Although I had no intention of doing so, I told him I would before sliding the diary into my father’s tote. It used to be that he carried his notes in that bag when he and my mother went on their trips, but I’d been using it to haul my books around since so many break-ins had led me to abandon my locker. High school may not have been the challenge I hoped for, but it certainly was louder. Slamming lockers. Shrill bells. The roar that filled the halls at the end of the day. Any other student stepping out of Boshoff’s office into the stampede risked getting shoved against the wall. Not me. As usual, the crowd parted to make room.
Normally, after last bell, I walked against the foot traffic to the rear exit and out onto the winding path through the woods, past the distant hum of the highway and along the fence behind Watt’s Poultry Farm toward home. Today, though, my sister was picking me up to go shopping for school clothes at a place everyone in Maryland seemed to have been except us: the Mondawmin shopping mall. She never would have arranged the excursion if Cora hadn’t shown up on a rainy Monday weeks before. When I stepped into the house that afternoon, I’d been thinking only of peeling off my wet clothes and taking a hot shower. Instead, I found a light-skinned black woman waiting on the sofa in the living room, gazing up at the wooden cross on our wall. In her pressed skirt and blouse, she looked too together to be someone who had come in search of help from my parents. And yet, I decided that’s what she was.
“They’re . . .” I said, my heart kicking into a speedy ticktock, “ . . . they’re not here.”
“Oh, hello,” she said, glossy lips parting into a smile when she saw me. “Who’s not here?”
“My mother and father. You must not have heard, but—”
“I know that. I came to see you, Sylvie.”
“Who are you?”
“Cora. Cora Daley. From Maryland Child Protective Services.” Her smile froze as she took me in. “No need to look so worried. I just want to check in on you. That’s all.”
Had our previous caseworker, a man whose primary focus had been studying for his real-estate agent exam rather than me, mentioned that another person would come in his place? I remembered talk of interest rates, square footage, appraisals, though I’d lost track of the rest. “What happened to Norman? And how did you get in?”
“Norman is no longer working with you. I am. And your sister let me inside. I was waiting in the driveway when she got home. Poor thing was wet just like you. She went upstairs to change. I didn’t have an umbrella, but I used this clipboard to cover my head. So long as my hair stays dry, I’m a happy camper. My mom’s the same way. Don’t mess with our hair and don’t make us break a nail. Then we’re happy.”
As she rambled, I studied her hair, yanked into a bun, and her long nails, perfectly manicured. Her clothes looked so creaseless and new that I would not have been surprised to see a price tag poking out from a sleeve. I noticed down by her ankle what looked to be a small dolphin tattoo—or was it a shark? Despite her efforts, Cora Daley looked too young for the job, not much older than my sister, in fact.
“Do you want to change into dry clothes, then we can chat, Sylvie?”
Yes, I wanted to change. No, I did not want to chat. “I’m okay if you just want to get started.”
“Well, all right then.” Cora glanced at the damp papers on her clipboard. Her hands shook ever so slightly, and I wondered if being inside our house made her nervous. “Let’s see. There are plenty of questions my supervisors tell me I’m supposed to ask. But the most obvious one that comes to mind is not on here.” She looked up, flashing her warm brown eyes. “I’m wondering if that’s what you wore to school today?”
Standing before her, dripping in my capris and T-shirt and flip-flops, what answer could I give but yes?
“If you don’t mind me saying, Sylvie, those don’t seem like the most appropriate clothes. Especially on a day like today.”
“I guess we don’t pay attention to weather reports around here lately.”
“Well, I am going to have a talk with your sister about that. As well as the missed doctor’s appointments for your ear that I see noted here on these pages.”
Good luck, I wanted to say.
As I waited in front of school, weeks after that rainy Monday, dressed in nearly the same outfit and shivering in the cool October air, I looked over at a smoking area tucked beneath an overhang. Ratty couches and recliners were scattered so haphazardly it might have been mistaken for a rummage sale if not for the derelict students flopped on the furniture, squeezing in a last smoke. I’d seen most of them coming and going from Boshoff’s office too, their clothes a kind of uniform: hoodies, thermals, ripped jeans, pentagrams and 666’s doodled on their knuckles.
“Hey, Wednesday, you see something you like?”