White Oleander

I shifted from leg to leg, the throb of my headache accompanying each heartbeat. If I breathed carefully, I could smell English flowers. The football announcer shouted excitedly from the house, and the cop's eyes flickered briefly in its direction. Then he remembered what he was supposed to be doing and they returned to me.

 

"This woman gave you alcohol?"

 

"No. Marvel and Ed had a big Christmas Eve party last night.

 

The eggnog was spiked." The sparkle of my sapphire, Officer Moody. See how it shimmers. Nothing up my sleeve. "They make you work on Christmas?"

 

"Triple overtime," he said. "I've got child support you wouldn't believe. So what did you do next door?"

 

"Listened to records, talked."

 

"And you spent the night?"

 

"Well, it was too noisy to sleep over here."

 

He pulled his fleshy earlobe. "You go over there a lot?"

 

I shrugged. "She's nice, but she's busy. She travels a lot."

 

"She ever introduce you to her friends?"

 

I shook my head, let my mouth go slack, a little moronic, as if I had no idea what he was getting at. You mean, did she ever set me up on a date with one of her Johns? Did she ever sell me to the BMW man on a cake platter like Pretty £afy? I wanted to laugh in his face.

 

"She ever talk to you about what she does for a living?" He said it quietly, stroking his brushy mustache.

 

"She's a caterer, I think." It came out of nowhere.

 

"What a bunch of crap!" Marvel called out from where she was talking to the other cop, her eyes narrowed in disgust.

 

I turned my back to the turquoise house so Marvel couldn't read my lips. "Marvel hates her because she's pretty and doesn't have any kids to worry about. She's always calling her names — nigger, whore. It's embarrassing, but what am I supposed to do, I'm just a foster kid. She does it to all the neighbors, ask anybody. Beaner this, Jew bitch that, everybody hates her." He probably said nigger and leaner too, this Officer Moody, pulling his red ear-lobes, but not where anybody would write it up.

 

They sent me inside, but I watched through the kitchen window as the Schutzstaffel went through Olivia's garden, knocked at her door. Five minutes later, they were back. I could hear Marvel screaming. "Aren't you going to arrest her?"

 

The patrol car slowly pulled away from the curb without Olivia Johnstone.

 

THINGS WENT back to normal for the rest of the Christmas break, except Marvel watched me like a shoplifter. No more "runs" to the market or library, no more "workouts." But she mostly stopped yelling at me, and was back to just telling me what to do and otherwise treating me like a slave. She left me alone to babysit on New Year's Eve, though she called four times to make sure I was there. I left messages on Olivia's machine, but she never picked up.

 

15

 

ON THE FIRST DAY back at school after winter break, I was given a yellow summons slip during third period. It led to a sour, overweight caseworker waiting in the office with the girls' vice principal. The vice principal told me to clear my locker out and leave my books at the front desk. She never once looked at my face. The new caseworker said she had my things in the car.

 

I twirled my combination and emptied the books from my locker. I was stunned, and somehow not. How like Marvel to do this while I was at school, without a word of warning. I was there and then I wasn't. I would never see any of them again, would never have the chance to tell Olivia good-bye.

 

The caseworker, Ms. Cardoza, scolded me all the way back into town, down the Ventura Freeway. "Mrs. Turlock told me everything. That you was doing drugs, running around. With little kids in the house. I'm taking you somewhere you'll learn to act right." She was an ugly young woman with a broad, rough-skinned face and a set look about the jowls. I didn't bother to argue with her. I would never speak to anyone ever again.

 

I thought of the lies Marvel would tell the kids, why I didn't come home. That I died, or ran off. But no, that wasn't Marvel, the Hallmark card woman, dyeing her hair behind closed doors. She would think up something completely the opposite, something you could paint on a Franklin Mint plate. That I went to live with my grandma on a farm, where we had ponies and ate ice cream all day.

 

Though it hurt me to admit it, I realized Olivia would probably be relieved. She'd miss me a little, but it wasn't her style to miss anyone much. Too many gold badges knocking on her door. She would rather worship sweaters. I wrapped my arms around my waist and slumped against the door. If I had had more energy I would have opened the car door and fallen out under the sixteen-wheeler driving next to us.

 

THE NEW HOME was in Hollywood, a big wooden Craftsman with a deep eaved porch, too nice for foster care. I wondered what the story was. Ms. Cardoza was excited, she kept opening and closing her handbag. A Latina girl with a long braid let us in, eyed me guardedly. Inside it was dark, the windows covered with heavy curtains. The woodwork gleamed halfway up the walls, smelling of lemon oil.