The Row Read online

  Like Mama always says: If you make yourself priceless, people can’t throw you away.

  “It was The Count of Monte Cristo.” I swirl some spaghetti around on my fork, but don’t take a bite.

  Mama’s frown is back. “Again? A book about an innocent man in prison, Riley? Don’t you think you should try reading something new?”

  “I like it.” I shrug, and then decide it’s my turn to change the subject. “Are you still coming with me to the appeal hearing on Thursday?”

  Mama nods as she pokes at her spaghetti. “Yes. I arranged for someone else to cover for me for a couple of hours. Should I come pick you up on my way to the courthouse?”

  “Sure.” I’m relieved I won’t be alone this time. I look down and realize that I’ve just been swirling the spaghetti around in my bowl and haven’t actually taken a bite. My stomach is rolling into a tight knot now, and it has nothing to do with hunger.

  Maybe bringing up the appeal at dinner hadn’t been my brightest idea.

  Mama’s hand closes over my fingers, stopping them from clutching my fork a little too tight.

  “Whatever happens at the hearing, we’re going to be just fine.” Mama holds her head high and I wish I could sap a little of her resilience through her gaze. When I don’t say anything, she gives my hand a squeeze. “You believe me, Riley?”

  I quickly nod and try to convince myself that I mean it. “Yes, Mama.”

  3

  WEDNESDAY AFTERNOON, my Volkswagen bakes in the Texas sun like one of Mama’s pecan pies. Heat rises from it in waves, but I can guarantee it won’t smell even half as good. I stop on the front porch when I see a white paper tucked inside one of Mama’s planters. No one in our neighborhood has been friendly since they found out who Daddy was about a month after we’d moved in. Since then we’ve received lovely messages like this occasionally. I consider just throwing it away, knowing from experience that I don’t want to see what it contains, but curiosity gets the better of me and I carefully unfold it.

  It’s exactly the kind of message I was expecting.

  People who support murderers don’t belong here. Get out of our neighborhood!

  Shoving my sunglasses farther up my nose with a sigh, I toss the note in the trash can before speed-walking down my driveway and unlocking the car door. I take a deep breath and open it, stepping back so the wave of heat escaping from inside doesn’t blast me across the face.

  Almost as if to spite my efforts, a wind hot as blazes kicks up like it came from the face of the sun itself. God, even the breezes in Texas can be hotter than hell. Instead of cooling me off, it makes sweat drip down the back of my neck.

  I see my neighbor Mary walk out of her house three doors down, and I wave. She raises her hand automatically to wave back, but then recognizes me and quickly drops it back to her side when she sees her mother coming out after her. Mrs. Jones ushers her to her car, shaking her head and whispering in low tones the whole way. I can practically hear her clucking from here. Ducking my head, I ignore the sting of it and pretend not to care what they might be saying about me.

  I watch them drive down the street as my car airs out a bit. It’s always like this. We’ve moved three times around Houston—new neighborhoods, new schools, new friends. The same three things always happen with the kids at school. First, they eventually find out about Daddy, and that alone weeds out the vast majority. The few who aren’t driven away by him being on death row are strangely obsessed with it. All they want to do is ask questions about what it’s like to have a father on death row. Which is weird, but at least I have someone to hang out with—until their parents find out and forbid them to see me or come to our house. That cuts out almost everyone.

  Only two remained after that, Kali and Rebecca. They were the two who didn’t seem to care on any level about my dad—the two who felt like they were my friends just for me. That’s part of what made it so hard when my mom and I moved to the other side of town, away from Kali in seventh grade. She made new friends and we lost touch. Rebecca’s dad was in the army at Joint Base San Antonio, and then they were transferred to a base in South Dakota. I still get letters from her occasionally, but not often.

  The neighbors usually went straight from finding out the truth to wanting us gone. Not all of them left nasty notes, but none of them were what I’d call friendly either.

  Eventually I think I got tired of being rejected and started rejecting everyone else before they got a chance. Keeping people at a bit of a distance may be lonely sometimes, but it can also save a lot of heartbreak.

