Fake: Book One of the Crossroads Series

by Lori Saltis

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Folly Chapter 1

  Copyright

  Forced to be fake, they fight to get real.

  Penny Sparrow is trapped in a lie. She’s a Strowler, a wanderer, forced to live as a Bleater, an ordinary person, for the sake of her family. Rebellion against her fake life leads to more misery as she’s bullied at school and suppressed at home. She makes an ally when she meets Lennon. This ragged street hustler is actually the heir of the Two Dragon Clan and the descendant of a powerful dragon. Murderous relatives have forced him into hiding. The two teens become friends, and perhaps something more, but will the laws of the Crossroads and the demands of a dragon tear them apart?

  The World of the Crossroads

  The Crossroads series chronicles a secret society of warriors, wanderers, beggars, and assassins. Opposing clans fight for supremacy, some with martial prowess and others with paranormal abilities. Penny is an outcast, shunned for her parents’ deeds. Lennon was born to rule, but murder and deceit put him on a quest for vengeance. Their enemies are powerful and the truth of what happened to their families could tear them apart. Meanwhile, a dragon with his own agenda watches over them all.

  Fake

  Book One of the Crossroads Series

  Lori Saltis

  Dedication

  I dedicate this book to my husband Khanh Nguyen. Thank you for introducing me to the rivers and lakes.

  Chapter 1

  Penny

  I get to school this morning and there’s a pink sticky note on my locker. It reads: dumbass.

  I rip off the note and stick it to the multicolored wall of insults inside.

  retard

  drink bleach

  go die

  You’re probably wondering how I got to be so popular. It’s because I’m fake.

  No, really. I am fake, and it makes me sick and angry enough to punch a hole in the wall, but I don’t. I can’t, because too much depends on me being a big fat phony. Since I can’t be real, I keep to myself. I’ve tried acting shy, but come off as stuck up. Maybe I am. I don’t want to be here and I can’t fake that. I didn’t try making friends and wound up with none. How can you have friends when you’re silent, have attitude and are considered to be a

  fuckin ugly ass ho

  That’s the first note. It appeared on my locker the day after Kevin Anderson came up to me during lunch, which went like this:

  Me: (munching sandwich and minding my own business).

  Arsehole named Kevin Anderson: (waving a tiny liquor bottle in front of my face like he’s offering a dog a biscuit) “Hey, Penny. Penny, right? C’mon, let’s go to the park.”

  Me: “Piss off.”

  Arsehole: “Do you know who I am?”

  Me: “Piss off.”

  Arsehole: (throwing gang signs that look more like spasms) “Bitch. I play football. You’re lucky I’m talking to you, bitch.”

  At first, I thought the notes were from him. Then I traced the giggles and sneers to the Daisy Chain, a crew of girls who are all on the same diet and shop at the same three clothing stores. Apparently, turning down booze being offered by Kevin Anderson is a crime punishable by cowardly acts of malice. There’s so little honor in this place. None of them has the mettle to have a go at me alone.

  I pull out a binder and see the sticky yellow note at the center of them all:

  no one likes you

  I know. And that’s how I want things. I’m reminded every time I open my locker to keep up my guard and trust no one.

  Sitting through class is pure torture, but not because no one likes me. Up until now, I’ve never been to school. Homework, notes, tests were completely alien to me. I had to figure it out on my own, which made me look a right gom. Letters were sent home stating that, “Parkside Academy is a Center for Educational Excellence!” There are no remedial classes and I needed to catch up or flunk out. My stepfather threatened me with a tutor, which lit a fire under me like nothing else. My grades are somewhat less sucky now.

  First period is English Lit with Ms. Chang, who doesn’t like me. I don’t take it personally because she doesn’t like anyone, including herself. She hates to lecture, so we do a lot of in-class reading, which is fine by me. I’m doing well in this class.

  Until today.

  We finish reading a chapter from Roots by Alex Haley, whose ancestors had been slaves. Instead of “surprising” us with the usual pop quiz, she announces, “We all have family. Tell me about yours. You can write about your nationality, ancestors or your family unit. I want a minimum of one page. Two pages for extra credit.”

  I stare at the blank paper for a long time. If I could, I’d walk out of this place and never come back. Instead, I put pen to paper and write the fake story of my life. Each stroke is like a needle scratching my skin.

  My name is Penny Sparrow and I was born in Ireland. I have a younger brother, Kai, who is twelve years old. I don’t know much about my father because he left my mother before I was born. The same thing happened with Kai’s father. We lived with our mother, Bridie, on our grandparents’ farm outside of Dublin. My mother is a singer and musician. She taught guitar and violin lessons to local kids. She met my stepfather, Bill, in a pub. He is an American from San Francisco. They got married and we moved here.

  All. Lies.

  Well, almost all. The parts that really matter.

  The rest of the day is one big slice of misery pie. I don’t stick around for after school activities because a) they’re shite; b) I’ll get picked on and c) I can’t fight back.

