Lilac Mines by Cheryl Klein Page B

lie.
    â€œWho’s Blanca Randall, anyway?” Felix retorts. She leans forward for emphasis, which makes her side hurt. “Some loud woman in a muumuu? You don’t need to be afraid of her.”
    â€œSome of my best friends wear muumuus, Felix.”
    â€œI’m just saying it’s not like she can judge.”
    â€œOnly supermodels have the right to judge?” Now the conversation has been hijacked—it’s about clothing and attitude.
    â€œI’m just saying you should tell the truth!” Felix is surprised by the volume of her voice. Her face is hot and tears hover at the corners of her eyes. She waits, silver bracelets clinking on her shaking wrists, for Anna Lisa to respond. She wants her aunt to tell her that there is such a thing as truth, but Anna Lisa just gives her a parental look that says, You clearly cannot be reasoned with.
    â€œLook, don’t assume you know everything,” Anna Lisa says quietly. “If you go through life jumping to conclusions, you’ll never get the real story.” She pads out of the room in her quiet shoes, a promise that, no, Felix will not get the real story, at least not from her.

THIS AINT SAN FRANCISCO
Anna Lisa: Lilac Mines, 1965
    There were no direct buses from Fresno to San Francisco within Anna Lisa’s price range. This one curves up the arched spine of the state into towns with names like Angels Camp and Lilac Mines. At each stop they pick up a few more people until, by Lilac Mines, Anna Lisa feels like an old timer. The girl next to her—who got on in Modesto—bounces a red-faced baby on her lap. She sings songs and plays pat-a-cake, but the child keeps crying. A few people grumble, but most shoot mother and child looks of tired sympathy. Anna Lisa doesn’t feel sorry for them. The world loves you, she thinks. The woman is doing what women are supposed to do. In Lilac Mines, a barely-there town at the foot of a mountain, she steps out to give her ears a break.
    She’s scared to leave her suitcase—the one that sat, packed, in her closet for three weeks while she worked up the courage to leave, saved her money, composed a note that explained as much as she could without explaining too much—in the bus, so she lugs it to the drugstore, where she scans the menu for cherry cola. It’s not there, so she settles for regular. Her throat and stomach welcome the icy sweetness. Even though she’s wearing her thinnest dress, blue-flowered and nearly transparent, the heat is sinister in its persistence. At the other end of the soda fountain, a young man takes his own soda from the shopkeeper. When he sits down next to Anna Lisa, she sees that there’s a cherry in his.
    â€œI thought they didn’t have cherry cola,” she says. “It wasn’t on the menu.”
    â€œJust gotta ask,” he says, smiling. She recognizes him from the bus. He has thick hair that grows in several different directions, or maybe that’s just the legacy of napping on the road. There’s a gap in his smile. “I’m John.”
    What a horribly dull name, Anna Lisa thinks. Boys so frequently have dull names. She likes the way girls’ names sound like flowers, even names that aren’t Rose or Daisy. Even names like Christine and Delia and Phoebe.
    â€œAnna Lisa,” she says.
    â€œNice to meet you, Anna Lisa. Can I buy you cherry cola?”
    â€œOh, no, thank you,” she says quickly. She’s only gone on one date before. She didn’t know what to do with her hands or where to look, afraid of what each gesture might mean to this creature who opened doors and twisted his class ring on his finger. She’s not sure if John is trying to turn their bus break into a date, but she doesn’t want to take any chances. She lifts her glass. “I’m almost done with this one anyway.”
    John is unfazed. The world is full of girls thirsty for cherry cola. “So why