Wreath Read online

  The spirit of the moment encouraged Wreath, although she had not expected to encounter others so quickly.

  Trying to look as though she, too, was out for a little exercise, Wreath was put off by the large sign at the entrance, demanding all visitors register at the office. The jogger had not stopped, so maybe she could slip by.

  But Wreath didn’t like to disobey rules.

  Three or four rental bikes and a soft drink machine sat out in front of the office, which looked like an old-fashioned log cabin. A bulletin board held announcements and business cards for everything from babysitting to dirt work. She wasn’t sure she knew what dirt work was, but maybe she could get a job babysitting.

  She looked down at herself and wondered if anyone would trust her with a child.

  Probably not.

  With a deep breath, she stepped inside the building that looked like an old-fashioned log cabin from the outside. A TV mounted in the corner was the first thing to catch her eye, a weather report on its screen.

  A cute boy about her age, dark hair covering his eyes, sat behind the counter, reading. He looked startled when she walked in, and Wreath hoped she did not stink. He wore clean khaki shorts and a dark green state park polo shirt and looked like one of those rich kids who get the plum jobs. When he laid his book down, Wreath noticed it was one of her favorites, a novel she had reread a few months back.

  “Day pass, please.” Wreath tried to sound as though she did this all the time. She laid a precious dollar bill on the wood surface.

  “Great day for a hike,” the boy said, writing the date in black marker on a yellow cardboard pass.

  Wreath ignored him and studied a trail map tacked to the wall.

  “Visiting someone in the area?” he asked.

  “No,” she said and turned her back on him to inspect a glass case of souvenirs and camping supplies, items that might come in handy over the next few months.

  “Not much for talking, are you?” The boy drummed his fingers on the counter.

  “Not much,” Wreath said. She turned and took the pass that he held out, unzipped her pack, and tried to stuff the piece of paper around the items she had brought with her.

  “Enjoy your walk,” he said, still friendly despite her rudeness.

  Wreath had only gone a few yards when she heard someone yell at her.

  Panicked, she stopped and thought about running.

  “You dropped this.” The boy held out a tiny bar of soap that Big Fun had brought back from a cheap motel on an oil field cleanup trip. Wreath felt her face flush and took the soap with mumbled thanks.

  She had to get over her skittishness if she was going to make it for the next year.

  She walked a step or two and turned to give him a small wave. He waved back and smiled.

  The encounter made her feel rotten. After snakes and lizards, she hungered for conversation, but she didn’t know how she was supposed to act around people in Landry.

  Heading down a trail, she pretended to inspect a disc golf course and strolled through a picnic area. She sat at one of the tables and pulled out her notebook and a ballpoint pen from the glove compartment of one of the abandoned cars.

  In large letters, she dug the pen into the page and wrote.

  BAD.

  SAD.

  MAD.

  The words surprised her.

  Although she had never lived anywhere long enough to get close to people, she missed her long talks with Frankie, who in many ways had acted more like a girlfriend than a mother. She didn’t think she could go a whole year without talking to anyone other than herself.

  She remembered Clarice, who had given her the ride, and how good chatting had felt, like a cool cloth on her sweaty forehead.

  REASONS TO TALK TO OTHERS, she wrote at the top of a page.

  Learn about area.

  Get to know cool people.

  Prepare for job.

  Keep from going crazy.

  Lonely.

  REASONS NOT TO TALK.

  Give away where I live.

  Make people nosier.

  Remind me of things I don’t have … family, home, best friend.

  Big Fun might find me.

  Don’t want to get too close to people. (Plan to leave when I graduate.)

  She tapped the notebook on the table. Ever since third grade, putting thoughts on paper helped Wreath sort things out. She was always surprised at how the plusses and minuses of life clashed and connected. She was lonely because she didn’t have anyone to talk to, but talking to that boy made her think about all she was missing.

