Tune It Out Read online

  It was the year I turned ten, and we lived down in Biloxi. We were hitting the casino circuit then. Mom had a job at a souvenir shop selling maps and T-shirts and gator-teeth necklaces. The tourist season was steady enough, even after the Katrina rebuild, that we could afford to stay at the Starlight, a pay-by-the-week motel just off the highway on a little strip of beach. I went to real school there too, all of fourth grade. Mom got me a Dora the Explorer backpack on discount from her work, and I ate a hot breakfast and lunch every day because the county paid. Biscuits and eggs and spaghetti and pizza and big, warm chocolate chip cookies. It was the longest I remember not being hungry.

  It was also when I realized something was wrong with me. “On the spectrum,” I heard my teacher, Mrs. Guidry, whisper to another teacher at recess when I freaked out when a kid tried to push me on the swings. I didn’t know what it meant. But when I asked Mom later, she got mad and didn’t answer. Then I handed her a note from Mrs. Guidry and the school counselor. They wanted me to be tested. But Mom barely looked at it before tearing it into teeny-tiny pieces. She yelled that she was going to go down to the school to give them a piece of her mind. But she never did. We hit the road the next day. That was the end of Biloxi.

  It was only later, after we’d moved, that I realized they’d meant autism. I’ve never been tested for it. Mom refused when they brought it up at school conferences. But I guess it didn’t matter. My teachers had already decided. They treated me different, and so I felt more different than ever. They were the grown-ups, so they must be right.

  Mom lived for the weekends in Biloxi, when we’d hit up the “karaoke for kids” nights at the Beau Rivage and Hard Rock and Treasure Bay—all the big casinos. I can still remember the air when you first walked in. It was blasting cold, like stepping into a giant refrigerator. I kept a fuzzy old sweatshirt in my backpack that Mom made me take off before I performed. She said it was cold because they pumped in extra oxygen so the gamblers would stay awake and keep spending money. I believe it.

  The karaoke nights, though, those were bad. The strobe lights were so bright they left lightning streaks on the back of my eyelids when I blinked. And the kids were mostly older than me, already eleven or twelve, and they danced and sang, and it was all hip-hop or rap. I actually like rap, the kind that sounds like poetry and doesn’t need instruments in the background to make you feel it in your bones. But Mom would pick Dolly Parton or a show tune from Grease, and I’d just stand there with my eyes closed and pull at the skin on my elbows while I sang. The only good thing about it was that no one really paid attention to what was happening onstage. Mom thought those karaoke nights would be our big break. She thought there’d be talent scouts. It took a whole year before she realized no one was looking for “the next big thing” in a karaoke club in Mississippi.

  But after every show, when we were back in our room at the Starlight, I would take a bath and curl up in my towel on the bed. Mom would comb my hair out with her fingers just like she’s doing now, and we’d watch something goofy on the television… old episodes of Andy Griffith or Charlie’s Angels.

  “Did you know I’m named after a Charlie’s Angel, baby girl?” she said one night.

  I sat up and twisted around in my towel so I could tell if she was joking or not, but she was looking at the screen.

  “That one.” She pointed to a woman with big blond hair and bell-bottom jeans. “Farrah Fawcett.”

  “Your name’s Jill.”

  “Jill’s her name on the show.” Mom stopped playing with my hair and curled her skinny arms around her knees.

  “Your grandma wanted a beauty queen for a daughter.”

  Mom could have been a beauty queen if she’d wanted. She’s the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen—even more than the casino girls in their feathers and sequins. But she never talked about my grandparents. All I knew was they’d kicked her out when she got pregnant with me at seventeen. “Hard to kick someone out of a double-wide I never wanted to be in in the first place,” she’d say any time I brought them up. I learned not to ask. But I still tried to picture them, Ronald and Leslie Montgomery of middle-of-nowhere Arkansas. They’re just blurred faces, though, all distorted like in a funhouse mirror. I guess that’s pretty much what Mom sees too.

  * * *

  I feel Mom’s hand still on my head and I sit up. I miss Biloxi. Not the casinos with their jangling noises and bright lights and carpet that smelled like beer and cigarette ash, but I miss the school with its steady meals and the Starlight with a clean bed and a bath.

