by Sara Hosey
The woman reached out for the photo. I watched her look at the picture and unconsciously run her tongue over a sore on her upper lip. She caught me looking and narrowed her eyes at me. She handed the photo back to the first guy, who looked at it again. “Nah, but I know the people to ask. How long you been looking for her?”
“Just a little while,” I said. “But I haven’t seen her in a long time,” I corrected. The photo was passed to the gray man who looked at it and then looked at me and smiled an awful, ugly grin before holding the picture out to me.
When I reached to take the photo, he pulled it back.
“Hey!”
“Something for something. You want something, you gotta give me something,” he said, and actually licked his lips.
I looked around. The woman snorted herself into a coughing fit and the first guy looked off into the distance, like he was bored.
“Give it back,” I squeaked. My throat and lungs were filled with tears, but I wouldn’t let them out.
“And what are you gonna give me?” the creepy gray man said, smiling even more broadly.
“Chill, man,” the first guy said, still looking into the distance. “Give the kid her picture.”
The gray man cut his eyes at the first man. “I was just playing.” He held the picture between two fingers before releasing it, watching it swoop down, gliding onto the dusty ground. I stooped and snatched it up, never taking my eyes off the gray man.
“Listen,” the first guy said, “don’t pay him no mind. I’m Danny,” he said. “What’s your name, mami?”
I just stared for a minute, ready to bolt, but unsure of myself. I didn’t know how to answer.
“Brenda,” I spluttered. Brenda? What was wrong with me? Why had I named myself after the girl on 90210?
“Brenda, you know what your sister would be calling herself? Like, what name she’d be going by? ’Cause I can ask around. You know?”
“I don’t know,” I told him. It hadn’t occurred to me that she wouldn’t use her real name. “Um … Cristina is her name. So, I guess …” I trailed off.
“Well, if I come up with anything, where’m I gonna find you?”
“I’ll be around.” I started to back away. “Thanks.”
“So long, Brenda,” Danny called. When I felt I had gotten far enough away, I started to run.
I knew the dog had waited, because I heard her running behind me as I moved through the woods.
Chapter 7
“You should be thanking me. You’re so ugly. You should be thanking me.”
The way that man had looked at me, it brought it back in a way that left me unsteady. I felt nauseous and light-headed. Those picnic table people had smelled. The one had looked at me like he wanted to hurt me. They had laughed at me.
Of course they didn’t recognize the picture. Had I really thought it was going to be that easy?
I got a small campfire going. Maybe my stomach was upset ’cause I hadn’t eaten enough. But I wasn’t hungry, exactly. Actually, I was always hungry in a low, humming way ever since I got to the park, but I’d also been feeling a little sick in a way that was starting to make me nervous. Maybe I was about to start my period—it was supposed to be any time now.
I’d make myself a hot meal. It would smell good, I decided, and then I’d want to eat it. I put a pot of beans close to the flames.
I stared into the fire, watching those beans cook and sizzle and bubble and thinking about my stepbrother. I hadn’t let myself think about him, not really, not straight on, since I’d left. “What are you going to do about it?” he’d sneer at me. “Yo, you should be thanking me.”
I thought about my stepmother. Sucking her lips at me, telling me she’d be happy to throw my skanky ass out on the street. Blaming me, looking at me. “You stay outta his room,” she’d said to me, her lips twisted in contempt.
Like I wanted to go in there.
I thought about my father. Turning away from me. “Shut the fuck up,” my father said—to everyone, all the time. To the guy on the news, to my stepmother, to me, even if I wasn’t trying to say anything at all. “Shut the fuck up.”
My father was a doorman in the city. For hours on hours he tilted his head, smiled, and said, “Welcome home, sir,” and “Good to see you, ma’am.” And then he came back to the apartment and said, “Shut the fuck up.”
I felt my face frowning as I stared into the fire.
I heard a branch snap, like in the movies or something, and I sensed that someone was there, just behind me and to the right. Then there was a guy, straight up leering at me.
It was the same small bald gray man from the picnic table.
“Found you!” he kind of chirped, his lips pulling back so he was baring his small gray teeth.
I had been going over scenarios in my head for so long, about what I would do when someone tried to bother me. Scream. Run. Punch them in the neck. But it didn’t help, all that thinking. It might’ve even made things worse. I was totally paralyzed, except for dropping the stick I was poking the fire with into the embers.
“Dinner?” said the guy. I suddenly realized that he was holding a mean-looking knife at his side, pointed at the ground. It flashed into my head that I had seen knives like that in the Army Navy Store, knives for gutting fish, but I hadn’t bought one.
It also flashed into my head that my mace, which I actually did buy at the Army Navy Store, was in my backpack, on the other side of the fire.
I reached out slowly to grab the pot of beans, which were getting too hot and making popping noises.
I felt myself nodding, like I was agreeing to something.
I should run, I thought. I stared into the fire and imagined myself, as though I was watching the scene in a movie: a skinny, dark-haired girl, alone in the woods in the park. He would touch me, he would grab me with those small, cruel hands. His breath would be rotten. And that knife. That knife that was made for slicing things open.
