Shifting. Part 3

"What type of restaurant is the Navajo Mexican?" I asked.

"The best in town," Mrs. Carpenter answered. "Are you going to go in and apply on your own, or do you need me to hold your hand?"

I held my hand out and forced a pout to my face. Mrs. Carpenter's eyes grew round and I grinned. "Just kidding. I'll do it all by myself."

"Watch your step getting out. The curbs are high, built that way from horse-and-buggy times. I'm going to swing by the fabric store. I'll be back in about fifteen minutes."

"Sounds good." I opened the car door and a gust of something delicious swirled on the cool spring air. Stepping up onto the knee-high curb, I walked past three metal tables set up on the sidewalk, tables where people could sit at dusk and eat their dinner, and entered the restaurant.

It was bigger inside than I thought it would be, long and narrow, with about twenty brightly painted tables and booths. White Christmas lights, dried red chili peppers in braided ropes, and Native American weavings decorated the walls. Quiet music played, Navajo chanting accompanied by pipes.

A server burdened with two plates and a hugely pregnant belly hurried past me. "I'll be right with you," she called over her shoulder. She set the plates on a table in front of two customers, wiped her hands on the white ap.r.o.n tied below her bulging stomach, and came back to me. "Table for one?" she asked. She was short and dark haired, and above her heart was a name tag that read Maria.

"I'm here to see about getting a job," I said, turning my voice sweet and, I hoped, compelling. "I was wondering if I could fill out an application?"

The woman's shoulders sagged. "How soon could you start?" she asked.

"Um. Tomorrow?"

She smiled. "Come with me." I followed her to the other end of the restaurant and through a swinging door.

"Jose! Naalyehe! Come see what the cat dragged in."

Two men turned to face me. One was shorter than me, with thick black hair and a mustache that hid his top lip. The other man stood nearly as tall as the ceiling, with a gray braid that hung down to the small of his back, a strand of bear claws around his neck, and a potbelly.

The short man stepped up to me. His mustache twitched and fine wrinkles creased the dark skin around his eyes. "The cat dragged in a gringa?"

"She's looking for a job," Maria said.

"I am Jose Cano, co-owner of the Navajo Mexican." He held out his flour-dusted hand and I shook it.

"Magdalene Mae."

"Have you ever waited tables, Magdalene?" he asked, looking me up and down.

"No."

"Are you eighteen years or older?"

"I turn eighteen at the end of the month."

He scratched his head. "Do you speak any Espanol?"

"No?"

"Do you speak Navajo?"

"No, but I'm a fast learner." I tried to give him my most pitiful, pleading puppy-dog eyes. They worked on my old foster mother, Mrs. Montgomery, when I wanted to use the Internet or stay up late watching movies.

"We close late on weekend nights-eleven p.m.-and I need someone who can work every single Sat.u.r.day. Plus, we get a lot of college kids and, with those eyes, I am guessing you will be hara.s.sed by some of the rowdier gringos. But on the other hand, you might be a big draw...." He rubbed his pointer finger and thumb over his chin, studying me in a whole new light. "Unfortunately the state liquor laws prohibit a minor from serving alcohol."

I batted my eyelashes. "I'm almost eighteen. And Yana said you were hiring."

The tall man stepped up beside Jose, casting a shadow over me. "Yana? How do you know my granddaughter?"

"I'm new in town. She let me sit with her at lunch."

The two men looked at each other. Jose shrugged and Yana's grandfather smiled.

"I am Naalyehe. It is a pleasure to meet one of Yana's friends. Are you familiar with Navajo cuisine?"

I shook my head.

"What do you know about comida mexicana? Mexican food?" Jose asked.

"I love Taco Bell."

Naalyehe burst out laughing.

Jose's cheeks flared red. "Taco Bell is not Mexican food!" he said vehemently. "Where are you from, that you are so deprived, gringa? Canada?"

"Albuquerque," I answered.

"Aye aye aye," Jose muttered, turning around, taking a plate and filling it. "You are from New Mexico and you think Taco Bell is Mexican food." He sprinkled a handful of cheese over the loaded plate, turned back around, and held the plate and a fork out to me. I stared at it.

The plate was slathered from edge to edge with pureed beans and melting, greasy orange cheese. Beneath the beans and cheese were lumps of something, but I had no idea what, and I was almost scared to find out.