  Maybe Mom’s right. Maybe this will be different. Maybe I won’t freak out like I did in front of Christy’s restaurant when the crowd got too close, pushing me in on all sides. I can still feel the way the gravel dug into my knees after I screamed and dropped to the ground. I can still hear their voices:

  “Is she okay?”

  “What happened?”

  “I just touched her. That’s it. And she… screamed.”

  “Drugs, you think?”

  “Too young.”

  “No such thing as too young.”

  “That’s a little cynical.”

  “Well, whatever it is, someone needs to do something about that mother.”

  And above it all, Mom yelling, “Get your hands off my daughter!”

  I shake my head. Maybe Howie and Maggie will like me so much they’ll offer me a job, and I can sit in a dark, quiet studio and make some music and some money, and it’ll be better for both of us. I’ll turn into the star, and the fighter, Mom thinks I already am.

  2 I’m On My Way

  We’re meeting with the Mazes on Friday. It’s Wednesday afternoon. That’s about a million too many minutes to kill. There’s not much to pack up when you live in a truck, and we’re leaving first thing in the morning after Mom gets off late at the diner. She’s been pulling double shifts for the last week. We’ll need every cent for gas money and a place to stay. I don’t think there are many campsites in the woods in LA.

  As I’m walking up the hill, I wish I had more than this sweatshirt on. It’s cold today. The clouds are lumps of heavy ash waiting to drop. I can smell the coffee and something cinnamony up at Joe’s, though, so I keep going. I want to say good-bye to him, but it’s against the rules. Mom said we can’t let anyone know we’re leaving town, so we don’t get too many questions about how we can just pick up and leave so fast. But that doesn’t mean I can’t see him. I’m saying hello, not good-bye.

  When I walk in, Joe leans on the counter with a dish towel over his shoulder like a bartender. “No school today?”

  Oh. I’d been so focused on not breaking the “good-bye rule” that I forgot I’m technically supposed to be in school. But after Mrs. Guidry in Biloxi, Mom decided I’d never go back. She said, “Life’s too short to get hung up on your weak spots, baby. Let’s focus on your talents.” And that was that.

  “No, uh, out sick. Nothing contagious, just, uh, the throat, you know?” I manage a tiny cough.

  “Well, we’ve got to protect that voice. How about some tea?”

  I nod and sit at a stool at the far end of the counter where no one can bump against me. I just really don’t like being touched. Sometimes not even by Mom. I never have. Loud noises, too—those are bad, maybe worse. I’ve never seen a fireworks show in my life. Well, that’s not entirely true. When I was four, I saw about thirty seconds of one from a rooftop of a crummy apartment building in Conway, Arkansas, but that’s all it took. Cue the screams, the hair pulling, the biting. Yeah, I used to bite—myself, not other people, although I’m not sure that’s better.

  Luckily, I’ve outgrown a few of my worst “quirks,” as Mom likes to call them. Which means today, when Joe passes me the tea, I do not flinch when our fingers accidentally touch (even though I want to). Instead, I stick my face over the steam and let it thaw. My nose is beginning to run by the time he gets back with a honeypot so small it looks like it came from a toy tea set. I’m going to miss that honeypot, I thi
nk, and my throat closes up. If Joe catches me crying, he’s going to think I’m a nutcase.

  “Here, you.” He passes me a napkin to wipe my nose, which is embarrassing, but I do it anyway. I sip my tea and watch Joe hand a lady her change at the register. He has kind eyes. But Howie has kind eyes too. Maybe it will be okay. And if Mom keeps her promise, LA isn’t forever. We’ll be back.

  “Everything all right, Lou?”

  “Yeah, just, you know, under the weather.” I pull the cuffs of my sweatshirt down around my hands and stare into my cup. There was a woman in Biloxi, Miss Margie, who used to read tea leaves. She’d dump them out and stir them around with her finger and then tell you whether you’d meet the love of your life, or if a big change was coming, or if you should buy that alligator purse on sale. I wonder what she’d say if I passed her this cup right now?

  Joe starts wiping the counter right in front of me. It’s perfectly clean. He wants to talk. That can’t happen. I take one last swig of tea and hop down from my stool.

