"Mrs. Calhoun, I'm Stephanie Barnes," the woman said. She was in her midtwenties, the same build as Mama, but shorter. She seemed nervous. "I'm here with Steven Fry from the Oklahoma Department of Human Services and Officer Culpepper from the Oak Creek Police Department. We've come to transfer Catherine to a safe environment until we can get some further information on what she's shared with her counselor at school today."
"Where are you taking her?" Mama pleaded, holding my coat with both fists. The panic and fear in her voice were heartbreaking.
The police officer stepped between us. "Mrs. Calhoun, we have a court order. You're going to need to step back and let Mr. Fry and Miss Barnes do their jobs."
"Mama, do as he says," I said, letting them pull me away from her. "Be sure to eat. There's bread, peanut butter, and jelly for Poppy."
"Catherine!" Mama called, staying behind with the officer and Miss Barnes.
"Hey! Wait!" Elliott said, pushing his way through the front door. Mr. Fry pulled me with him off the porch and over the uneven sidewalk.
Mr. Fry paused at the gate and held out his arm to keep Elliott away, but I pressed it down.
"It's okay," I said. "He's a friend."
"Where are you going?" Elliott said, panicked. "Are you leaving Oak Creek?"
"To Mrs. Mason's. I'm going to stay with her for a while."
"Really?" he asked, relieved. "Is that . . . is that okay?"
I shrugged one shoulder. "It was necessary."
He wrinkled his nose. "Catherine, you didn't do all this for . . ." He looked down at the envelope in his hand.
"Yes," I said. "And I'd do it again."
Mr. Fry gestured for me to follow him to the van, and I did, looking over my shoulder once.
Elliott jogged over, stopping just short of the gate. "Can I come see you?"
"Yes," I said, climbing into the back seat.
"You said Mrs. Mason's house?" he asked.
I nodded.
Mr. Fry closed the door and rounded the front to the driver's side. He slid behind the wheel and met my gaze in the rearview mirror. "Everything's going to be okay, Catherine."
Miss Barnes passed Elliott as she pushed through the gate. She opened the passenger door and sat in the seat, buckling her seat belt.
She turned to face me with a warm smile. "You have everything?" she asked.
I nodded. "Is Mama okay?"
"She's going to stay with Officer Culpepper until she calms down. Buckle up, please, Catherine."
I waved to Elliott, watching him get smaller as we drove down Juniper Street to the other side of town.
I wondered if I would ever feel like I hadn't just betrayed my family, if it would be enough to know that my absence would mean the end of the Juniper and the darkness inside. I worried Mama would stop being sad and hate me, but I worried more that Althea and Poppy would feel I'd turned my back on them. More than anyone, I wanted them to understand my choice.
Mr. Fry parked the van in the driveway of Mrs. Mason's charming Craftsman-style home. The wraparound porch reminded me a bit of the Juniper, but that was the only similarity. The warmth from inside radiated from its large windows, even on a frigid winter's day. The outside was welcoming, with muted green shingle siding and white trim, greenery and multicolored lights climbing the porch beams, and a Christmas wreath hanging from the door.
The shallow pitch of the gable roof made it seem less looming than the Juniper and more like a cozy home.
Mrs. Mason stepped out from under her porch light, wrapped in a sweater and wearing a smile that didn't hide her nerves or relief.
Miss Barnes walked with me to the porch, carrying one bag.
"Hey," Mrs. Mason said, touching my cheek. She stepped to the side, allowing Miss Barnes and me to enter.
I used the toe of each boot to pull off the other, leaving them on the hardwood floor and stepping onto the plush, beige carpet of her living room in my socks. Mrs. Mason took my coat, hanging it in the front closet before escorting us through a wide entrance that led into the living room.
An artificial Christmas tree stretched to the nine-foot ceiling, leaving only a few centimeters above the glass-angel topper's head. The branches were adorned with red and green ornaments, some homemade. White lights glistened behind the synthetic needles, and a red-and-green skirt covered the tree stand, two dozen or so presents already under the tree.
"Have a seat," Mrs. Mason said, gesturing to her couch. It was a taupe microfiber sectional, with floral and solid teal throw pillows--so immaculate, I hesitated.
