the girl who lived in the woods. You can take the girl out of the woods, but not the woods out of the girl, I reckon. I still look owl-eyed, pointy-chinned, serious. I still look like I know more than I should, which I do. I still look like I’m hefting huge white-star secrets. I’m surprised every day that no one else can see.
Rap rap rap!
I open my eyes and see Melissa looking in, toting a bunch of large white bags that bump against her thighs.
“Could you pop the trunk for me?”
I watch her eyes remember. I like that she forgets.
“Here. Let me show you how.”
She disappears from view, reappearing by her own door.
I know how to unlock the doors, so I do that. One flick of a switch. It’s amazing.
“Thanks, Carey. See this button here?” I lean toward her, nodding.
She pushes it, and I spin in my seat to watch the trunk open automatically.
“Now you know.”
She smiles softly and disappears around the back. I sit up straight and wipe the sleep from my eyes, smooth my hair again, and wait.
“Just a sec, and we’ll be on our way home,” she calls out.
Home.
That word. It creeps across my consciousness like a plump caterpillar measuring my humerus. You don’t want to hurt it, but you don’t know what to do with it, either. To which I tell myself, home is wherever Jenessa is. It’s as simple as that, really. It doesn’t have to mean more than that unless I want it to. One h word can’t wipe out my Obed life. Nor can it wipe out Mama. Even if sometimes a huge part of me wishes it could.
We carry the humongous (I’m a fast study) bags to my room. I carry a heavy one filled with rectangular white boxes. I have no idea what goes into rectangular white boxes. But they look so clean, so fresh and new. For a moment, everything that’s good in the whole wide world must fit into rectangular white boxes.
I vow to keep the boxes, too.
I’m so curious and excited, I don’t even flinch when Melissa leans in toward me and gives me a hug, her eyes dancing.
“Let’s unpack the loot,” she says, and I don’t know what loot means is, but it sounds like it must be at least as good as rectangular white boxes.
The first bag is full of so many colors, I can’t even name them all. I most definitely can’t call the first items “undergarments,” because the plain word dishonors the silky beauty of the pretty colors and patterns. There are matching bras to go along with them, some with small cups and some that remind me of tank tops cut in half. I glide my fingers over the material as Melissa pulls out packs of socks, some colored, some white, some up to the calf, some stopping at the ankle. There are even two pairs of panty hose I could swear are made of flesh-coloreds piderwebs.
Another bag contains a pair of gloves fashioned from the softest material I’ve ever touched—“cashmere,” Melissa says, then explains what cashmere is.