Jose stood with a huge, expectant grin on his face. Naalyehe took a folding metal step stool from against the wall and set it behind me. I sat down on the stool, took the fork and plate, and stabbed one of the unidentifiable, bean-covered mounds. It made a squelching noise as I lifted it from the plate. I studied the gooey blob for a moment, then closed my eyes and shoved it into my mouth. It was hot and salty and mushy. I made myself chew and my eyes flew open. "What is this?" I said through a full mouth, trying not to drool.

"That is my specialty. It is a fish taco, breaded with blue corn, fried, cut into bite-sized pieces, and smothered with beans and goat cheese. You like?" Jose asked, though I'm sure he already knew the answer. I was shoveling the food into my mouth as fast as I could swallow.

"It's great," I said, my mouth still full.

"What do you think?" Jose asked, turning to Naalyehe.

Naalyehe studied me, his eyes locking on mine. "What is the last animal you saw?"

I raised my eyebrows. "A h.o.r.n.y toad? It was sunning itself on Mrs. Carpenter's driveway."

"The horned lizard. It symbolizes perseverance." His eyes narrowed. "And keeping secrets."

His eyes bored into mine. I blinked and studied my short nails.

"Keeping secrets isn't a bad thing. It means you can be trusted," he said.

Hope made my blood speed through my veins and I looked up.

Jose grinned. "Welcome to la familia, gringa. As soon as you turn eighteen, I'll put you on the schedule."

"So I got the job?"

Jose and Naalyehe nodded.

I stood in the bathroom that night, brus.h.i.+ng my teeth with Crest and looking in the mirror. I still looked old, but not as old as I'd looked the night before. My black-dyed hair was fading to a dull greenish brown, the roots almost copper against the dye. But my hair was clean, since Mrs. Carpenter had bought me some Suave shampoo and conditioner.

I looked at my new watch-a seven-dollar designer knockoff from Wal-Mart-and set the alarm for a quarter after six. Mrs. Carpenter was convinced that I'd sleep through the alarm. I wouldn't.

My new sweatpants, gym shorts, tube socks, and sports bra were packed in a new gray backpack. Laid out on my bed was a brand-new outfit: jeans without holes, a long-sleeve red sweater, and a heavy gray jacket-a "welcome to Silver City" gift from Mrs. Carpenter. I was almost excited to go to school. And honestly, I couldn't wait to kick some b.u.t.t in track.

As I climbed into bed and snuggled beneath the two homemade quilts, I smiled. Things didn't seem so bad. I had a job. I liked Mrs. Carpenter. And she liked me.

5.

"Maggie Mae, you look beautiful!" Mrs. Carpenter said as I walked into the living room the next morning. "Red suits you. Makes your black hair look thick and glossy."

"Thanks," I answered, grinning. I put on my new jacket and grabbed my backpack. Mrs. Carpenter handed me a brown paper bag.

"Your lunch," she said. "I apologize again for forgetting to send you with something to eat yesterday. I hope you like peanut b.u.t.ter."

"Sounds good." Peanut b.u.t.ter was definitely not my favorite, but beggars can't be choosers.

I walked the half mile down the lonely country road to the bus stop and groaned. I was the oldest student there. Probably the only senior who had to ride the bus to school. The students filed onto the waiting bus. I followed and sat in an empty seat.

Nervous jitters zipped around in my stomach as the bus approached Silver High. I kept telling myself that since I looked nice and my hair was clean and dry, today would be better than yesterday.

I made my way through the busy halls more or less unnoticed, arriving at the locker room as the tardy bell rang. The other girls on the track team stopped talking the minute I entered, eyeing me warily. They dressed in silence and hurried out before I had my jeans off.

"Good morning, Miss Mortensen," Coach called as I strode out onto the track. "Why don't you go and warm up with the other kids."

I nodded and headed toward the bleachers, studying my track mates as I approached. And then I copied.

Heel resting on the bleacher, I leaned over my s.h.i.+n and placed my hands to either side of my shoe. With my eyes closed, I breathed out and deepened the stretch. I'd never made a point to stretch before and was shocked at how good it felt, almost as relaxing as stepping into a hot bath. The image of a cat stretching its long, flexible body jumped into my head. My eyes popped open and I backed a step away from the bleachers.