  The reason I can’t fight back comes home after work and browbeats my mother over his least favorite subject: me.

  “Do you know how much her tuition is setting me back? She needs to knuckle down and stop wasting my money.”

  Not their money. His money. I’m sixteen years old and I know how bad that sounds.

  “She is doing better, darling. She’s already finished her homework.” Bridie’s voice quivers against Bill’s bluster.

  “Finishing her homework is the bare minimum. She should be studying instead of sewing.” He raises his voice on the last word to make sure I can hear him over the whirr of my sewing machine. They’re in the hall outside my room. How could I not hear him? “And what about Kai? He can barely read.”

  “He can read.” Bridie’s voice falters. “He… he doesn’t like to.”

  “He’s flunked all his reading tests.”

  “I told you, darling, they were homeschooled. They’re not used to tests.”

  “Homeschooled.” Bill snorts. “Is that another word for running circles around you and doing what they want?”

  I grip the fabric too tight and my sewing machine makes a chewing sound. Bollocks. I’m not going to ruin my new skirt over a bottle-head like Bill. I loosen my hold and strai
ghten the seam to keep the stitches from going crooked.

  Kai slips into my room as I come to the end of the hem. He’s wearing a plaid flannel shirt and the denim waistcoat I’d made for him, with little pockets for his guitar picks. He plops onto my bed and whispers, “I can read.”

  “I know,” I whisper back.

  “Not that Bleater stuff in school. It’s too boring.”

  “I know.”

  He glances out the door. “Think he’ll let us go?”

  “I’m going whether he likes it or not.”

  “Yeah?”

  I shrug as if my stomach isn’t in knots.

  “I need them with me, darling.” Bridie’s voice sweetens and takes on a subtle, persuasive tone. “It’s supposed to be a family show. It’d be nice if you’d come along.”

  Kai and I exchange grins. Mum is turning on the Charm.

  “I don’t like bars,” Bill grumps.

  “It’s not a bar. It’s a pub. They serve some lovely meals. Remember, you had their chicken pot pie and thought it was delicious.”

  “I don’t know why you have to go at all. You’re not even getting paid.”

  Our grins fade. Bill’s pushback has been getting more insistent lately.

  Bridie’s voice remains cheery. “The tips are good.”

  “If the INS finds out about those tips…”

  “They won’t. I’ll be getting my green card soon and it won’t even matter.” I can almost see her teasing tap on his arm. Then she weaves her Charm with honey. “There’s a nice beef stew on the stove, cooked up special just for you, and a Newcastle in the fridge. We’ll have pudding when I get home.”

  Bill’s chuckle makes me puke in my throat.

  “Why don’t you come with? Wouldn’t you like to watch us perform?”

  I hold my breath.

  “Of course, but not tonight, I’m tired.”

  I exhale. You know the Charm is working when the mark believes he’s in charge, making the decisions.

  Bridie coos, “Long day at work? My poor darling. How about a shoulder rub?”

  Bill sighs. “That’d be nice.”

  Their footsteps echo in the stairwell.

  “We’re on.” Kai bounces off the bed and scampers out of my room.

  I close the door, though I want to slam it shut. Slam away the rage I feel at having a mother who won’t stand up for herself and insists we live this horrid, fake life. I yank my notebook out of my satchel and write what’s real.

  My name is Penny Sparrow and I am a Strowler. Strowlers are traveling people. Some call us Gypsies. Others call us worse things, like gyppos and pikeys. We don’t have nationalities. If you mean legally, I’m a citizen of Ireland, but I haven’t lived there much. We stick to our own kind and don’t deal much with Bleaters. That’s what we call ordinary people.

  Strowlers live on the Crossroads, which is sort of like a secret society of underground clans. On the Crossroads, there are two paths you can take: the Glory Road of righteousness or the Wayward Way of freedom. Things like divorce and being gay are forbidden on the Glory Road, which leads to my family.

  My mother, Bridie Sparrow, is thirty-three years old and has been married three times. My father, Gerry Kestrel, was her first husband. Strowlers marry young and they were no exception. She was sixteen. He was eighteen. They ran off to London to make a living as musicians. They woulda-coulda-shoulda — except for one thing: Gerry was gay. He told Bridie right after I was born. Nice timing, Da.

  Then they met Matthew Wong, a roving minstrel on the lam from the Two Dragon Clan. Gerry and Matthew became best mates. Bridie and Matthew became something more. They married right before Kai was born.

  We all lived in the same caravan, and survived by our music and our wits. It made for a glorious life, forsaking the laws and protection of clan to walk the Wayward Way, until Gerry and Matthew were murdered.

  Bridie became a toadeater with all the disgrace shoved down her throat. We lived on the edge of her parents’ mercy in the Nest they run outside Dublin. Strowler women shunned her, turning their backs rather than speak or even look at her. At night, their husbands would scratch at the door of our tiny caravan and promise money for services she refused to render. They’d curse her for a whore, regardless.