"Oh, don't be silly," Mrs. Mason said, sitting in a leather rocking recliner. "I have a niece and nephew covered in ice cream who climb all over it every Sunday. That's why I went with the microfiber."
Miss Barnes sat, so I sat next to her.
"How did it go?" Mrs. Mason asked, peeling off her sweater.
"Mavis was understandably upset, but it went better than expected. The room is ready?"
"It is," she said with a relieved smile.
"I know you had to scramble to get things ready," Miss Barnes began.
"Don't we always?" Mrs. Mason asked.
"Oh, I didn't know you were a regular foster parent, Mrs. Mason," I said.
"I'm not. I mean, not until now. Miss Barnes and I just work together frequently. And I'm just Becca here," she said, twisting her chestnut hair into a bun and then pulling the ends through into a knot.
I'd never seen her in lounge clothes. She looked much younger in her heather-gray cotton pants and faded navy-blue University of Central Oklahoma sweatshirt.
Miss Barnes gestured to the room. "Is this okay?"
I blinked, surprised by her question. I'd left a cold, rickety, nineteenth-century Victorian for a warm, immaculate, cottagelike home. "Uh, yes. It's great."
Mrs. Mason and Miss Barnes shared a chuckle, and then the social worker stood. "Okay, then. I'll leave you two to it."
"Thank you," Mrs. Mason said, hugging Miss Barnes. The door closed, and then Mrs. Mason clasped her hands together.
"Is it um . . . is it just us?" I asked.
It took a moment for my question to register, and then she nodded once. "Yep. Yes. Just us. Would you like to see your room?"
I nodded, gathering my things, and then followed her down the hallway.
"Guest bath straight ahead. I'm to the right at the end of the hall." She pointed. "You're to the left at the end of the hall. You have your own bathroom."
Mrs. Mason flipped the light on to reveal a full-size bed, a wooden dresser, and a desk. An open door led to a small bathroom. Everything seemed so bright and new. The walls were a dusty purple trimmed with white, the carpet a light gray. Instead of heavy, blackout curtains that hung from dark iron, sheer panels outlined the window.
"How long have you lived here?" I asked.
She scanned the room, pride in her eyes. "Seven years, three months, two days." She smiled at me. "But who's counting?"
"Did you remodel? Everything looks so new."
She nodded, taking one of my bags to the bed and setting it on the purple-and-gray plaid quilt. "We did." The rest of her answer lingered in the air, unsaid. The doorbell chimed, and Mrs. Mason's eyes brightened. "Oh! That's the pizza! C'mon!"
I followed her to the living room, watched her tip the delivery boy, thank him by name, and then carry two boxes to the kitchen.
We padded to the dining table, and I watched as Mrs. Mason opened the boxes, breathing in the amazing smells of grease and spices just as I did.
"Plates!" she said, jogging to the kitchen. "Here you are." She set one in front of me, pulling out a slice and taking a bite while encouraging me with her free hand to sit across from her. "Oh God. I'm sorry. I'm starving."
I looked over my choices. One pizza was half-cheese, half-pepperoni. The other was half-supreme, half-sausage.
"I didn't know what you liked," she said, chewing. "I guessed."
I took a slice of each, piled them on my plate, and looked up
at Mrs. Mason.
"Attagirl," she said.
I bit the tip off the pepperoni slice first, humming as the melted cheese overwhelmed my senses. I hadn't had delivery pizza in years. My eyes closed, and my body instantly relaxed. "That's good," I said.
Mrs. Mason nodded, giggled, and took another slice.
My enjoyment didn't last long, as the thought of Mama eating alone--if she was eating at all--infiltrated my mind. Suddenly the pizza tasted like guilt instead of satisfaction.
"It's okay, Catherine. You're allowed to feel whatever you're feeling. It's normal."
I looked down. "It's normal to feel trapped even when you're free?"
She dabbed her mouth with a napkin. "It's part of the process. It takes people years to navigate something like this. The guilt, the uncertainty, regret . . . the loss. But it's okay. Try to live in the right now and take it one second at a time. And in this second, you're allowed to enjoy your pizza and feel relaxed here with me. Being happy away from the Juniper doesn't mean you love your mother any less."
