“I said don’t call me that. Leave now.” The streetlight shining outside my window reveals his unfocused eyes. He crawls across the bed, closer to where I stand, trembling.

  “Get back on the bed. Unless you like the floor, you dog.” His lips are an invisible line.

  “Shut up!” I scream at the top of my lungs. I don’t know why I expect anyone to come. “If you don’t leave right now, I’m going to call the police.”

  “My cousin is one of the officers. They’re not going to believe you. Plus, why the hell would I try to fuck a fat chick? Get in the bed. If you don’t, I’ll make you.” Very slowly, I’ve rounded to the side of my room with my closet and sewing materials. I didn’t put them away the other day, and my scissors are resting right on top of my thread box. Caleb follows closely. His proximity makes terror pulse inside of me.

  He reaches for me and brushes my breast. I back away, but he’s quick and clutches my arms. As he gets close enough to put his lips on mine, I grab the scissors and put them between us. In the dim light, the metal gleams menacingly.

  “I said to leave now,” I say through gritted teeth.

  He backs away, his arms up in surrender. “You wouldn’t really, Sugar.” He wears a mixture of fear and defiance as the dim streetlight shines across his face. Then, in a blink, he’s dark again. My door opens, the hall light shines brightly for a moment, and then it closes, leaving me alone in the dim room.

  Caleb clods downstairs.

  I sit on the edge of my bed, shaking. I’m not sure what to do. I can’t sleep here with the scissors under my pillow again. It’s not safe. The numbers on the digital clock creep by. No one comes for me.

  I put all my sewing materials in their bin and neatly fold all of the dresses I’ve made and place them on top, but I keep the scissors handy. I shove all my schoolbooks in my backpack and then take a bag and fill it with clothing. My fingers tremble as I put Even’s journal, his mom’s ashes, and the pillowcase in my shoulder bag. I make sure I have my phone and keys.

  I stand on the inside of my door and listen. Hooting comes from the back of the house, telling me Skunk and his friends are still out there. The hint of wood smoke in the air suggests they have started a bonfire. A firecracker booms and then a dog barks in the distance. I wonder if anyone is still in the house. Do I dare go downstairs? Should I wait until morning? What about Mama? I sink to the floor. I glance around my room. So many memories of these four walls, the shabby paint, and the threadbare rug. I take a breath. No, I have to leave. I have to risk it.

  I can’t stay here with Caleb lurking around, with Skunk and his nasty friends partying nearly every night, and Mama. What about Mama?

  She’ll have to let a nurse come. She will just have to. I stand up, turn the doorknob, and exit into the hall with my bags in hand. I slip down the stairs to the living room. My heart pounds in my chest. Through the smudged sliding glass doors, the silhouettes of heads darken against the blazing fire. My quickened pulse rushes in my ears. I go through the hall and pause near Mama’s door. It’s quiet.

  No, I have to put one foot in front of the other.

  I continue to the kitchen. Behind me, I close the front door. I draw a breath. I let the cool air inflate my lungs. I rush to the car, toss my stuff in the back, and escape into the night.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  I drive away from the house without looking back. I don’t know where to go. My stomach churns about leaving Mama. I find myself in front of the twenty-four-hour Dunkin’ Donuts attached to a gas station near the edge of town. I order a mixed dozen plus a Coolatta, anything to quench the searing fear that slices through me every time I think about what I’m doing.

  In the nearly empty parking lot, I chew a jelly-filled donut. I worry that I’ve done the wrong thing. I lick the powder off my fingers from a Boston Kreme. Then there’s Skunk; what will he do to the house? I let the glaze on a chocolate donut melt in my mouth. But what about Caleb? I fear the worst about what he might do next. I lick the cream out of an éclair. Where will I stay? I can’t very well sleep in my car. I eat a pillowy glazed donut, conflicted about school.

  A man in a flannel shirt fills the tank of his Dodge in the yellow light of the gas station. I slurp my drink. I think about the motorcycle. I’ll have to go back for it at some point, but a big part of me never wants to return. A part of me feels like I’m on the back of the Harley, the wind in my hair, almost free.

