Family Law by Gin Phillips (phonics reading books .txt) 📕

steering wheel. The chlorine smell was stronger than it had been. I could only see the outline of his face, and I thought of old games of hide-and-seek in closets, the breath of a friend on my face, the smell of root beer Dum-Dums.

I could hear his slacks as he shifted on his seat.

“You remembered?” I asked.

“What?” he said.

“You said you didn’t know which street the McNally House was on.”

“Did I?” he said. “Maybe I’m more tired than I realized. Maybe I shouldn’t be driving. Lord, I am sick of work. Work and sleep, work and sleep. That’s all there is. But, yeah, it’s definitely on Gilmer near Felder.”

Although my back was against the door—the handle jamming into my spine—he was still only inches away. We sat. I faced the windshield, but I could feel him watching me. Felder Avenue. I knew Felder. I turned off Felder on the way to school.

“You don’t like being a lawyer?” I said.

“Oh, Rachel,” he said, and he wasn’t touching the steering wheel or the gear shift or any reasonable part of the car. His hands were free.

“Should we go home?” I said.

I spotted a flash of yellow ahead, a light hanging above the street. It could be the left turn I usually made going to school. If I was right, this street was South Court. My school would be a few blocks ahead on the right.

Mr. Cleary hadn’t answered me. He put his hand on the back of my seat, and I could feel his fingers brush my hair. It could have been an accident. A car drove past, and I caught a quick glimpse of his face, familiar in the headlights. Eyes still blue and tired. No fangs or claws.

I didn’t know him at all.

Maybe he was just an exhausted guy who was lost and confused and lonely, and if I asked, he would move his hands away from my hair and turn around and take me home. Or maybe he was a different kind of guy entirely.

His hand in my hair again, stroking this time.

Be careful, said my mother’s voice.

Watch this, said Lucia’s.

I listened to both of them. I grabbed at the handle and opened my door just as the red taillights from the passing car vanished.

“I’m going to walk,” I said.

“What?” said Mr. Cleary, his hand landing in the empty space where I’d been sitting. “What are you talking about? Get back in the car, Rachel. We’re in the middle of downtown. It’s not safe.”

I slammed the door behind me and darted to the sidewalk, a chunk of worn concrete moving under my foot. I started running, and I wished I was wearing something other than flip-flops. It couldn’t be rocket science to find a street sign. I’d know soon enough if this was South Court, and if it was, Felder Avenue would be just ahead at the flashing light, and that should take me to Gilmer, and even if it didn’t, I could get to Molly’s from my high school, and the thing that mattered more than any of that was to get away from Grant Cleary.

I looked behind me and saw that he’d turned off the headlights. He opened his door, jumping onto the curb at the same time.

“I can’t just leave you wandering around down here,” he called. “You know that!”

When I realized that he was running, too, I picked up speed. My toe caught on an edge of raised sidewalk, and I stumbled, landing hard on one knee. My palms burned against the concrete as I shoved myself up.

“Rachel!” he called. “I’ll take you home. Get back in the car!”

I could hear his feet hitting the pavement. It would be embarrassing, wouldn’t it, if I was wrong about him? I did not think of embarrassment. I looked ahead. I could feel wetness on my hurt knee, but it was easy to ignore. I let my feet slam the concrete, and soon I couldn’t hear him anymore. I took my first left turn, under a massive tree that was splitting the sidewalk, and I thought he might not see me change directions. The moon was hanging over the houses, and roaches zagged across the concrete, blacker than black. Soon it didn’t feel like running: I was diving into the dark with both feet, and the shadows flew up around me.

Lucia

I.

The waiters and waitresses were clearing the round tables by the time Lucia, Evan, and her parents were able to step through the side door of the McNally House after her speech. A line of cars wound through the parking lot, bottlenecked at the single exit. Her mother carried a centerpiece—daisies and nasturtiums—which the emcee had encouraged guests to take home.

“You just did so well,” Caroline said. “You never seemed the least bit nervous in front of all those people.”

“Thanks,” said Lucia.

It had barely been a speech at all. She’d thanked everyone, and she’d quoted Proverbs—To do righteousness and justice is more acceptable to the Lord than sacrifice—because it never hurt to lead with the Bible. She’d made some well-polished comments about how not only had women been robbed over the years—robbed of property, of education, of possibilities—but the state and the country had been robbed, too, of all that women could have taught and created and discovered. She talked of mothers and daughters and of what came next.

“Those green beans with almonds,” said Caroline. “So delicious. The chocolate cake was a little dry, but the icing was good.”

“I liked the cake,” Evan said, his hand on Lucia’s back.

“They had someone introduce the woman who introduced you,” her father said. “Is that usually how they do it? If they’d have cut all those introducers, we’d have gotten out of here an hour earlier.”

Lucia tugged at her silk skirt, which was long enough that it kept snagging in the straps of her high heels. Her father had tilted his forehead against hers as she hugged him hello tonight,