I took another bite, trying to digest her words as I did my food. "It's hard to relax. My mind is still going through lists of things that need to be done before the morning."
"Also normal. Be patient with yourself. Be patient with the process."
I glanced over my shoulder at the Christmas tree glistening in the living room. "That's pretty."
"Did you have a tree at home?"
I shook my head. "Not since Dad died. He use to do all that. Put up the tree and the lights. They never really looked right on the Juniper anyway. But I like to look out my window at the neighbors'."
Mrs. Mason checked her watch. "Well, you're in for a treat." She whispered a countdown and then pointed to the ceiling. The lights outside flashed on, and two blobs in the front yard began to inflate. Seconds later, a huge, glowing snowman and Santa Claus were standing upright on the lawn, swaying in the wind.
"Wow," I said flatly.
Mrs. Mason clapped and giggled. "I know, right? Completely ridiculous."
The corner of my mouth turned up. "It's pretty great."
The doorbell chimed again, and Mrs. Mason struggled to keep a smile on her face. "Stay here."
Chapter Thirty-Two
Catherine
In her sweatshirt, gray lounge pants, and bare feet, Mrs. Mason slowly approached the door, peering out before twisting the bolt lock and pulling on the knob. "Hi."
"Hey," Elliott said, entering when Mrs. Mason stepped aside.
He took off his coat as Mrs. Mason locked the door.
He held up a piece of paper, different from the letter he'd received from Mrs. Mason rescinding his suspension. "I wanted you to be the first to know. I got the official news today."
I stood, and Elliott wrapped his arms around me while Mrs. Mason put his coat in the closet. "What is it?" I looked down. It was an envelope from Baylor. "You got in?" I asked, excited.
"Not officially. They've offered a full athletic scholarship," he said, not even half as excited as he should've been. "They'll need a verbal commitment if I decide to go."
"What do you mean if you decide to go?" I asked.
"To where?" Mrs. Mason asked.
"You're going! It's Baylor!" I exclaimed, hugging Elliott. When I pulled back, he only offered a small smile.
"What did you do?" he asked, guilt weighing down his features.
I pressed my cheek against his T-shirt, breathing him in. He smelled like his aunt's house: savory from her cooking, and clean: bath soap and laundry detergent.
"Catherine," he said, holding me at arm's length.
"Catherine made a deal to keep what happened with Owen off your record. You're lucky Dr. Augustine wasn't there today," Mrs. Mason said.
"So I'm not suspended?" he asked.
"Did you read the letter?" Mrs. Mason asked, raising an eyebrow. "In-house suspension, my office, and anger management sessions. That's the deal."
"In return for what?" He looked to me.
"Telling her about the Juniper. About how Mama's sick, how I have no supervision, and that I've been taking care of myself. Hopefully it won't mess with your scholarship."
Elliott watched me for a while and then looked to Mrs. Mason.
"Your counseling will begin next week and will continue through break. Hungry?" she asked.
Elliott noticed the pizza. "Always," he said, sitting down.
Mrs. Mason popped back into the kitchen to get a third plate and set it in front of Elliott.
"Sorry for just showing up," Elliott said between bites. "I just wanted to make sure she was okay."
"Understandable," Mrs. Mason said, sitting across from us. "And considerate. But no apology needed. I actually feel better having you here. I'd forgotten how comforting it is having a man in the house."
"Happy to help," Elliott said.
"We also have an alarm system," she said to me. "I'll get you the code later."
"We?" I asked.
Mrs. Mason smiled. "You and me. You live here now."
I smiled. She was trying so hard to make me feel comfortable. "The alarm must be new."
"We got it after . . ." She trailed off, her cheeks flushing.
The memories from that night replayed in my mind so vividly that I had to shake the humiliation and fear away. I closed my eyes and nodded, trying to forget for the thousandth time.
"After what?" Elliott asked.
"After the Masons came home to find my mother in their house."
"What?" Elliott said.
"It was after the first time I reported her to DHS, about six months after Mr. Calhoun passed," Mrs. Mason said.
"So . . . was she just walking around or what?" Elliott asked.
Mrs. Mason paled. "She was hiding under our bed."
"Your . . . bed?" Elliott asked, looking to me for confirmation.