  The door to the convenience store opens, and a group of kids from school with the midnight munchies walks out. I slump in my seat so they don’t see me. I’m still shaking, but not only from flight; the donuts and Coolatta have given me the jitters. I close the box and put it on the backseat. What am I doing? Where am I supposed to go? Less than a month left at school until summer break. I’m eighteen, so I can get my own apartment and finish senior year. Where? With what? How will I support myself? I’ve saved money over the last three summers, but that won’t get me far.

  I start the Honda and drive, hoping movement will clear my head. Back in town, I pass the church. I double back and park in the lot. Resting my cheek on the headrest, I gaze up at the building. I wonder if they lock it.

  The side door pulls open easily. It’s pitch-black, so I use my cell phone to illuminate the square foot in front of me before settling into my usual pew. When I get on my knees, I’m not sure where the room, immense in the darkness, begins or ends. It is a bit disorienting. It doesn’t matter, because when I close my eyes and bring my hands together, I may as well be in the cavern of my own heart.

  I pray.

  I call upon God, Boo, and Granddad. I ask what I should do. Then I listen. Even laughs, warmly, like breath warming my hands, like a whisper of a memory, like seagulls and the rumble of a motorcycle. It’s like sunshine and water lapping my toes. Then everything gets brighter; the light within me fills in the dark corners and forgotten crevices. I see myself smiling by the glow of this light. I feel peace.

  I slide back on the wooden pew. I take a deep breath and then I remember Henry telling me if I ever want to leave, I can stay with him. I’ve never been to his apartment, but have a vague idea of where it is in Keene near the university.

  I have school the next day. Afterward, I’ll call him and see if it’s OK for me to go there. It’ll be a long commute each morning, but it’s only until school is over, and then maybe I’ll leave for good. I recline on the pew; lie on my side, pulling my sweatshirt close around me; and drift to sleep.

  When I wake up in the morning, I’m staring at Jesús. Not his holiness, but Jesús, the man who cleans and tends to the church.

  “Buenos días,” he says.

  “Hi,” I say, my voice rough from sleep.

  “¿Español?”

  “Un poco.” I tell him. A little. My grades in Spanish are fair, but I’m certainly not fluent. I’m positive he speaks English, at least un poco.

  He sighs and says, “Qué pena.”

  I wonder why he thinks that’s a shame.

  “Are you hungry?” he asks, in accented English.

  I remember the donut binge and guilt crushes me.

  He beckons me to follow him.

  I ache from sleeping on the narrow pew and stretch before catching up to Jesús.

  We walk downstairs to the recreation room and then through a hall into what looks like an efficiency apartment. I wonder if there are more like this and if Father Caplin rents rooms to the needy—now, that being me.

  “Come in. Siéntese, por favor.” Jesús tells me to sit, offering me a chair at a little round table against the wall, and goes to the counter. He works with his back to me, and after a few moments, the smell of coffee perks me up. He brings me a cup filled to the brim and, on a plate in his other hand, he holds a tortilla spread with beans and cheese.

  “Breakfast,” he says. “You like?”

  I nod.

  Jesús’s bed is in the corner, neatly made; above it hangs a wooden cross. Also in the sparse room is a bureau topped with several candles bearing the image of Mary. A pair of dress shoes and a pair of boots are lined up underneath.

  I roll up the tortilla and take a bite. It’s simple, but filled with flavor that satisfies my taste buds in a way that the donuts the night before didn’t. He is silent while I eat. We avoid each other’s eyes, or rather, I avoid his, but I sense that he watches me intently. I try to ignore it. I wipe my mouth and then take a sip of the coffee.

  “Por favor, why were you sleeping upstairs?” Our eyes meet. His are somehow familiar. I’ve seen him at church every week for my entire life, but there’s a flash of recognition and then it’s gone. I blink. I’m not sure how to answer, and I don’t know if I should. Maybe if I say the right thing, I’ll avoid getting in trouble. I’m guessing sleeping in the church is frowned upon.

