BAREFOOT

Chapter 6

“Listen,” she says. “You are going home with Philip. You’ll be among our kind of people, at least. Safe.”

Our kind of people. Workers. Only I’m not one. The only nonworker in my whole family. I cup my hand over the receiver. “Am I in some kind of danger?”

“Of course not. Don’t be ridiculous. You know I got the nicest letter from that count. He wants to take me on a cruise with him when I get out of here. What do you think of that? You should come along. I’ll tell him you’re my assistant.”

I smile. Sure she can be scary and manipulative, but she loves me. “Okay, Mom.”

“Really? Oh, that’ll be great, honey. You know this whole thing is so unfair. I can’t believe they would take me away from my babies when you need me the most. I’ve spoken to my lawyers, and they are going to get this whole thing straightened out. I told them you need me. But if you could write a letter, that would help.”

I know I won’t. “I have to go, Mom. It’s study period. I’m not supposed to be on the phone.”

“Oh, let me talk to that hall master of yours. What’s his name. Valerie?”

“Valerio.”

“You just get him for me. I’ll explain everything. I’m sure he’s a nice man.”

“I’ve really got to go. I’ve got homework.”

I hear her laugh, and then a sound that I know is her lighting a cigarette. I hear the deep inhalation, the slight crackle of burning paper. “Why? You’re done with that place.”

“If I don’t do my homework, I will be.”

“Sweetheart, you know what your problem is? You take everything too seriously. It’s because you’re the baby of the family—” I can imagine her getting into that line of theorizing, stabbing the air for emphasis, standing against the painted cinder block wall of the jail.

“Bye, Mom.”

“You stay with your brothers,” she says softly. “Stay safe.”

“Bye, Mom,” I say again, and hang up. My chest feels tight.

I stand in the hallway a few moments longer, until the break starts and everyone files down to the common lounge on the first floor.

Rahul Pathak and Jeremy Fletcher-Fiske, the other two junior-year soccer players in the house, wave me over to the striped couch they’ve settled on. I wave back, take a hot chocolate packet, and mix it into a large cup of coffee. I think technically the coffee is supposed to be for staff, but we all drink it and no one says anything.

When I sit down, Jeremy makes a face. “You got the heebeegeebies?”

“Yeah, from your mother,” I say, without any real heat. HBG is the abbreviation for some long medical term that means “worker,” hence “the heebeegeebies.”

“Oh, come on,” he says. “Seriously, I have a proposition for you. I need you to hook me up with somebody who can work my girlfriend and make her really hot for me. At prom. We can pay.”

“I don’t know anyone like that.”

“Sure you do,” Jeremy says, looking at me steadily, like I’m so far beneath him he can’t figure out why he has to even try to persuade me. I should be delighted to help. That’s what I’m for. “She’s going to take off her charms and everything. She wants to do it.”

I wonder how much he’d pay for it. Not enough to keep me out of trouble. “Sorry. I can’t help you.”

Rahul takes an envelope out of the inside pocket of his jacket and pushes it in my direction.

“Look, I said I can’t do it,” I say again. “I can’t, okay?”

“No, no,” he says. “I saw the mouse. I am completely sure it was heading toward one of those glue traps. Dead before tomorrow.” He mimes his hand slashing across his throat with a grin. “Fifty dollars on glue.”

Jeremy frowns, like he’s not sure he’s ready to give up trying me, but he’s not sure how to get the conversation back to where he wants it either.

I shove the envelope into my pocket, forcing myself to relax. “Hope not,” I say quickly, reminding myself that after I get back to the room, I’m going to make Sam note down the amount and for what. It’ll be good practice. “That mouse is good for business.”

“Yeah, because you just want to keep taking our money,” says Rahul, but he smiles when he says it.

I shrug my shoulders. There’s no good answer.

“I bet it chews off one of its feet and gets away,” Jeremy says. “That thing is a survivor.”

“So bet, Jeremy,” Rahul says. “Put up.”

“I don’t have it on me,” says Jeremy, turning the front pockets of his pants inside out with an exaggerated gesture.

Rahul laughs. “I’ll cover you.”

The mocha burns my throat. I’m hating everything about this conversation. “If you need to collect, Sam’s going to be taking care of things for me.”

They stop their negotiation and look across the room at Sam. He’s sitting at the table in front of a pile of graph paper, painting a lead figurine. Next to him Jill Pearson-White rolls strange-sided dice and pumps her fist into the air.

“You trust him with our money?” Rahul asks.

“I trust him,” I say. “And you trust me.”

“You sure we can still trust you? That was some serious One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest–type behavior last night.” Jeremy’s new girlfriend is in drama club, and it shows in his movie references. “And now you’re going away for a while?”

Even with the coffee running in my veins and the long nap this afternoon, I’m tired. And I’m sick of explaining about the sleepwalking. No one believes me anyway. “That’s personal,” I say, and then tap the part of the envelope sticking out of my pocket. “This is professional.”

That night, lying in the dark and looking up at the ceiling, I’m not sure the sugar and caffeine I’ve gulped will be enough. There is no way they’ll ever let me back into Wallingford if I sleepwalk again, so I don’t want to risk dozing off. I can hear the dog outside the door, its toenails clicking across the wood planks of the hallway before it settles into a new spot with a soft thud.

I keep thinking about Philip. I keep thinking about how, unlike Barron, he hasn’t looked me in the eyes since I was fourteen. He never even lets me play with his son. Now I am going to have to stay in a house with him until I can figure my way back to school.

“Hey,” Sam says from the other bed. “You’re creeping me out, staring at the ceiling like that. You look dead. Unblinking.”

“I’m blinking.” I keep my voice low. “I don’t want to fall asleep.”

He rustles his covers, turning onto his side. “How come? You afraid you’re going to—”

“Yeah,” I say.