I nodded, sinking down in my seat.
"That's kind of crazy," Elliott said.
"She wasn't going to hurt us. She was just confused," Mrs. Mason said.
"She was lying on her side in a ball, whimpering. Don't defend her," I said. "Please don't."
"Did she get arrested?" Elliott asked.
"They didn't press charges," I said.
"And I'm still not sure if you've forgiven me," Mrs. Mason said.
"I don't blame you. I don't blame anyone."
"Well?" Mrs. Mason asked, looking at Elliott. "Are you going to tell us?"
"What?" Elliott's eyes danced between me and our counselor.
"What Owen said to you."
Elliott shifted in his seat. "I figured he had told you already."
"No," Mrs. Mason said matter-of-factly. "Owen spent the afternoon in the emergency room."
"Oh. How . . . how is he?"
"From what I understand, the swelling has gone down a bit. His right orbital bone is fractured. You're lucky your aunt and uncle visited the hospital and talked his parents out of pressing charges, despite Detective Thompson pressuring them to."
"He's the lucky one." Elliott sniffed. "I pulled most of my punches."
Mrs. Mason arched an eyebrow.
"What did he say to you, Elliott?" I asked. "For you to beat him like that?" I needed there to be a reason. A good one. I needed to hear him say that he'd been provoked, and everything around us wasn't breaking him, too. Elliott was my anchor to normal, and without that, I was afraid I'd blow away to the same place Mama had lived since Dad died.
He looked away. "It doesn't matter."
"It kind of does," Mrs. Mason said. She planted her foot on her chair, her knee between her chest and the edge of the table. It was planned, like everything else she did, to make her seem more approachable.
"He said . . ." He took a deep breath, and then the words spewed from his mouth. "He called me a gut-eater, and then he said Catherine was a whore, and probably pregnant with my papoose."
Mrs. Mason's mouth hung open.
Elliott tried to look me in the eyes but failed. "So
rry."
"You're sorry? After what he called you?" I opened my mouth to say more but couldn't. I covered my eyes with my hand instead. "Elliott." My bottom lip trembled. It wasn't fair that he was a target at all, but for someone to say something that disgusting because it seemed like the easiest way to hurt him--Elliott, the kindest person I knew--it made me feel sick to my stomach.
"I have no words, Elliott, except that I'm so sorry that happened to you, and I'm going to make sure nothing like that is uttered in our school again," Mrs. Mason said.
"I can't believe Owen said something so horrible. I can't believe he--"
"Ask anyone in that classroom, because he yelled it," Elliott said.
"I didn't mean that I don't believe you," I said. "I believe you. It's just that, of all the people I know, Owen's the last person I would think was capable of saying something like that to another human being."
Mrs. Mason narrowed her eyes. "I'll be asking Coach Peckham why he didn't reveal that part."
Elliott closed his eyes. "There's more."
"More?" I said.
"I need to tell you everything. Minka is in that class."
"Oh no," I said.
After a few seconds of awkward silence, Elliott finally confessed. "She accused me of doing something to Presley. She asked me in front of everyone if I raped her. She said I probably threw her body in a ditch in White Eagle. So I--I told her to shut up, or she was going to end up missing next."
I covered my mouth as Mrs. Mason gasped.
"I know!" Elliott said, standing. Shame darkened his face. "I know it was stupid. I didn't mean it. But after weeks of that crap, I'd finally just had enough!"
"Now is a good time to tell me in detail exactly what's been going on," Mrs. Mason said.
I stood next to Elliott, prepared to defend him no matter what, the way he had done for me. "The accusations. The racial slurs. They've been shoving him in the halls. Throwing things at him," I said, watching Elliott get angrier after every disclosure. "But what you said, Elliott, it sounds like an admission of guilt. That's why Owen yelled at you. He worships Minka, and you threatened her."
"In front of an entire classroom. This isn't good," Mrs. Mason said.
"It just came out." Elliott groaned. He laced his fingers together on top of his head, pacing.
"Why didn't either of you come to me earlier? By the time Catherine told me what was going on, it was too late," Mrs. Mason said.
"I thought I could handle it," Elliott said. "I thought once they found Presley or couldn't prove it was me, they'd let it go. But it's gotten worse."