  “I had to leave home,” I say, carefully arranging my napkin.

  “Why? Trouble?”

  It takes me a moment to understand what he said, because of the way he blends the letters together. Then I nod.

  He looks sympathetic. “We all have that from time to time. I see you here every week. I know you are a good girl.” We are quiet for a minute. He must know that it wasn’t me who caused the trouble. “You came to the right place, but now, where will you go?”

  “For starters, school. Then I will stay with my brother.”

  “Enrique?” he asks, lighting up.

  “Henry,” I say, correcting him. He never goes by his real name, preferring the English version.

  “I see him here sometimes, too.”

  I’m surprised he knows who my brother is. “He started going to the church near where he lives in Keene.”

  “Oh good. He is well?”

  I nod. “He’s engaged to be married.”

  Jesús beams. “Bueno.”

  “Yes, bueno.”

  “You have another brother. How’s he?”

  I don’t know how to answer this or why Jesús cares; perhaps he’s just trying to fill the silence. I shrug. “He’s Skunk, I guess.”

  “Skunk? I do not know what this means.” Jesús looks perplexed.

  Skunk hasn’t been to church since he was still in the single digits.

  “Ernesto. Skunk is his nickname. He’s just . . . difficult.”

  “I see.”

  But I doubt he does. I say, “I should probably be going—school.”

  “Would you like to clean? Shower?”

  I actually would, though this seems like a strange thing to do here.

  “It’s OK. I go and wash floors upstairs. You shower there.” He points to a door.

  “Thank you.”

  “De nada.” He exits.

  I find Jesús’s tidy bathroom and quickly rinse off yesterday’s indignities and put my clothes back on. I’m already a target for insults whether I’m skinny or fat, so wearing slept-in clothes won’t really make much of difference, though I could change into something clean from the bag in my car once I get to school. I use my fingers to untangle my hair. I’d like to brush my teeth, but feel weird about using Jesús’s toothpaste. The floor above creaks with footsteps. I quickly squeeze out some of the paste onto my finger and run it over my teeth.

  I take one last look in the mirror. My eyes reflect clearly back. For a second I think I see Jesús’s eyes, too—a ring of coffee-brown, and an even darker hue in the center. I shiver and open the bathroom door. Blocking the doorway back upstairs and shifting nervously, Jesús holds his clasped hands together, as if in prayer.

  “Thank you. I feel much better,” I stutter.

  “Yes. Good.” He bobs his head up and down.

  I thank him for the breakfast and edge toward the door.

  “Sí, Mercy Bella, I have something I’d like to tell you.” He takes a deep breath and walks over to his bureau.

  I’m suddenly nervous and consider bolting. What if he’s crazy or tries something like Caleb did? No one knows where I am. I doubt anyone would hear me scream. Then I think about the night before and how no one would come anyway. No one cares. I break into a cold sweat.

  Jesús turns back to me and holds an envelope in his hands. “Please sit down. For one more minute.” He studies me. “Your hair. Beautiful hair.”

  I think it’s rather limp and disheveled since I only brushed it with my fingers, plus it is still damp. I put my hand up to it and instantly think of Even. He liked my hair, my smile . . . “Uh. Thanks.” Jesús stares at me. My stomach does a turn. I should leave. This is getting weird.

  “I have this to give to you. Por favor, lo abres,” he says, handing me an envelope and urging me to open it.

  I take it and hesitantly lift the flap. I pull out a small stack of photos and a letter. I look at the pictures. There is one of a man holding a baby and smiling the widest smile I’ve ever seen. I can practically count his teeth. I put it at the bottom of the pile, and there’s another, this time just of the baby, dark hair and eyes wide. The next one is of a little girl wearing a dress, still wobbly on her feet, and the last is this same girl sitting on the front of a motorcycle, the man holding her tightly and smiling over her shoulder. Tears spring to my eyes.

  I recognize the man and the motorcycle. I take a photo out of my pocket and hold it up to the one in my hand.

  “¿Comprendes?” Jesús asks.