  She stowed her journal in the pack, checked the zippered pouch, and jogged past a swimming pool, closed for cleaning; past camping sites, where big new motor homes were set up with party lights and welcome mats; and past a screened picnic pavilion. Stopping with an effort at nonchalance, she did a few stretches she had learned in PE class, acting as though she exercised every day. As she bent to touch her toes, she swiveled her head to see if anyone was in sight.

  Satisfied that she was alone, she turned down a sidewalk and into a brick restroom. Its windows were high, letting in pale light that only slightly improved the dim bulbs on the ceiling. The smell of mold was strong, but the floor was clean. As advertised in the pamphlet, the facility included two showers, although they did not have curtains or doors, which brought a moan from Wreath. She looked around for a way to lock the main door and stepped outside to see if she could find a rock to jam against it while she took a quick shower. Only a few pebbles and a lot of pinecones lay on the ground, and, other than a squirrel scampering up a nearby tree, the area was still. Feeling the sticky grime on her arms and legs, she decided to take her chances.

  With another quick look, she hurried back into the bathroom. She stripped out of her clothes and jumped into a shower.

  The cool water streamed down her hair and shoulders, washing away the filth. Frankie was big on cleanliness, and Wreath had gotten so gross she was ashamed. She liberally used the little bar of soap to wash her body and hair, and she scrubbed her skin with a ragged washcloth she had found in one of the trailers at the junkyard.

  Watching the dirt disappear down the drain, she hoped the water might wash away the awful sorrow that clung to her. What-ifs had captured her emotions like a steel trap these past few days, and she longed to feel clean and fresh.

  Wreath pulled her towel out of her pack, hurriedly dried off, and put back on her shorts and T-shirt. Clean. Dressed. Even the small accomplishments brought a big sense of relief. Combing her hair, she managed a smile as she surveyed her looks in the piece of metal that served as a mirror.

  While she was deciding she looked pretty good, considering all she’d been through, the restroom door flew open. Wreath jumped, dropped her comb, and knocked her pack off the sink onto the tile floor.

  “Didn’t mean to startle you,” a woman in running shorts and a tank top said. Red-faced and sweating profusely, she walked to the sink and splashed water on her face.

  Wreath picked up her comb and straightened her pack, realizing this was the jogger who had headed into the park in front of her. Casually messing with her hair, she sized up the distance to the door.

  “Great hair,” the woman said. “If I tried to do that with this frizzy mess, I’d look like a mop on steroids.”

  “Thanks,” Wreath said. Trying to appear disinterested, she studied the woman who had stuck her mouth under the faucet, giving her the look of a contortionist at the circus.

  She looked younger than Frankie, in her early twenties, maybe, her body thin. With hair stuck under a ball cap and big blue eyes, she seemed in ways like a fresher version of Wreath’s mama. The way Frankie could have looked without the tiredness.

  Frankie had been pretty, but this woman looked almost like a model, her legs shapely and tanned. People told Wreath she was pretty, but she thought her own looks were ordinary. She figured she must have gotten them from her dad’s family. She wished she could be as beautiful a
s this lady, like Frankie was before she got sick.

  “You camping with your family?” the woman asked. Wreath barely moved her head, neither agreeing nor disagreeing.

  “I hope the mosquitoes aren’t eating you up,” the runner said. “They’re worse than usual this year, and there’s a junkyard across that road that’s a swampy mess.”

  Wreath watched the woman enter a stall.

  “I think I overdid it this morning,” she continued, talking behind the closed door. “Central Louisiana has it all today—heat, humidity, and bugs bigger than tennis balls.”

  Edging toward the door, Wreath froze as the woman emerged.

  The time had come to speak. “Are you camping?” Wreath asked.

  “Never! I live in the lovely town of Landry. Right now I’m an artist.” She washed her hands and took off her cap to straighten her damp hair.

  “An artist?” Wreath chalked this tidbit up to “getting to know cool people.” She organized her clothes in her pack as she spoke, trying to look nonchalant. “What kind of art?”

