Jesse Goolsby - I'd Walk with My Friends If I Could Find Them

“She looks like I did,” Camila says. “It’s true.”

“I’m going to give you forty dollars. It’s for a bus ticket. Go anywhere. Don’t come back.”

Mia reaches into her purse, removes four crisp ten-dollar bills, hands them to Camila, and opens the door. There is enough light in the day to see the new growth on the ash trees across the street.

“I meant what I said,” Camila says. “I’ve done wrong to you. You think I don’t mean it, but I do. I’m not this person.”

“That’s not true. We’re only what we’ve been. What you want to be means nothing.”

After Mia closes the door Taylor rushes to the window to watch her aunt walk away, and she sees Camila turn right, away from the bus station, and disappear into the dusk.

A week after Camila’s intrusion, Mia drives to the western edge of town, to the community college, and signs up for classes. She hasn’t thought the school thing all the way through, but she remembers her father telling her that one of the best things parents can do for their children is have homework of their own. His theory went that if your kids saw you studying, they would internalize the importance of the act, and Mia did observe her father and mother reading, almost every night, even if it was the comics, and yet it’s only now that she appreciates their attempt to set a positive example. It certainly didn’t stick in high school. Mia also remembers seeing her parents with alcohol every night, but somehow her father left that out of his do-as-I-do mantra.

Kevin the cop stops in the bank and Mia informs him about her college venture, and he grins and offers to take a class with her. Even though they’ve been on two dates that have gone well, she neither declines nor accepts his offer, which he interprets as an invitation. He has a degree in interdisciplinary studies from Adams State over in Alamosa, where he was raised, but Mia won’t know this until later.

Mia starts with an English night class. As she walks into the aged classroom with poorly erased blackboards, she eyes the people scattered throughout the room. The scene isn’t what she pictured when she thought of the word college: a couple of high schoolers in the front row in khakis (trying to get a jump on college credit), a rancher in a brown, wide-brimmed hat (he will not say four words all semester), three Hispanics spouting lightning-quick Spanish and laughing loudly (two will turn out to be brilliant), a few fiftyish women fidgeting with their already bought books, five white college-aged kids, Kevin (seated next to her, wearing too much cologne), and her.

Mrs. Kelley, the instructor, is about Mia’s age, slightly hunched and heavy, with a cheerful face locked in a smile. Her accent is hard to place, but Mia is sure it is east of the Mississippi. Immediately Mia likes her, and that first night when they introduce themselves, Mrs. Kelley asks them to name their favorite book—“Even,” she says, “if you haven’t had time to finish it all the way.” From the high schoolers: Othello, Brave New World. One of them reconsiders: “ 1984. Well, any dystopia.”

“Thank you, sweetie,” says Mrs. Kelley, with a raise of her eyebrows to acknowledge their zeal. The rest of the room names their favorite books, and besides the Bible — three times — Mia doesn’t recognize the titles. Mrs. Kelley calls everyone “sweetie,” and this will be the one thing that irks Mia. She’s no one’s sweetie, especially not of a woman of like age, regardless of education. When it’s Kevin’s turn he says, “ Slaughterhouse-Five, ” and glances over at Mia for approval, but Mia is already saying her book title before Mrs. Kelley’s “sweetie.”

“ Jacob Have I Loved, ” Mia says, and Mrs. Kelley smiles.

“Thank you, sweetie,” Mrs. Kelley says, but before she can move on — before Mia can pinch her right ear to ease the nerves — from the front of the room, barely audible but there, loud enough for most to hear, a teenager’s voice: “A kid’s book? I read that in seventh grade.” Sarcastic laughter arises among the small group of high schoolers. “Sixth grade,” a girl says, looking back at Mia.

A void builds; the laughter grows, then stops abruptly. The teenagers — decent local kids, but immature — feel the initial pings of awkwardness, and everyone glances at Mia for her reaction, but all they see is her open mouth, her pink face, her confidence edging toward defeat. Kevin rises from his seat, but before he steps forward Mrs. Kelley points at the kids.

“Not again. You hear me?” She steps close. “You do anything like that again and you’re gone.”

“Not my worst first class,” Mrs. Kelley says after class has ended and only Mia and Kevin remain. She forces a laugh. “No knives this time.” She smiles. “If we were in Denver, those kids would come after me.” Another smile. To Mia, “Sweetie, I love that book. I miss the open water and fish for breakfast.”

Mia will never forget that night or the night after, when she lets Kevin kiss her in his patrol car outside her apartment. He’s supposed to be making rounds, but it’s a slow Tuesday night, so he escorts Mia to the Dairy Queen for ice cream and drives her back to her apartment, but instead of leaving he tells her about his four years in the Marines, pushing paper at Pendleton, his degree, and his ex-wife in Alamosa, and, surprising to Mia, admits fault with his ex. He describes his pastor father: honest, harsh, and proud. How he himself has never been east of Kansas City, how he has hidden an unpredictable but severe ringing in his right ear — caused by a kick to the head in basic training — from his boss. Mia tells him about her family, her rush to leave Castle Rock, about meeting her daughter’s father while he worked on a paving project outside Aztec, about his disappearing a week after she told him she was pregnant. Kevin leans over and they both go silent, and Mia closes her eyes and plugs into the energy of anxious desire. His police radio interrupts them with numbers and codes that Kevin pauses to hear, then says can wait.

Later that night, still high from Kevin and his gentle hands, she hauls out the trash and dumps the plastic bag into the dumpster under their streetlight. The bag tears open, and while Mia glances at the exposed contents, something catches her eye. She looks closer and spies small clumps of bloodstained toilet paper among the dirty plastic and crushed cereal box. Soon it will all seem too obvious to Mia, but as she walks the forty steps back to her apartment she can’t wrap her mind around the sight. She wonders if Taylor accidentally caught herself on something sharp — Mia imagines a broken glass and a slit index finger. She enters her place and Taylor leaves the bathroom, Band-Aidless, in her bathrobe. The truth rushes to Mia. She’d always imagined a Safeway moment, with her daughter running to her, asking for advice and comfort and celebration. Taylor walks across the brown carpet towel drying her hair and Mia thinks, This might not be her first period. Mia strides to her daughter, intercepting her before she reaches her bedroom, and hugs her tight.

“I like him,” Taylor says. “I’ll say yes if you want to marry him.”

Mia feels absorbed into Taylor’s arms.

“You won’t lose me,” Taylor says. “Mom?”

Mia has her head glued to her taller daughter’s chest. She notices a half-dollar-sized hickey above Taylor’s collarbone.

“Mom? He’s good for us.”

Mia doesn’t say, “Tell me everything”; she doesn’t ask, “Is this your first period?” She will bring the topic up a month later, and they’ll sit on Taylor’s twin bed and Mia will remind her never to be ashamed of her body, to try to be patient with her boyfriend. Mia will learn that Taylor started her period five months earlier, and at that moment she will wonder what she has done wrong, what would cause her daughter not to tell her, but tonight, in her living room, she smells the strawberry-scented body lotion on her twelve-year-old and slides a step back and says, “Thanks, honey,” and watches Taylor nod, then enter her bedroom and close the door.