  “Well, you take care of yourself, okay?” he says. “And tell your mom to stop by and we’ll get you booked for another show. The winter tourist season will be picking up soon.”

  “Okay.” I dig a bunch of change from my pocket and hold it up. “Here.” I hope it’s enough.

  “Uh-uh.” He waves it off. “On the house. Now get on home before it gets any later. Weather Four said there’s some snow blowing in.”

  “Thanks. I will.” I walk to the door. I keep my promise to Mom. I don’t say good-bye. But I let myself look around for a second to memorize this place and Joe, just in case.

  By the time I get back to the truck, I’m freezing again, and there are little flecks in the air, not really snow, just tiny whispers of it, like dust the wind kicks up. I climb into the back and turn on the portable heater before crawling into my sleeping bag fully clothed. I eat a package of Cheetos and drink some water. But the wind is blowing so hard off the lake, it’s making the truck canopy creak and grind, and I can’t settle. I try reading my old dog-eared copy of The Hunger Games, but it’s getting dark, and I don’t want to turn on a light in case it draws attention. Finally, I zip my sleeping bag all the way up and bury my head and try to sleep.

  I’m dreaming of a farm, one we visited once in Kentucky. I’m little, four or five maybe, and wading through a sea of strawberries. The ground is soft, like sand. When it collapses under my sandals, I drop my bucket. The berries go rolling. I cry. Mom swoops in to hand me one. It’s perfect, red all the way around and warm from the sun. The juice runs down my chin and onto my T-shirt, and we laugh, sitting in the dirt in the middle of the Kentucky heat.

  The buzzing sneaks up on me until it’s so loud, I jerk upright. It’s the alarm. 11:48 p.m. I’m late.

  Mom’s about to get off her shift. The heater’s gone off, and I’m freezing in the pitch black. I can see my breath in the air, like I’m a ghost. I throw the suede jacket over my sweatshirt and pop the tailgate. The world is white. The storm came while I was sleeping.

  I hop down, careful not to slip, and my feet crunch in the snow. In this light, it sparkles. I shiver and wipe my nose and let the glow of the moonlight on the water and the snow light my way to the truck’s cab. I climb in the driver’s-side door, grab the keys, and start the engine. I find an old towel on the floorboard and use it to wipe the snow from the windshield as best I can. I’m due to pick Mom up in fifteen minutes.

  We talked it all out ahead of time. With the double shifts and no bus service, I have to be the one to pick her up. It’s no big deal, only a few miles down the road. I’ve been driving since I was ten. I just have to be careful not to get spotted. Though I’ve never driven in snow. My insides curl up like dead leaves on a tree, but we leave for LA in six hours. Mom’s counting on me.

  Once the windshield’s mostly clear, I get back in, adjust the seat, and check my mirrors, just like Mom taught me. It’s a pretty straightforward drive to the diner. Just head out of the campsite and make a right on Grove Street and follow it all the way there. But the snow’s so new and it’s so late that when I pull out onto the road, I can’t even see the double yellow lines.

  My hands are shaking. I’m going maybe ten miles an hour. I’m afraid to go faster. I turn on the radio to help me concentrate. It’s an Ed Sheeran song, “Castle on the Hill,” an old favorite, and it’s about driving, so it feels appropriate. Come on, Ed, sing me there safely.

  It feels like I’ve been driving forever. My knuckles are white on the wheel, and my whole body’s starting to ache from the tension. This isn’t like driving on back roads on a summer day. There’s a delay between when I move the wheel and when the truck follows, like I’m steering a boat. But I’m so close I can see the halo of the streetlight above the diner. It’s the finish line. I let out the breath I’ve been holding and hit the gas just a little harder. I don’t see it until it’s too late. It’s a shadow in the dark, and then it’s antlers and hooves, a deer ambling across the road—

  I slam on the brakes and pull hard on the steering wheel.

  The world goes spinning.

  My head bangs against the window.

  I cry out and cover my face from whatever comes next.

  * * *

  I can hear the engine ticking like a bomb. I look up, but everything’s fuzzy and backward. I’m facing the wrong direction. I’ve spun off the street into the opposite ditch. I try the engine. It whirs but won’t start. In the glare of the headlights, I can see the wobbly S my tires traced across the road. I can’t find the deer. Maybe it made it? I hope so. Man, my head hurts. The radio’s still playing.