  “You name it, I do it. Most of my commissioned pieces are for a fleur-de-lis or some sort of pink rose framed in gold.” She wrinkled her nose at the description and this time gulped water from the sink with a cup made from her hands.

  “If you want to know the truth, I’m an art snob,” the woman said, stretching against the wall, pulling her calves and bouncing down to touch her toes.

  “I do commercial projects because I need the cash, and people around here don’t have a very adventuresome spirit. For fun I paint huge canvases. Someday people will gush over my work and fight to hang my pictures in their homes. Their big, expensive homes.” She laughed.

  “Oh,” Wreath said.

  “I’d better get going. I have a workshop today, and they’ll have my head if I’m late again. I’m Julia, by the way. Enjoy your visit.”

  “I’m Wreath.”

  “Wreath.” The woman spoke the name like it was special. “Good to meet you.” She jogged toward the park exit, her cap flopping up and down, as Wreath exited the bathroom.

  Strolling out of the facility, Wreath was surprised at how much she’d enjoyed Julia’s conversation. But Wreath couldn’t imagine telling a stranger about her dreams, about her own love of art and design, of her plans to go to graduate school and do something that mattered.

  And, although she had enjoyed the visit, she would vary her shower times. She couldn’t afford to be seen too often by Julia the jogger or the good-looking clerk. The last thing Wreath needed was to get easy to follow. She remembered all too well how easy it had been for Big Fun to find her at the tourism center.

  Rounding the far corner of the log building, Wreath couldn’t resist looking back. The boy from the office leaned against a split-log fence. He offhandedly waved and turned back toward the office as she walked through the gate.

  “Have a good one,” he yelled.

  She gave a small wave and felt a moment of happiness.

  Attract no attention, Wreath had written in her notebook that horrible first day. She was about to put that to the test.

  When she wrote out her strategies before Frankie died, they seemed wise and organized. In real life, they felt awkward and stupid. She longed to go right back to the Tiger Van. But she had to have food and learn how to move around Landry without standing out. School would start soon, and she needed to look as though she had lived here for years.

  Staying as far from the highway as she could without getting in the woods, she walked and walked, the efforts of her precious shower washing away in a pool of sweat. A few cars whizzed by but no one seemed to pay her any attention, and she tried to get a look at drivers without them noticing. Her feet ached the way they had after the long walk from Lucky to the junkyard, and her shoes rubbed through her worn socks. Her shoulders throbbed from the weight of the pack, and she shifted it to one side, moving her arms, which felt tight and tense.

  The distance to town was a lot farther than she remembered from the ride with Frankie and Big Fun, definitely longer than it looked on the map. Seven or eight houses sat back from the road. The occasional dog ran down a driveway, barking fiercely but stopping about halfway. She thought of the sweet dog that lived near her old house, how he wagged his tail and licked her hand.

  An auto repair shop and used tire store were the first businesses she passed, and she considered asking for a drink of water but decided it was too risky. She walked on. Her spirits dipped almost in tandem with the backpack sliding off her shoulder.

  In the distance she saw a flashing red light, and the highway made a T, veering into town. Her relief was so strong she wanted to lift her arms in triumph. “Yes,” she said under her breath. “I made it.” A bench with a cover over it, maybe a school bus stop, sat on the other side of the road, and she crossed, hot and thirsty. With a little rest in the shade, she would decide what to do next.

  “Hey, Wreath,” a voice called.

  She skidded to a stop, her heart pounding so hard she thought she might have a heart attack.

  “Over here,” the voice said, and Wreath turned, feeling like a mechanical toy, jerky and unsteady.

  “It’s me. Clarice. From the other day. Do you need a ride?”

  At the sight of the fancy car and the woman’s big smile, Wreath steadied herself. “No thanks,” she said. “I’m doing a little hiking.” She pointed to the pack.

  “Looks like you’re about hiked out,” Clarice said.

