“I’m not scared,” Beatrice said again. She was a little warrior sitting next to her sister with fists balled ready for the fight. “So you worry about working and getting money, and I’ll worry about the rest. Okay?”
“Okay,” Clara said. She crawled over to her sister and laid her head on Beatrice’s chest. She heard Beatrice’s heart beating rapidly, but she knew it wasn’t from fear. It was from determination, adrenaline and power. She wished she could have some of Beatrice’s power, that ability to look at bleakness and see hope.
Beatrice put her hands on her sister’s head. “Where did your dark hair come from, Clare-Bear?” she asked after a time. “Mom’s is blond. Dad’s is blond.”
“I don’t know,” Clara responded.
“Well, I like it,” Beatrice decided. “You would look weird with blond hair. It wouldn’t look right. You need to have dark hair.”
“I guess you’re right,” Clara said, feeling the drowsiness that comes before a solid sleep. She thought that if she took a nap on Beatrice’s chest, some of her sister’s strength would transfer to her—strength she would need for the weeks and months ahead.
“Bea, you can’t let anyone know,” Clara said after a moment.
“Know what?”
“That Mom is gone. That we’re here on our own,” Clara explained. “We could get in a lot of trouble.”
“Why would we get into trouble?” Beatrice asked.
“Because we’re minors living alone,” Clara replied. “The state, they would come and take us away.” Clara lifted her face to look at her sister. “Do you understand?”
“It’s not our fault Mom left,” Beatrice said indignantly.
“You’re right. It’s not,” Clara said settling her head back on Beatrice’s chest. “But it doesn’t change anything. If someone finds out we’re here alone, they’ll take us away.”
“What?” Beatrice asked. Clara felt Beatrice’s heartbeat ramp up.
“It’s okay, Bea,” Clara said. “We just need to be careful.”
The girls were quiet for a time. Beatrice placed her hands back over Clara’s head, her heartbeat slowing as she thought.
“How do you know all this stuff, Clare-Bear?” she asked.
“I researched it at school,” Clara responded.
“Did anyone see you?” Beatrice asked.
“No.”
“Do you think Mom will come back?” Beatrice asked.
Clara thought of the best response. Not the honest one, but the best one.
“Yes, I do.”
“Good,” Beatrice said. “Me too.”
Clara fought to keep her eyes open, but it was no use. Beatrice’s slow and steady heartbeat drummed like a metronome in her ear, a rhythmic refrain that made her ache for sleep.
“May I go to sleep for a little bit, Bea?”
“Yes, Clara.”
***
Clara turned around when she heard the Media Center doors open. The last of the students were leaving, and she felt relieved to have the place to herself. She was nervous to go exploring on the Internet with eyes all around her. She didn’t think for a moment that anyone would pay a bit of attention to her, but it still made her uneasy. Everything did. She preferred the solitude as she learned about her options.
Free or reduced lunch. She found the application online and read through the requirements. She and Beatrice definitely qualified, but she was unsure what to do about the signature portion of the application. She would have to find her mother’s handwriting on something, practice her name, and forge it on the document. She also needed the last four digits of her mother’s Social Security number. Where would she obtain that information? She prayed silently that there was a lock box or something at home that housed her mother’s important information: birth certificate, Social Security card, marriage license. She knew if she could only get the form filled out correctly she and Beatrice could eat for free. Clara couldn’t see how she would be able to afford two lunches every day with her meager salary. The hard part would be telling Beatrice. She could already hear her sister’s voice—arguing, resistant and angry.
Clara clicked PRINT on the screen and walked over to the printers. She hovered over Printer B afraid that someone would materialize out of nowhere and grab the application once the printer spit it out. As the papers rolled out onto the tray, Clara couldn’t help but think for a moment what other students were doing on a Friday afternoon. She wanted to feel sorry for herself that she was in the library looking up information for poor people while everyone else was hanging out with friends at the mall or making plans to go to the movies. She couldn’t remember the last time she saw a movie at the theatre. Movies cost money she didn’t have.
She collected the papers and made her way back over to the computer she was using. She saw him hovering about her book bag and panicked. She quickened her step until she was a few feet away from him, snatching her bag from her chair and logging out of her computer swiftly. She prayed that he didn’t see what was on the screen. But he did see, and he said nothing.
“Hey Clara.” Evan stood in his usual position, hands in his front pockets looking happy.
“What are you doing here?” Clara replied. It came out as an accusation.
“What? Here in the Media Center?” Evan asked.
Clara shook her head. “I just meant that it’s Friday afternoon. Shouldn’t you be with your friends or something?” She threw her book bag over her shoulder.
“I’m on my way to Joshua’s house. I just happened to walk by and noticed you in here.”
“Oh.”
Clara remembered the papers in her hand and clutched them close to her chest.
“I was wondering what you’re doing this weekend,” Evan said. It came out casually enough, but his heart was racing. He felt excited and embarrassed to be standing there in front of her—excited because it was her and embarrassed for what he saw on the computer screen.