“I have homework,” I said, turning and trudging up the stairs to my room.
Late the next afternoon, as I approached the store, I’d steeled myself to not act like a little kid, which I now knew to be Donna’s perception of me. I had thought of dozens of retorts, things I could say to let her know I knew about Tomaro, that I wasn’t as young and naive as she thought, but in the end I realized: I hadn’t known about Tomaro, and I was as young and naive as she believed—which was why she had chosen me in the first place. I’m sure my eyes had played into her decision as well. Donna had figured out that my “condition” certainly limited my options—to zero. I had been a dolt. What was the point of acting like I hadn’t been? Who was I fooling? What would I accomplish except to further embarrass myself?
I was also angry—angry at God for giving me red eyes, angry at Mickie for being right, and angry at my mother for perpetuating the nonsense that my eyes were extraordinary and a precursor of the extraordinary life I was destined to live. There would be no extraordinary life. There would just be life, with all its trial and tribulations.
I took a deep breath and walked into the store, prepared to be courteous and act like I really didn’t care. I’d rehearsed what I’d say if Donna said anything. But Donna was not behind the cash register. Betty was training a young woman I’d never met but who I assumed would be Donna’s replacement. As I walked the center aisle, Betty introduced me. The woman did a double take.
“She’s starting today,” Betty said.
I scurried to the back. “Dad?”
My father’s fingers pecked the typewriter keys—he typed faster with two fingers than anyone with ten, then he zipped off a label, peeled the backing, and slapped it on the prescription bottle. When busy, my father was a prescription-filling machine, cranking out as many as 140 a day by himself. “Hey, Sam.” He counted tiny capsules in a tray with what looked like a butter knife, then scooped them into the orange plastic vial. “Did you meet Sandra?”
“What happened to Donna?”
“Friday was her last day.” He snapped the top on the bottle and set it on the counter, moving on to the next task.
“I thought she had another week.”
“She’s leaving for school early.” Something in his tone indicated something more unsaid. Something he wasn’t telling me.
“What happened, Dad?”
His fingers tapped and the typewriter clattered, his eyes focused on the task. “Her parents thought it best if she left a week early for school.”
“Why?”
My dad’s fingers stopped. I felt a lump in my throat. He nodded to the storage area behind the prescription room. I followed him in, wishing I’d never asked.
“I’m sorry to tell you this, Sam. I know you and Donna have become friends.” I felt the floor start to fall from beneath my feet. “Mr. and Mrs. Ashby have suspected for a while now that Donna was seeing a boy on a regular basis, but that she was keeping it from them . . . that she’d been promiscuous.” My dad paused, as if I might not know what this word meant, and he was debating whether to explain it to me. Then he said, “Mr. Ashby found a package of condoms in Donna’s purse.”
“Oh,” I said.
“I think we all know where she got them,” which was the source of my father’s anger. I’d never felt so ashamed, and I realized the depth of my own betrayal. It wasn’t Catholic guilt. The church had nothing to do with my guilt-ridden conscience this time. My parents had trusted me to behave as they had raised me, so much so that they apparently didn’t even suspect that the boy could be me. Then again, it might not have been trust at all that cloaked their eyes to that possibility. It might have been disregard, which hurt even more. My parents never even considered that a girl like Donna would have wanted me, the kid with the red eyes.