Part of Dee felt she should have been at Brannigan. She should’ve been in classes, doing homework, living out her normal life. But she couldn’t. She couldn’t pretend to be fine—and it was freeing to realize she didn’t have to. In this car, she was safely removed from her real life.
They arrived at their destination around midday. James was driving again, and he turned onto 730 East, toward the Washington border. She saw the sign for the upcoming town and raised her eyebrows.
“Walla Walla?”
James shrugged one shoulder. “I like any town that sounds like it could be named after a Muppet,” he said blandly.
Dee stared at him. “Really?”
A smile broke across his face. “Come on. Out of all the things I’ve said, that has to be the most normal. Besides, we need to stop somewhere. I figure this is as good a place as any.”
They found a hotel on the edge of town. It was a chain, plain and standard, with the promise of a continental breakfast in the morning.
They ventured inside the room together; neither had luggage, which made Dee feel oddly unburdened. It was clean and neat, with some Western theme to it, all the fabrics and paints in varying shades of orange and brown.
Two queen beds. “I get the one next to the bathroom,” said James.
Dee gave him a hard look. “Way to be gallant.”
“Actually,” he replied, “the one closer to the bathroom is nearer to the door. Should anyone break in, they’ve got to go through me first.”
She fought back a smile. “Are you anticipating a break-in?”
“Hey, that would be tame, considering our lives.”
“True.”
It should have been weird—she was in a hotel room with a boy. But James kept to his side of the room, remote in hand and flipping through television channels. He found some cooking competition and settled in, tossing his worn shoes off the bed. It was strangely domestic, she thought.
Dee showered. She hadn’t brought extra clothes, so she put the same ones back on. But she felt better—the hot water loosened some of her knotted muscles, and she felt clean, lighter.
James was still watching the reality cooking show when she emerged, and she sat down on her own bed. It was strangely entrancing to watch the lives of other people, see them made into dramas. It was a relief to step outside of herself, to lose all sense of identity in the flashing images and sounds.
They went out for lunch.
Walla Walla had a very pretty downtown historic district. The sidewalks were wide and tourist-friendly, with plenty of lamps and benches. Decorative statues rose from the sidewalk like concrete flowers, twisting up toward the sky.
They bought sandwiches from a cafe and ate sitting at one of the benches. The sunlight beat down on Dee’s bare arms and she allowed herself to take in the heat and food.
“Thank you,” she said.
He looked up over his sandwich. “For?”
“This.” She gestured vaguely around them, at the old-time street and tourists. “I mean, you didn’t have to. And for—well, not looking at me like there’s something wrong with me.”
He looked at her. “Do you think there is?”
“I feel like that sometimes,” she said, pressing her fingertips to her skull, as if she could push the thought from her mind. “I feel like I’m just this collection of broken pieces I don’t know what to do with.” It was all too easy to remember the homunculus, that monster of human parts, and imagine herself in such a state.
“What did they do to you?” he asked softly.
She laughed and it came out mangled. “Nothing, really. That’s the worst part. It was all little stuff. They never beat me or starved me. But they’re alcoholics, both of them. Dad first, and then I think Mom started drinking just to numb him out. Half the time they’d ignore me. Mom tried, but Dad’s a mean drunk. He’d go looking for targets to vent at, and I was one of his favorites. Anything I did was wrong. If I was interested in a school subject, it was the wrong one. If I showed an interest in a hobby, he’d tell me it was a waste of time. If I showed any kind of emotion, he’d tell me I was too sensitive. I learned how to deal—how to make myself small or stay hours at the library.
“They used to tell me to keep the house clean,” she said. “That if social services ever came by, if they saw a messy house, they’d assume the worst. And I’d be taken away to some horrible place.”
“Did social services ever come by?” His tone was deceptively light.
“Once.” She ran her fingertips over her jeans. “A neighbor heard one of the arguments. But my parents were always at their best in the mornings, and that’s when the social worker stopped by. My father has always been charming, when he needed to be. And he has his own business, and the…”