  I punch the buttons to roll down all the windows simultaneously. I throw the blanket I keep over my seat into the back with a little more force than usual. When I climb in, I flip the visor down with a grunt to block the glare blinding me as it bounces off the hood of the car, forgetting for an instant about the old and warped photo of Daddy that I hide there. I catch it with gently cradled hands.

  His face is so soft in the photo, so young. His eyes hold a touch of the recklessness he always says I got from him. His expression is now hardened by everything he’s gone through. I love Daddy as he is, but I can’t help but wish I’d known him when he looked like this. I shouldn’t have the photo outside of our house. Mama says the ones from when he was younger are the ones people are most likely to recognize. But I can’t bear to not have it close. I kiss the photo before slipping it back up behind the visor and starting the car.

  Daddy’s upcoming appeal hearing is the reason I feel so anxious and worried lately. He’s also the reason I can’t stay shut up in our house for another minute. Ever since I was old enough to drive, I’ve made a practice of seeing what it’s like to be someone else on a regular basis. That’s the kind of distraction I need to keep my mind busy for the rest of today … and I think I know where to find it.

  I drive in the direction of First Liberty Mall. It takes fifteen minutes on the road before the air conditioner is even worth turning on. At least that still leaves me another forty-five to drive in the nice, cool interior before I get to First Liberty.

  There are malls much closer where I could go to get out of the house. After all, I live in northeast Houston. Nearly every mall in the city is closer to home than the one I’m heading to. But I prefer a longer drive in exchange for the invaluable perk of anonymity. At First Liberty, I won’t see anyone who knows me. I’m not that Riley from school, that Riley from the law offices, or that Riley from the Polunsky prison unit.

  While I’m there, I can pretend to be anyone I want. I don’t have to be the girl with the dad on death row. I don’t even have to tell anyone my real name if I don’t want to, and the nearly-an-hour drive in each direction is absolutely worth it to be anyone else on a day like today.

  When I pull into the mall parking lot, a smile creeps across my face. No one here goes to my school or would recognize me. The diner across from the movie theater is a great spot, so I head in that direction. Often, I just like to people-watch. Other times I give myself a little challenge to interact with strangers. See who I might have decided to be if the Texas court system hadn’t already defined that for me.

  Of course, talking to people is always more risky. Folks I interact with look at me closer. And it’s still possible that someone could recognize me from the newspaper articles about Daddy’s trials and hearings, but that would be a risk anywhere in Texas. I usually stick with people my age, and that group spends about as much time reading newspapers as they do churning butter. With three high schools within spitting distance, this mall is always full of teenagers.

  So for today at least, I can have a fresh start. And that’s exactly what I need before tomorrow has the chance to crush my family’s future.

  The moment I enter the mall, a cool draft hits me and instantly puts me at ease a bit. In the back of my mind, I thank the gods of air-conditioning for the zillionth time.

  I head straight for the Galaxy Café, and the hostess seats me near the window where I can watch the people walking
by. The ambience here is fantastic. I would love this place even if it didn’t offer me the freedom it does. It’s like a diner lifted straight out of the sixties. They play old music like the Beatles and Elvis and it always reminds me of the music Daddy used to play around the house and how Mama would laugh. But that was long before prison bars stood between them. The seats are covered in bright red vinyl, records adorn the walls, and the ceiling is painted deep blue with tiny white pinpricks of light spread across it in constellations that mimic the nighttime sky.

  Galaxy is both old and new. It’s kitschy and cool, and I love everything about it.

  On a Wednesday afternoon, the mall isn’t too busy, but there are about ten tables already taken with late lunch customers. I order a thick Oreo milkshake and start studying the people around me. One nearby table is full of teens. I scoot to the edge of my booth and pretend to scroll through my phone as I try to eavesdrop on their conversation. Before I get a chance to hear much, though, I feel an impact against my right sandal.

  When I bend over, the first thing I see is a red Matchbox car. I pick it up and squint at it.