"Did you pull a muscle?"

I spun around. Bridger stood behind me, morning sun gleaming off his black hair. He smiled. I stared at him and tried to think of something intelligent to say. A whistle blew, saving me from my momentary inability to speak.

"All girls line up for hurdles," Coach called.

I stepped past Bridger and trotted over to the start line with the other girls. Three of us were seniors, the fourth a junior. Esponita was a short, muscular Hispanic girl; Danni Williams was dark haired, tall and lanky, with legs as long as a horse's; and the third girl, short and wiry-thin like she didn't eat enough, was Ginger, a junior from my math cla.s.s.

The whistle screeched and I was off. The three other girls were left in my dust, but as I reached the hurdles, the noise of feet slapping the ground and heavy breathing was creeping up behind me. I glanced to my left. Danni leaped over a hurdle right beside me. It was her long legs-they gave her a huge advantage. I looked forward again and focused, pus.h.i.+ng myself to go faster, run harder, jump quicker.

My muscles responded. I began to pull ahead of Danni, gliding over each hurdle. But then something happened. I could see everything perfectly, down to the tiniest detail, as if looking at the world through a microscope-each blade of gra.s.s, the splintering white paint on the hurdles, a grain of sand on the track, an ant carrying a crumb on an anthill across the field. Then my ears changed. I could hear the ticking of Coach's stopwatch-from the other side of the track. The sound of Danni's pounding heart almost matched my own. In fact, I could hear the heartbeats of everyone on the field, mixing and mes.h.i.+ng into one noisy throb.

Then my nails began to grow, p.r.i.c.king sharp against my palms. I panicked. Midleap over a hurdle I froze and my toe collided with wood. I tipped forward and soared through the air before cras.h.i.+ng to a painful, b.l.o.o.d.y stop.

Instantly, my claws shrank back into short, blunt nails, my ears heard nothing but my own heart, and my eyes were squeezed shut against pain. Fear was holding me on the ground. This sort of thing had never happened to me during the daytime, and if anyone saw ...

My eyes flew open and stared straight into a pair of hazel eyes, brownish with a circle of green around the pupil.

"Are you hurt?" Ginger asked. She touched my chin and I gasped. Her fingers felt like acid.

"You have road rash on your chin," she explained, showing me the glimmer of blood on her fingertips.

"Maggie Mae! Are you hurt?" Coach yelled as he ran across the football field. I rolled onto my side and started to push myself up, but groaned and fell back to the track. My palms looked more like raw hamburger than human flesh.

Coach knelt at my side, forcing me to my back as he looked me over, paying special attention to my ankles, rolling each in his hands and asking if it hurt.

"I'm just sc.r.a.ped up," I said shakily, noting the hole in my new track pants and the b.l.o.o.d.y knee beneath.

"Good. Scratches won't slow you down. But these ankles are a secret weapon. I'm glad they survived the fall unscathed. O'Connell," Coach barked.

I looked at Bridger in time to see the smile slip from his face.

"Yes, sir?"

"Help Maggie to the nurse's office."

Bridger rolled his eyes, but came over and helped me to my feet, pulling me up by my wrists.

He strode across the field. I followed a shaky pace behind, and he neither looked at me nor said a single word until we entered the school. Inside, he slowed his pace and eyed my chin.

"So, why'd you freak out like that?" he asked.

"What are you talking about?"

"Right before you tripped on the hurdle, you freaked."

I ran my finger over four tiny punctures in my palm and was glad the skin around them had been shredded, masking them. "I didn't freak," I lied. "Just didn't jump high enough."

"Does your face hurt?"

He reached toward my chin and I pulled away before he could touch it. "I've had worse."

"Like that scar in your eyebrow," he mused, studying my face.

"Yep. That hurt." The scar, a crescent through my left eyebrow, had come from the big, fat cla.s.s ring on Mr. Simms's pinky finger. It had split open my skin when he'd backhanded me across the face-I was twelve years old.

"Well, we're here," Bridger said, holding the door to the nurse's office open. I stepped past him and breathed in his cologne. "Maggie." I paused and looked at him, thinking how unfair it was that some people were born as gorgeous as Bridger O'Connell. He grinned. "If you need a ride home, I could ..." His voice trailed off. I stared at him for a long moment but he left his offer incomplete.