  “Yes, I think I do.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Time speeds up as it nears the hour I have to be in homeroom, but I have questions and so many blank spaces to fill in. Jesús’s smile radiates warmth as I continue to study the photos.

  “Yes, that is your papá, Juan. I am his brother. Jesús.”

  I almost choke on my second cup of coffee when he says this. It’s one thing to think a life-altering thought; it’s another thing entirely to hear it confirmed.

  “His brother.”

  “Yes,” he says, grinning. “First we went to Puerto Rico from Mexico to work when we were your age. Then we came here. He met your mother shortly after. Fiery passion.”

  I cringe.

  “They marry before she have the baby. Then trouble, as you say. After Ernesto was born. Juan thinks everything is going to be OK. But Silvia, tu Mamá, doesn’t want him anymore. She sends him away very angry.”

  I wonder whether he means my father or Mama was angry. I want to say something so he sees that Mama is a complicated woman, not so much as an apology, but so he understands, though I’m not even sure I do.

  “She—”

  He shakes his head. “I’m very sorry, mi sobrina. Ella es una perra.”

  I think he means Mama is a dog, but the way he says it suggests something worse.

  “Lo siento. She is not good woman. She reported him to the authorities for something he didn’t do, and they send him back. He tried to get back to the States, to you and your brothers. He wrote letters every week but could not get here. He stayed in Mexico with our mother, who was sick. You have hair just like her.” He’s quiet a moment. “She’s gone now, but he stayed there, hoping someday to return,” Jesús says, looking sad. I don’t know what to make of this.

  “Your papá speaks very good English, better than me. But he wrote that letter en español.” He points to my hand. “Maybe you try to read? He wanted to come back to you, but when he couldn’t, and it was obvious tu mamá would not let him, he write this. I want to give it to you long ago, but no. I’m afraid la perra will bite.”

  “Me, too,” I whisper, fighting back tears. I turn the letter over in my hands.

  “Gracias, Jesús,” I say, when I’ve regained my composure. He has a generous smile. I realize it’s not only his eyes that mine resemble, but his smile, too, generous, open, and warm. When I look again at the photographs in my hand, I see that these traits are from my papa. That must have been what Even saw. “I should go. School.”

  “You come back. Visit? I tell you stories about your papá.”

  I nod.

  “And you read that letter, sí?”

  “Yes, I will. I’ll read it.” I am out the door.

  “Mercy,” he calls after me and trots to catch up. “Por favor, no dices nada a la perra.”

  I don’t intend to go back home or talk to Mama again, at least not for a long time. “I promise.”

  I rush to school and slide into my seat just as the bell rings. Mr. Hammons doesn’t give me the look I’m expecting. I exhale with relief.

  I can hardly concentrate with the envelope burning in my pocket; I feel the heat right to my core. During my free period, I take out the letter, but then put it away. I don’t want to cry at school and give anyone more reason to pick on me, but I’m dying to know what it says.

  The large circular clock seems to have paused as it painstakingly ticks its way to the final bell. I rush to my locker, get everything I need for my homework assignments, including my Spanish dictionary, and then burst outside. I pass the low wall where I used to wait for Even; my jaw trembles. I press my lips together to stop the tears and then walk to the parking lot. When I get to my car, my mouth drops open.

  Donuts cover it. Chocolate and glaze melts all over the hood and a chocolate frosted with sprinkles slides slowly down the window. More sprinkles confetti the roof and trunk, along with every kind of donut imaginable: cake, blueberry, glazed, jelly. There are creams and puffs and rolls, sticks and even donut holes dotting the Honda. I peer through the window. My Dunkin’ Donuts box from the night before still rests on the backseat. I pull out my phone and take photos from all angles.

  I pluck the donuts from the windshield and then get in. The Honda smells like a bakery, but not in a good way. I’m disgusted, but more angry than sad. Someone must have seen me in the parking lot last night pigging out and then went and spent a small fortune on donuts and a good chunk of time defiling my car. For what? Just to have a laugh? Can they see me now? Maybe it was Skunk and Caleb? Or that group that I saw seeking out late-night munchies?