I needed to do something, to jump up, yell for help, anything. I needed to wake myself up, get up some courage, and fast. But the best I could muster was to mumble, “Leave me alone,” into the fire.
And in that moment, as though from a distance, I saw it all as so terribly unfair. Why? I couldn’t help but wonder. Why me? Why won’t they all just leave me alone?
He took a step closer.
“You just relax,” he said low, smiling. “We’re gonna have us a good time,” and he took another step and he brought up the knife and he reached out and grabbed me by the hair.
He yanked me up and, as he did so, I finally broke out of my daze. I was still holding the pot of beans and, as I rose, I pulled my arm back and whaled the side of his head with it. The pot clanked and fell to the ground; he made a weird, strangled noise and released me.
I ducked away and looked at him. His face was covered in the hot beans; he had dropped the knife so he could frantically wipe at his eyes. I could tell it hurt, but it was also clear that he was surprised and maybe even a little embarrassed.
But that didn’t stop him from lunging at me again. Just as he was about to make contact, though, my black dog came flying out from the trees. Literally flying. She launched at him, snarling and ripping at his shoulder. It was like nothing I’d ever seen. I just stood there, stunned.
The man let out a high-pitched scream. The dog growled from where she landed in a crouch at the edge of the fire. The man flailed and kicked his leg out at her. She barked at him, her body inching forward with each bark.
Quickly, I scooted over to the other side of the fire, closer to my backpack.
“What the—? Get that dog away from me!” He was scared now. Angry, but scared. It was like she pinned him with her gaze, and he couldn’t take his eyes off her.
Suddenly, I imagined a different ending to this scenario.
Emboldened, I
crouched down and grabbed my backpack. “You shoulda left us alone,” I growled.
It all happened so fast. The guy was there, clutching his arm, looking, frankly, shocked. His shirt was ripped, but I didn’t see any blood, so I wasn’t sure if she had bitten him or what. I saw him look to his knife, nearby on the ground.
In what felt like one motion I unzipped my bag, reached in, and grabbed the pepper spray. From where I was squatting I aimed the pepper spray through the flames and up at the man, so that when I pressed down, the spray created a brief, huge fireball that leapt up and engulfed the guy. His mouth was an O; his face, lit and surrounded, looked like something out of a horror movie. He jumped backward, screaming, the front of his shirt on fire. He hit the ground and started flailing and rolling.
I think he actually screamed something like, “Why are you doing this to me?”
I took two paces around the fire and then I hit him with the pepper spray itself—no fire this time. I sprayed him, hard and long, in his bean-covered face. He had rolled onto his side into a fetal position, with his hands over his face, but I crouched down and sprayed him again anyway. His face, from what I could see through his fingers, was puckered against my rage.
I kicked him, feeling his torso both soft and solid through my sneaker. Whatever, I wasn’t even that strong. But it felt good to kick him, to kick this creep, this would-be rapist, this terrible man.
I had had enough. I had just had enough. So, after I sprayed him good, good enough that he had to stop screaming and close his mouth shut, I kicked him, all right. More than once.
And then I picked up his terrible knife, stuffed my loose gear into a black garbage bag and grabbed my backpack, fortunately with my tent still packed in it, and said, “Come on, dog,” and we crashed off into the woods.
Chapter 8
I could hear the dog as I ran. It sounded like she was running circles around me.
“You’re my guardian angel,” I panted as we ran. “That’s what I’m gonna call you,” I said, “Angel.”
I had never been so scared in my life. I was almost high, dizzy, but I also felt very clear and like I could go on running forever. And I started laughing too. Not to be too callous, but I kept thinking about the beans and the fireball and the dog and it was all just so crazy it made me laugh.
I was laughing so hard that I had to stop running and then—bending over, my hands on my knees, somehow, I don’t know how or when—I was crying.
My chest was heaving and I lost my breath and I doubled over completely. It was almost like throwing up, I was crying so hard, and it was just pouring out of me, I was heaving on the ground and I was actually scared of myself, for myself.
I didn’t even know if the dog was nearby anymore. I was only aware, really, of myself, of the animal noises I was making, the grunting and howling and screaming.
In my life before, I had cried—on the couch, in the shower, in a bathroom stall at school—but it had always been stifled and quiet, my eyes squeezed shut and my hands in fists.
This was something else entirely. It was completely beyond my own control. I surrendered.
When it subsided, I found myself lying on my side on the ground.
The dog nosed me, as though to check if I was alive.
I was exhausted.
I lifted my arm and she put her neck beneath it. She let herself be pulled toward me.
My eyes were suddenly so heavy. But my stomach growled, this discomfort keeping me alert.
We stayed like that for a while, on the ground together. When I finally sat up, the leaves were plastered to my face and I noticed for the first time how bad I smelled. I didn’t mind, really, I almost sort of liked the smell. I’d been washing up in the park bathrooms, but they all have those faucets that only stay on for ten seconds after you push the button. Probably to discourage people like me from using those sinks as their primary means of bathing.