  What time is it? I’ve got to get to Mom. My head feels like a book someone’s wedged too tight on the shelf. I can’t get my seat belt off. My hands are shaking too badly. After a thousand years, or maybe a few seconds, I find the buckle and click it. That’s when I see the blue lights flashing in the rearview mirror.

  I wait.

  And watch the cop grow larger in the mirror.

  “Ma’am,” he says, and raps the window with his knuckles. I jump. It’s too loud in my ear, which is resting against the glass. The beam from his flashlight is too bright. There are two halos dancing instead of one. That can’t be normal. He opens the door and I fall out. I’d forgotten about the seat belt.

  “Ma’am?” he says again, this time like he’s not sure, because now he sees I’m just a kid. “I’m Officer Ramos, and I’m here to help you. Can you tell me your name? How old you are? Where are your parents?” It’s too many questions, and he’s bent over me like a monster in a nightmare. Any second he’s going to get too close. I can’t make my mouth work. And then I hear her.

  “Louise! Louise!”

  I squint into the darkness and see Mom running toward me in her waitress uniform. Her hair’s falling out of her ponytail. I cry out in relief.

  “Mom. Your c-c-c-coat?” I’m shaking too hard to get it to come out right. The officer tries to give me his jacket, but I back up against the open door of the truck. He doesn’t understand. She’s the one that needs a coat. Not me. My head is pounding. Please don’t let him touch me. He puts a hand out to stop Mom from getting any closer when she reaches us, and then he picks up a walkie-talkie attached to his shoulder. “Dispatch, I need an ambulance to the corner of Grove and Vista Place.” He pauses and looks from me to Mom. “And call CPS. We need someone to meet us at the hospital.”

  “What’s going on?” Mom is literally jumping in place. I want to tell her it’s okay. I’m okay. We can still make it out in time. Why won’t my mouth work?

  “Ma’am, is this your daughter?”

  “What? Yes. Yes, she’s mine.” She darts around him to get closer to me and puts a hand on my face. It’s warm and I lean into it.

  “I’m going to have to ask you to step away.” Officer Ramos takes Mom by the shoulder, and she spins to face him like a cat, stiff and mean. Her hand is gone from my face too fast. I miss it.

  “Don’t you tell
me to step away from my daughter. This is my baby girl.”

  I want to tell her to calm down. Not to make it worse. But there’s a pulsing in my head that’s thumping harder and harder. It’s started to snow again.

  “Ma’am, an ambulance is on the way. Your daughter’s been in an accident. We all need to work together now to make sure she’s okay.” I can’t see his face, but I get his tone. It’s flat. He’s already decided what kind of mother she is. I struggle to sit up. I hear sirens.

  “It’s not her fault,” I say, but it’s more a croak than actual words and not loud enough. “I was coming to pick her up.”

  He looks at me, eyebrows raised. “You were coming to pick her up?” Emphasis on “you.”

  “Honey, don’t say anything else.” Mom moves so she’s between me and Officer Ramos. “We’ll work this out.”

  “I need you to come with me, ma’am. We’ll all be going down to the hospital together.” He puts his hand out, offering to help her navigate the slippery snow. But she walks straight into it and glares at his fingers on her arm.

  “Do not touch me.” She’s itching for a fight.

  “Ma’am, you are clearly agitated.” Now he moves so he’s between the two of us. I can’t even see her over his shoulder. No! “We’re going to take care of your daughter, but you’re going to have to calm down.”

  “Like hell I will.” She’s up in his face now, pushing at his chest and hitting at his shoulders.

  “Mom, no! No!” I grab the truck door and pull up to stand.

  The world sways. A spinning top. And me on top of it. I stumble forward and fall to my knees. And then there are hands on me that are not my mother’s. I scream. The sirens scream. Everything flashes red, white, red, white. And then it fades to black.

  3 Law and Order

  Can you tell me your name?” A woman leans over me with a penlight. It’s too bright, like staring into the sun. I don’t usually mind lights. But this is sudden and terrible. I flinch and turn my head, which makes the room spin. Her sleeve brushes up against my arm. I want her to go away.