  “Sorry about that. Driving skills obviously need improvement.” A deep voice speaks from the booth behind mine and I spin to face it. My first thought isn’t exactly articulate: Wow, hotness. His warm eyes are a slightly lighter shade of brown than his dark olive complexion.

  Hot Guy extends his hand. I freeze, not sure if I should shake it or stick the car into it. As if he can read my mind, he drops his hand back to his lap and provides me with an alternate option.

  “Unless you’re interested in joining our competition? Any experience on a pit crew, by chance?” His eyes now have a wicked sparkle to them that draws me in.

  “Pit crew?” I ask.

  “Girls don’t like cars.” I hear a small voice from the other side of his booth and slide to the side a bit to see who spoke. A seriously adorable little boy looks up at me. He can only be Hot Guy’s little brother. His Angry Birds T-shirt is just a smidge too big for him. He has the same skin and dark, wavy hair, the same athletic build, the same square jawline and Roman nose—he is his brother in miniature. When he beams up at me, I can see that one of his front teeth is missing. “Hi!”

  “Hi…” I can’t help but smile back at him.

  “What’s your name? You don’t like cars, right?” He continues to smile at me while I consider my answer. The kid couldn’t be more than six years old. “I’m Matthew.”

  “I actually do like cars.”

  “Then you’re cool.” He lifts his cupped hands up and releases no fewer than eight cars onto the tabletop. His big brother frantically shoots his arms out, trying to prevent them all from careening off onto the floor.

  Matthew slides out of his seat and walks to my table. “You didn’t tell me your name.”

  Maybe all of my friends should be six. The questions of children seem to be so much simpler than those of adults. Something deep in me really doesn’t want to lie to this kid. “I’m Riley.”

  His brother jerks his head up with an embarrassed expression. “Matthew, she doesn’t have to tell you her name if she doesn’t want to.”

  “But … she already did.” Matthew looks at his brother like he just said the dumbest thing he’s ever heard. He sticks his small hand out to shake mine.

  “Nice to meet you,” he says, sincerely. The gesture melts me and I place my hand in his. All my worry about Daddy’s hearing dissolves as he grips my hand firmly and shakes it like this is the most important meeting each of us will ever have. “Now, tell me what your favorite color is.”

  After tossing the cars into a green plastic container, Matthew’s brother gets up and puts his hands on Matthew’s shoulders. “Sorry, he has no filter with strangers.”

  “It’s fine. I like being told that I’m cool.” I shrug before lowering my eyes to Matthew. “My favorite color is purple.”

  Matthew dives for the green bin and starts digging through it without another word.

  “I think that was your official invitation to play … in case you didn’t recognize it.” Hot Guy rubs his hand on the back of his neck. His cheeks flush slightly and then he smiles at me. “I’m Jordan, by the way.”

  “Your brother is really cute.” I lower my voice so Matthew can’t hear us.

  “Yeah, that’s what all the girls say.” Jordan shakes his head.

  “Oh, I see.” I lift one eyebrow, deciding these two might be the perfect pair to distract myself with today. “This is part of your game then? Bring your adorable brother to the mall. Hit girls with tiny cars. Have him get them to tell you their names … very smooth. Will he ask for my number next?”

  Jordan looks horrified for an instant before he picks up on the fact that I’m joking and a grin spreads across his face. “Or maybe we’re part of a research project and he’s just a very small scientist.”

  The server comes with my milkshake and I stick my spoon into it. “What would you be researching?”

  “The effects of tiny cars on complete strangers.” Jordan sticks his hands into his jeans pockets as his face turns mockingly serious.

  “Fascinating.”

  Matthew drops a bright purple convertible onto the table in front of me. I pick it up to look at it and before I know it, Matthew is pushing himself and his green bin of cars into the seat on the other side of my booth.

  Jordan blinks at Matthew and then me before shaking his head. “Buddy, we need to stay in our booth. I think we’ve bothered Riley enough for one afternoon.”