But with all the crying and the sweating and the leaves … it was time, I thought, for a shower. I didn’t know, exactly, where I was in the park, but I started walking again, and the dog followed. When I got my bearings, I picked up my stuff and headed toward a playground.
Angel walked alongside me and she did this thing where she jumped up at me playfully and then just kept walking along like nothing had happened—like a friendly push. It was as though she was trying to cheer me up or something. It was pretty cute.
There were teenagers smoking on the monkey bars when we got to the playground, so me and the dog hung back in the trees, waiting for them to disperse. I sat on the ground and she let me pet her. I started getting sleepy, so I put my head on the backpack and kept one hand on the dog and closed my eyes. I dozed a bit, I guess, and when I woke up the teenagers were gone. Angel was sleeping, but she opened one eye when I sat up and started to dig around in the pack for the soap.
I went over to the big frog statues that served as sprinklers. It was the kind that you have to push a button and then it only stays on for a minute or two. I put my head right up to the frog’s mouth to get my hair wet, to splash my face. The dog trotted over to see what I was doing and take a few licks at a puddle, but she kept her distance from the sprinklers.
Even though the night was humid, the cold water gave me a chill and I worked fast, lathering up my hair, my face, my armpits. I kept my clothes on—even though no one was around, I was not about to get naked—but I thought I did a pretty good job cleaning up. I only wished I had a towel. As we walked through the park on the way back to my tent, the wet clothes were cool and nice on my skin. Angel kept darting over to lick the water as it dripped down my leg, tickling me, making me laugh.
As we walked to where I had some food stowed, I began to consider that Angel would be a mixed blessing. Having her with me would complicate things, that was for sure. I had thought that if it ever got bad enough, I could go to a shelter or even turn myself in. But now that was out of the question. I had to worry about what would happen to her if something happened to me. If I got beat up or died or something, she wouldn’t understand; she’d be confused, like I had abandoned her. I couldn’t even think about that, about letting her down like that.
I packed away the creepy guy’s ugly knife. I didn’t know if I would ever use it, but at least he didn’t have it anymore.
Angel and I shared a can of cold lentils.
Before I knew it, the birds started their racket.
And then it was dawn.
Chapter 9
Days later, I spoke soothingly as I tied the cord around Angel’s neck. “Listen,” I said, gazing into her eyes. “It’s just for walking outside of the park. So you don’t get hit by a car or scare anybody or anything. You know, so people know we’re together.” I smiled and she wagged her tail.
She seemed accustomed to walking on a leash, confirming for me that she had been somebody’s dog once upon a time. She trotted along next to me as I led her out of the park to a pay phone I had spotted several weeks back—one that actually worked.
I had had what I thought was an inspired plan the night before, lying on the ground next to Angel. I was determined to execute it as soon as possible.
“I’m continuing my campaign to ruin his life,” I told Angel. “If it isn’t ruined already.”
I held on to the cord with one hand while I picked up the receiver and dialed the number from the flyers I had seen all over the park: 1-800-577-TIPS.
It rang twice and then I had to go through one of those menus: hang up and dial 911 if this is an emergency, that sort of thing. The waiting made me nervous; I was ready to just forget the whole thing.
I made myself remember. “You should be thanking me,” he had said. “You’re so ugly, you should be thanking me.”
I held on.
Finally, I got an operator.
“Crime Stoppers,” a woman answered. “Do you have any information about a c
rime that you’d like to report?”
“Hi,” I said. “Hi,” I repeated, unsure. “Um, yes. Yes, I do.”
“Would you like to give me your name and contact information or would you like to remain anonymous?” The woman on the other end sounded tired, disinterested, far away. In my mind I saw her as the stereotype of the bored receptionist, cradling the phone on her shoulder while she filed her nails. And I also saw me as someone else: a character in a movie, someone bolder than me, someone older and smarter and less afraid. I hadn’t even intended to do it, but pretending I was someone else for those few minutes allowed the words to come easily, to spill out of me and into the receiver and into the ear of a woman sitting, I imagined, at a metal desk in room dimly lit and smelling of burnt coffee.
“I’d rather not say,” I said, breathily, conspiratorially. “He’s dangerous.”
“Go on,” she drawled.
I gave the address of the apartment. “That’s where he lives. He deals drugs. All kinds: heroin, crack, coke, pot.”
“And how do you have this information, ma’am?”
“I’ve been there. It’s all in his room. There’s stuff out in the open but he also hides it, like, in his bedposts. Like, they’re hollow. The tops screw off. Does that make sense?”
“Yes, ma’am, I understand.”
“And under the bed too. And there’s other, like, criminal paraphernalia in there. Weapons and other stuff.”
“And you’ve witnessed this activity, ma’am?”
“Uh, yeah.”
“And when did you witness this activity?”
I actually laughed. “Like, every day.” I cleared my throat, turned serious again. “And there’s more.” Here is where I had hoped to seal the deal. “He looks like that guy on all the posters. The one who shot that lady? You know, the one they say to call about if you have any tips?”
“Are you referring to the shooting that took place in Brooklyn on March twenty-seventh?”