  Wreath knew her face was flushed, and she had sweat rings on her clothes. “It’s a little hotter in Landry than I remembered.” She wiped her brow and forced a laugh. “But I need the exercise. Thanks for the offer.”

  Walking fast across the road, she turned at the first street, hoping to get out of Clarice’s sight in a hurry.

  The woman was all Wreath could think about as she tried to figure out what to do. She could scarcely bear the thought of the long walk back to the junkyard, but she didn’t want to hang out in town where she might run into Clarice again.

  Still, she had to get food and a few other supplies. She had been foolish to think this might actually be simple.

  A handful of cars and pickups drove past, and Wreath looked down, expecting to hear the woman’s voice at any moment, half hoping she would. Maybe Clarice would butt into her business and put an end to this mistake once and for all.

  Almost talking herself into looking for the woman’s car, Wreath bumped into a signpost and slapped it with anger. She was hot and hungry, and she missed Frankie so much it hurt.

  She rubbed her hand across her face and tried to keep from crying. Lo, I am with you always. The words popped into her mind.

  Her mind raced. Her guts churned.

  She turned around again, to see if Clarice might be near. Her eyes went to the sign she had stumbled against. The Landry Library.

  The library! That was on her list of places to investigate.

  She would see about public Internet access, maybe check out a book or two. Wreath wasn’t sure how she was going to get a new library card, but she’d figure something out. Where there’s a Willis, there’s a way, as Frankie said.

  The cool air of the library hit her so pleasantly it felt like a gift.

  Wreath explored every aisle, the familiar sight of rows of books perking her up. Near the teen area, she saw a summer reading display, with a stack of bookmarks and a plate of cookies. A woman shelving books turned to look at her, and Wreath reluctantly walked away.

  “Take a cookie or two,” the woman said in a library voice. “They’re free.” The librarian gestured toward a group of kids about her age on the other side of the room. “Maybe you’d like to sign up for our teen reading club.”

  “Thank you,” Wreath said, taking only one of the cookies, despite the desire to grab a handful. She chewed it slowly and sauntered near the shelves where the teens gathered.

  She picked up a sheet about “Teen Tales,” a book club for grades seven through twelve, a
nd pulled from a display a new novel she had read about in one of her mama’s magazines. Curling into a chair, she inhaled the smell of the book, fresh and distinct. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched kids at computers or reading on beanbag chairs in a corner.

  She needn’t have worried that she would stand out. She seemed invisible.

  Suddenly loneliness threatened to crush her, and she put the book back on its table and headed to the bathroom. Alone inside, she examined the space for future use as a place to clean up. It was tidy, with the strong fruity smell of air freshener, and would come in handy, despite its lack of a shower.

  Stepping out, she went back to the table and took one more cookie, smiling at the woman who now sat behind a nearby counter. “Thanks,” Wreath said, doubting the woman could imagine how much she needed the snack.

  She walked out the door into an entryway, licking sugar off the top of the cookie, and sat on a bench, reluctant to go out into the heat again. Her notebook in hand, she made notes.

  DISCOVERIES, she wrote.

  1. Good shower, swimming pool at park. Costs a dollar.

  2. Free Internet access at library. (Air-conditioning!!!!!)

  3. Nice people—artist lady Julia, park boy, Clarice.

  4. Need to think more about paperwork and “official” stuff.

  5. LONG walk from Wreath’s Rusted Estates into town.

  With one last breath of cool air, she headed out to the street, gearing up to spend money she could not afford to spend.

  Chapter 6

  The streets of Landry reminded Wreath of most of the places she and Frankie had lived, with a few run-down stores, a mix of black and white people, some workmen speaking Spanish, several churches, and lots of trees. Overall the effect was that of her favorite pair of jeans—frayed but comfortable.

  In a small downtown park, Wreath recognized crape myrtles, their blooms the color of watermelon. Frankie said those were Wreath’s grandma’s favorite “because they bloom boldly in the heat of summer.” She decided she’d start a list of flowers she liked when she got back to the Tiger Van.