  Matthew freezes in the middle of organizing his cars on my table and looks at me in shock. “I’m bothering you?”

  I shake my head fast and firm. “Not at all.”

  “He’s fine.” I look up at Jordan and then gesture to the seat beside Matthew. “Looks like I’m officially part of your experiment—or pit crew—depending on where this afternoon takes us. Care to have a seat?”

  Jordan sits down, picks up a yellow race car, and runs it over the back of Matthew’s hand. His eyes lift to me and he frowns like something is bothering him.

  “There is something kind of familiar about you, Riley. Do you go to school around here?”

  4

  I SWALLOW AND LIFT MY PURPLE CAR in front of my eyes, pretending to be very focused on the front wheels as my mind spins. I really don’t like the idea of lying to Matthew, because lying to a kid who is so blatantly honest feels wrong for some reason, but I don’t want to tell Jordan any more than I have to. There is obviously only one solution here.

  Tell Matthew the truth. With Jordan, I’ll lie through my teeth.

  “Nope. I’m homeschooled, actually.” I spin the wheels around once before lowering the purple car back to the table. “Maybe I just have one of those faces?”

  Jordan nods slowly and then says, “Maybe…”

  “Do you play sports?” Matthew jumps in before Jordan can say anything else.

  “Not really.”

  “Jordan plays—” Matthew looks up at Jordan, his forehead wrinkling up. “Do you still play or do you used to play?”

  Now it’s Jordan’s turn to look uncomfortable. “I might play again, but for now I don’t play.”

  Matthew gives me a knowing nod. “He don’t play.”

  I look from one brother to the other, waiting for someone to volunteer the missing information.

  “Football,” Jordan says, and his expression is surprisingly guarded. I wonder for a fleeting moment if I look the same way to him.

  “You stopped playing football? On purpose?” I feign shock. “I didn’t think that ever happened in Texas.”

  Jordan’s face softens. “I know. You should take note. I’m a rare commodity.”

  “You’ll cave and go back eventually. They all do.” I ram my car into Matthew’s and he giggles.

  “You’re some sort of Texan football expert?” Jordan’s eyes are on me and he seems to have completely forgotten about the toy car in his hand.

  I cast him a
sideways glance and try for evasive. “Um … don’t you have to be to live here? I thought they took your card away if you weren’t.”

  “Your official Texan card?” He starts using a drink menu and the napkin holder to build a ramp for Matthew.

  “Yes.” This is good. Keep the chatter light and friendly. No probing questions and we’ll all get through this just fine.

  “I think I might just give mine back.” Jordan focuses on fine-tuning his ramp balance by placing salt-and-pepper shakers at the end.

  I’m jarred and stop my car in place, suddenly so curious about this guy across from me that I forget about protecting my own secrets. “Really? Why?”

  Jordan notices the difference in my tone and looks up at me for a few seconds before saying, “I don’t know. Reasons.”

  I blink. Reasons? And I thought I was the one being evasive.

  He picks up Matthew’s car and slides it successfully down the ramp. It only stops when it runs into the side of my milkshake and Matthew picks it up immediately for another run.

  I take my purple car, place it on the ramp to go next, and smile, feeling myself start to relax. Something tells me that a guy who is trying to keep his own secrets won’t press me too hard if I don’t want to reveal any of mine.

  * * *

  Apparently, six-year-olds have very strong opinions about what they want to do and when they want to do it. Matthew is our leader and we spend our time mostly following his commands.

  “Let’s go to a movie!” he shouts as we walk out of Galaxy thirty minutes later.

  Jordan looks over at me nervously. “Want to go to a movie?”

  “Depends…” I look down at Matthew and lift one eyebrow. “Which movie?”

  He suddenly frowns. “Ugh, do you like the kissy movies?”

  Jordan slaps his hand over his eyes with a groan.

  I answer like I’m thinking hard about it. “Hmm … not today, I don’t.”

  “Oh, good!” Matthew looks so relieved I actually giggle. “Maybe one with explosions or cartoons?”