Em Garner - Contaminated

“What if the bus picked her up at the highway? I could get her to the front of the development. She could get the bus there.”

“A bus stopping on the highway? I just don’t know.…”

“Mr. Benedict. Please. It’s the only way to get her to and from school.” I put desperation into my tone, amazed at how the art of manipulation is something I’m learning.

“I don’t mind,” Opal puts in. “I’ll stay home.”

Mr. Benedict laughs at that. “Now, we don’t want that.”

“I do,” she grumbles. “I don’t,” I say.

I didn’t love school or anything like that, and I have no hopes for college now. But I’m sorry I had to quit. I don’t want Opal to miss out on an education, too. The future might change. Might be different for her.

“I guess we’ll have to see what we can do.” Mr. Benedict smiles down at her, but his smile for me is tinged with pity. “No guarantees, but I’ll see what I can do.”

“She has to go to school,” I tell him. “It’s the law, isn’t it?”

“But the law doesn’t say we have to get her here, unfortunately. We have to think of the needs of the rest of the students, Velvet. I’m sorry.”

I’m talking about the law that says I can keep guardianship of Opal so long as we follow the rules. I don’t know what law he’s talking about. Mr. Benedict might not care if I lose my sister, but I do.

“When can you let me know?”

He shrugs. “I’ll have to talk to the bus driver. Maybe the school board. Things like this can’t change just like that.” He snaps his fingers to demonstrate. “I’m sorry. I’ll call you.”

Lots of things can change like that. Frustrated, I try to keep my cool. Then I realize. No more phone.

“Can you call me at work?” I scribble the number on a piece of scrap paper with a dull pencil they use for parents to sign out their kids.

He tucks the paper into his pocket. “I’ll see what I can do.”

I don’t think I’m an ungrateful person, but my day of thanking people is wearing thin. “Thanks. C’mon, Opal, let’s go.”

She grabs my hand as we leave, already excited. “You got your bike? Where’s Mama? How’s the house?”

“I did. Put your stuff in the back there.” I show her the baby cart, and she giggles, trying to fit inside it. She actually does. Her knees hit her chin, but she does.

“Look, Velvet!”

“Yeah, I see that. I’m not sure I can pedal with you in there like that.” But it will be better than balancing her on the crossbar. I’m using my dad’s bike, which is almost too big, anyway. It’ll be safer if she’s in the carrier. “Hold on.”

I can’t make it go uphill, but I push it to the top of the school’s driveway and get on. I had adjusted the seat, but even so, my toes barely touch. Once I get going, I’ll be okay, so long as I don’t have to stop.

The good thing is, there’s not much traffic, and I can safely ride more to the center of the lane than on the edge, where the road drops off into a drainage ditch. I pick up speed. The wind swats at my face, and it’s cold but feels good. Pushing the pedals harder, I stand, coasting down the hill. Gravel crunches under my tires. From the back, Opal screams, but in excitement, not fear. We’re really picking up speed, and it feels…

Free.

For the first time since I can’t remember, I feel free and easy. I could almost be riding my bike just for fun, not because it’s the only way I have to get around. I could be taking my little sis on a spin around the block just because I’m a good big sister that way. For a few minutes, I feel like I can be a kid again, not some excuse for an adult.

It doesn’t last long, just until we get to the gas station and I pull in. There’s not very much room with Opal in the carrier, but I fill the gas can halfway and shove it in there under her feet. I add a couple of flashlights and batteries, some matches, a few rolls of toilet paper. I also pick up a few subs—and it’s been a long time since we did that. Ordered subs. I spend the money Mr. Behney gave me, add a couple bags of chips and a carton of milk. I try not to feel bad about it. It’s food, right? I know I should hold out, spend less money for more food from the grocery store. I can’t help it. I’m hungry, and it feels like after everything, we need something as frivolous as buying subs instead of making cheap mac and cheese.

“You’re the best sister ever!” Opal crows when I pass her the bag.

“Don’t get gas on it,” I warn.

I was overheated before, but night in February falls early, and it’s getting cold. I want to make it home before it’s completely black—the highway doesn’t have streetlamps and neither does the neighborhood. My dad’s bike has reflectors and a light on the front that goes on only when you pedal. It’s two miles from the gas station to the entrance to Spring Lake Commons. By the end of it, my legs are trembling, my butt is aching, and my lungs are on fire from the cold air. I manage to get us through the gate and down the first hill, but faced with an uphill ride, I have to stop. “Opal, we need to walk for a while.”

“What? Why?”

I look in on her, snug as a bug in a rug, as my mom would’ve said back in the old days. I can feel the heat built up in the carrier, which has flaps to protect it from the wind. She’s cradling the subs, and her feet are on top of the gas canister, so she can’t be comfortable.

“I can’t go up the hill, that’s why. C’mon, Opal, don’t argue. We’re almost home.”

She gets out slowly, reluctantly. The subs spill onto the ground. We both stare at them.

“They’re okay,” Opal says nervously.

I’m too tired to holler at her. They’re all a little squished, but fine. We put them back in the carrier and start pushing the bike. I don’t have the energy for a lot of chatter, but Opal’s strangely silent. We get to the top of the hill, and the street we have to turn on to get to our house.

“How much longer?” she asks.

“It’s about a mile from here.”

“How long’s a mile?”

“Not as long as it was from the gas station to here,” I tell her.

Opal doesn’t have a clue. “Can’t we ride again?”

“There’s another hill just up ahead. When we get past that.”

She grumbles but helps me push. It’s getting darker and colder. The trees seem to be pushing in on us from all sides. Some of them have long, bare branches like witch fingers. Some have heavy, needled branches that are scratchy but smell good. Like Christmas. We didn’t have Christmas this year. Or last year.

“How much farther?” Opal’s getting dangerously close to a whine.

“We can ride when we get to Spring Lake Lane, okay? Please, Opal. Just hold on a little bit longer.”

She can’t, though. I know why she can’t—she’s only ten. She’s hungry, tired, cold. Stressed out. It’s getting dark and she’s probably scared, because there are deer in the woods making all kinds of shuffling sounds.

Oh. And the dogs. I’d almost forgotten them.

I don’t think our neighbor’s pets will attack us, but then I’d never have thought our neighbor would, either. “C’mon, Opal. Hurry up.”

Her legs are shorter. She can’t go as fast. The pedal keeps hitting her in the back of her leg, until finally she bursts into tears and throws herself down at the bottom of someone’s driveway. Gravel crunches. There’s ice and snow. She has to be cold, sitting there, but she sits and wails.

The sound sets my teeth on edge. “Opal! Get up! We’re almost home! Let’s go!”

She cries and cries. I want to comfort her the way I did my mom earlier, but my reservoir of comfort is all used up. I’m tired, too. And cold. And hungry. My body aches and I’m exhausted.