Livia Lone

22-THEN

School was horrible. Livia had thought her English was good enough, but it turned out that listening to Nanu and the other tutors in a quiet room where she could see everyone’s face was one thing. A noisy room from far away, and without being able to ask questions if she didn’t understand something, was another.

Some of the teachers were nice, but she didn’t like the children at all. At best, they ignored her. A few treated her as a curiosity, staring at her and asking if it was true they ate bugs where she came from. Livia wanted to tell them that when you’re hungry enough, you eat anything, but she knew they were stupid and had never gone to bed with anything other than full bellies and they would never understand. So she didn’t bother answering.

Some of the children were mean. They made fun of her accent and her struggles with English. They had heard she was Lahu, and spread rumors that she liked to eat dogs, warning the other children to be on the lookout for their pets when Livia Lahu was around. One group of bullies in particular, ninth graders led by a blond boy named Eric, would sometimes surround her and chant, “La-hoo, La-hoo,” drawing out the second syllable in long, mocking high voices. Other times, one of them would sneak up from behind and knock her books out of her arms, then run away while the others laughed at her helpless fury. And they’d repeatedly ask if she was going to jump out a window onto a fence and kill herself. That taunt she didn’t even understand.

She hated them. She hated anyone who took advantage of people who were smaller or weaker. And she hated herself almost as much, for being so small and weak. She told herself the bullies were stupid and soft, that none of them could handle an a-taw, or stalk a bird in the forest, or avoid the plants that could make you sick and find the ones that could be used as medicine.

But none of those things mattered here. No one knew Livia was good at anything, and they wouldn’t have cared even if they did.

Her only refuge was homework. It was hard when the teachers were talking-there was so much she would miss. But when she was studying, she was in control. When she didn’t know a word, she could look it up. If a problem was difficult, she could do it again and again until she had it right. And she was good at memorizing things. It was almost as though studying enabled her to slow down the world, to pick out of the air things that would otherwise fly past, and hold and examine and incorporate them. She needed to study-not just because of how isolated she felt at school, but because of how powerless she was in the Lone house.

A few times, Mr. Lone’s brother Ezra, the senator, came from Washington to visit. He was tall and bald like Mr. Lone and had the same wide-set eyes, but whereas Mr. Lone was stocky, Senator Lone was trim and fit-looking. When Mr. Lone introduced them, Senator Lone stooped and shook her hand. “I am so delighted to meet you, young lady,” he said. “I’ve heard your progress has been remarkable. Under any circumstances, but especially following an ordeal like yours.”

She had to consciously keep from wrinkling her nose in disgust at the mention of her “ordeal.” And he sounded like his brother-another mark against him.

“Thank you, Senator,” she said, having been coached by Mr. Lone to call him that. “It’s very nice to meet you, too.” It wasn’t hard to say. She was getting good at lying, at saying the right words so other people couldn’t know what she was really thinking.

She glanced over at a man standing behind and slightly to the right of the senator. The man was watching her with an odd expression-both intense and dispassionate, as though she was an exotic bug he had pulled from under a log in the jungle and was now examining with detached fascination. The way he was standing, she sensed he was with the senator, though in what capacity she didn’t know. He was short, but heavily muscled, with a neck that looked as thick as a thigh and ears that protruded from beneath a blond crew cut. He was wearing a suit, but didn’t seem comfortable in it the way Mr. Lone and the senator seemed in theirs. For some reason, even though he didn’t have a uniform or a gun, he reminded her of the Thai soldiers who sometimes passed by the hill tribe villages looking for opium growers.

Senator Lone glanced back. “Oh, I’m sorry. This is my legislative aide, Matthias Redcroft. Matthias is the unsung hero behind all my legislative accomplishments-my right-hand man. Matthias, this is Livia, my new niece.”

Matthias smiled and extended his hand. “Hello, Livia.”

Although they looked nothing alike, when the man smiled he reminded Livia so much of Skull Face that a wave of nausea coursed through her. She shook his hand and managed to stammer out, “It’s nice to meet you.” And then she excused herself to go to the bathroom, where she washed her hands with the hottest water she could stand.

Twice a week, when Mrs. Lone was out with her bridge club, Mr. Lone would come into Livia’s room. If she was already in the bathroom, it would start there. If she was studying on her bed, she would walk to the bathroom ahead of him. There was something about the bathroom he seemed to like. She would undress as though getting ready to shower, and he would open his pants and watch her while he touched himself. It was important to him that she look at his face the whole time. He would say the same strange things to her-trust was so important, and he would never hurt her, but he was taking care of her and she owed him this much and really it was only a little considering how generous he had been and how he had brought her into his house and under his protection and made her his daughter-while he touched himself faster and faster. And then his face would contort and he would moan, and the slime would come out and spill to the tiled floor. Then he would sag against the sink, panting, while Livia balled up toilet paper, wiped up the slime, and flushed it down the toilet. Then he would close his pants and tell her he was so glad they trusted each other the way they did, that she was obeying him the way she did, the way she should. And that Nason was all right, and he was doing all he could.

She still didn’t know whether to believe him about Nason. But she was afraid of what she might do if she thought he was lying. She might just despair-stop eating, stop drinking, stop caring about anything. Or she might take a knife from the kitchen and hide it in the bathroom and stab it into his belly again and again while he was opening up his pants. And then use it on herself.

So she told herself that probably he was telling the truth about Nason, or at least not completely lying. He was rich and powerful, wasn’t he? And friends with the chief of police? With a brother who was a senator? So many people seemed afraid of him, or in awe of him. A man like that would have ways of finding someone, if he wanted to.

There was so much she didn’t know or understand, but she wasn’t stupid. She knew he might be holding back information about Nason to make Livia more cooperative. But her need to believe about Nason was so strong that she could endure what he liked to do in the bathroom. It was disgusting, but not as disgusting as what Skull Face and his men had made her do. It would happen, and then he would leave, and she would get dressed and lie down on her bed and study even harder. The bathroom became just another secret, something to close up and hide in a dark mental box, alongside the hate she kept there.