  Bridie wanted a ticket out, something that would restore her dignity. If that meant becoming the trophy wife of a visiting American businessman, so be it.

  So be it.

  Three horrid words that set in motion our fake lives. I’m not my mother. I won’t live a lie for the rest of my life. Somehow, I’m going to get us out of here and back to a place where we can be real.

  Chapter 2

  Paul

  “Does it still hurt?” asks Tony

  “No.” It itches like crazy, but I can’t say that, so I scratch my leg to keep from scratching my chest.

  Tony gives a single nod, barely moving his head. Anything more would be unmanly.

  Old Fong leans over me, his face hovering just below my chin. Close enough to catch a whiff of stale cigarette breath mixed with dentures. Rank. I want to squirm back in the chair. The vinyl surface sticks to my sweaty skin. Old Fong is too old school to use AC.

  He runs his calloused, nicotine-stained fingertips along the edges of the blue dragon tattooed over my heart. “Good. Completely healed. No scabs or scarring.”

  “When can he begin training again?”

  I roll my eyes. Not that I expect Tony to cut me an inch of slack.

  “Today.” Old Fong bows. “You are the last Dragon Son I shall tattoo.”

  “I’m not the Dragon Son yet,” I mutter.

  He speaks over me, “The one who replaces me shall have the honor of tattooing your son.”

  Son? I don’t even want to think about that. My skin peels off the chair as I slide forward. Neither Tony nor Nicotine Breath moves out of the way. Oh, yeah. I have to give face. I nod my head, just once. “I am honored by this distinction.”

  Old Fong grunts.

  Tony tosses my T-shirt into my lap. “Let’s go.”

  “Where?” I ask before tugging the shirt over my head.

  “Head Elder wants to see you.”

  My shoulders tense up. “What for?”

  My cousin frowns down on me. “Head Elder requires you go to him. You don’t question his commands.”

  “Okay, okay.” I slide off the chair and follow him outside.

  The tattoo studio is located on the second level of the front building in the Two Dragon Clan’s compound. There are five buildings altogether, each three-stories high and constructed almost 500 years ago with thick, mud-colored brick walls and black, ceramic-tiled roofs. A massive outer wall connects each structure, making the compound impenetrable for as long as it’s been in existence.

  The only entrance into the compound is through a gate leading to the interior courtyard of the front building. Back in the day, archers on the second and third levels would’ve mowed down enemies who breached that gate. Nowadays, the courtyard is used as a parking lot.

  My dad’s dark blue Mercedes is in its usual spot. This morning, he got a phone call during breakfast and was out the door in half an hour. From what I overheard, he went to Kowloon. No explanation why and I know better than to ask.

  “Hurry up,” Tony hollers from the stairwell.

  I trot after him like a good boy. We go downstairs and across the courtyard. The mid-afternoon sun bakes this part of the compound and the humid air needles my skin, making the tattoo sting. I can’t wait to get back to cold, foggy San Francisco, except I’m going to have to find a way to explain why I’m returning from summer vacation a month late and with a dragon tattoo. Maybe I’ll say I ran away to Amsterdam and got inked during a rave while floating on a cloud of ecstasy. It’s less crazy than the actual reason:

  Tradition.

  When you live on the Crossroads and walk the Glory Road, tradition is the be-all and end-all of existence. I’m not supposed to question any of it, not even
the wacky stuff. Like the tattoo? Five hundred years ago, my ancestor discovered he was a dragon when he turned fifteen.

  For. Real.

  I guess.

  Anyway, that’s why all the Two Dragon Clan men get tattooed, but not the women. At this point, I’m not entirely sure if that’s unfair or not. I poke at my itchy flesh. “When can I scratch my tattoo?”

  “Never,” says Tony.

  “You never scratch your tattoo?”

  He shakes his head.

  Ain’t he the shit? Always so damn perfect. Always the role model. As my paternal first cousin, he’s been the boss of me since I was born, my Big Brother. Hard to believe that will ever change, even after I become the Dragon Son.

  Tony stares straight ahead like a guy who kicks ass and takes names. I’m still growing and seriously hope to gain a couple of inches on Big Brother, but I’ll never have that square chin or high forehead and deep-set eyes. Tony is the one who got the Lau family looks. I wound up with my mom’s wide-set eyes, high-cheekbones and round chin. It makes me look soft, which I hate, but at least Mom doesn’t look like her father, Head Elder.

  My stomach twists. I whisper, “What do you think Head Elder wants?”

  “He probably wants to see your tattoo. See that it was done properly.”

  See that it was done properly? Kidding? Sometimes, Tony talks like he’s ninety instead of nineteen.

  “No way. Head Elder knows Old Fong doesn’t make mistakes.” We reach the archway at the end of the courtyard. Above us loom the rusting spikes of the old Iron Gate, which was meant to drop down and trap the intruders. “Something’s going on… maybe something to do with my dad going to Kowloon this morning.”