Waiting by Carol Lynch Williams Page A

we are, looking at each other, and I had forgotten they were coming to get me. That Taylor traded shifts. Like I’m a job. I feel that way again now.
 
Jesse doesn’t say anything like, “Are you ready to go?” or, “We’re gonna be late.” He just walks inside, closing the door behind him, and it’s so dark in here, and watery like the ocean too. No, those are my tears, and that’s why I have the upside-down-in-the-salt-water feel.
 
I’m rooted between the foyer and the dining room, maybe sprouting leaves now. My books are steps away, and Jesse is so tall coming across the room like that. “Sex with two guys?” he says, and he has this funny look on his face, like he’s not sure if he should laugh or not, or maybe he’s disgusted with me, because I sure am. Then he has his arms around me.
 
We stand there, his arms tight, and I haven’t moved still and I can’t move until Mom is back inside, screaming.

 
She never says a word to me, even in her fury. Just hollers at Jesse, a kid she’s never spoken to before.
“Get the hell out of here. And take this piece of trash with you.”
“You make me sick with your promiscuity.”
“I’ll call the police if you don’t leave.”
     
Like that, I’m free. I can move.
     
That thing Jesus says about how the truth shall set you free? Guess what? It’s Mom’s lies that make me free, make me move, grab my books, leave the room. Jesse’s saying something (to me? to my mom?), then taking my hand, pulling me along.
 
I bump into a chair, bump into the doorknob. Jesse keeps walking, running his mouth, his words coming out fast and loud. I glance at his face, see that’s he’s mad—and remember Zach.

 
It was before Zacheus went to bed.
     
Taylor had been over, trying to see me, and I wouldn’t have any of it because it felt like bad things were getting ready to happen. Our house was like a pot of boiling water overflowing.
 
“Come on, London,” Taylor said. “We need to talk.”
“I can’t,” I had said. “Things are going on with Zach and Rachel. I kinda need to help out.” I stood on the porch, blocking the front door. It was hot and humid and the mosquitoes were so thick you could almost hear them buzzing as a group. Inside the house Zach was swearing, Mom was hollering, and there was the rumble of my daddy trying to smooth things over.
 
My arms were folded, and I wondered if Taylor could hear them? How could he not? All that was going on inside. “It’s not a good time for me right now.”
 
Taylor hardly let those words come out of my mouth.
“What about me, London?” He’d said that right in my face. Too close. I felt his breath on my skin. “What about us?”
 
There was a crashing noise—I can’t remember whatbroke now—but I looked at Taylor and said, “Are you kidding me? Can’t you hear what’s going on? This is what I have to do.” Then I went inside.
 
Later I figured out Heather had been asking Taylor to do things. I mean, I saw them together at school the very next day. And Zach told me he’d beat the crap out of his friend if I needed him to. He wouldn’t have said that, I realized later, if things weren’t so bad between him and Rachel.
 
But that night, when I walked in the house, I saw it had become a war zone. Mom had broken several household items, and Daddy was trying to calm her.
Zach was livid. At this point he thought he’d marry Rachel. That they’d take their baby and do the Teen Mom thing. It never occurred to him that Rachel would let her parents convince her of an abortion.
 
The deal is, Zach didn’t get mad often.
He got sad.
But that day.
That day, as Taylor drove away from the house, Mom called Rachel a whore. And that was it.
 
“She’s a whore. A slut. A Jezebel,” Mom said.
“Mom.” That was me. Those words coming out of hermouth, and about wonderful Rachel—I would have laughed if I hadn’t seen Zach’s face change. It was all so bizarre. Daddy must have seen the change