Fake: Book One of the Crossroads Series

by Lori Saltis

  Dad nods.

  I manage not to do a fist pump.

  Tony rejoins us. Dad reaches for a lantern set in an alcove. He twists the wick to brighten the flame. “Follow directly behind me. The caves go for miles and it’s easy to get lost.” He lifts the lantern, illuminating a narrow opening at the back of the chamber.

  I almost step on Dad’s heels, I’m so eager to get inside. When we reach the opening Dad stops and turns. Tony remains in place, his arms folded tight.

  “Son,” Dad’s voice is gentle. “Come with us.”

  Tony shifts the cooler to his other shoulder. Is Big Brother actually fidgeting? Today is full of firsts.

  “Your father’s actions have nothing to do with you,” Dad continues. “It was his disgrace not yours. Now, come. We need you with us.”

  Tony ducks his head and hurries to join us. I keep my face blank. I know the last thing he wants is sympathy. We walk through a narrow passageway to another small chamber. The lantern’s light flickers off the stone surface. I squint. Is there some sort of pattern on one of the walls?

  Dad twists the wick again, revealing not a pattern, but series of drawings. I take a few steps closer. It’s a man demonstrating the different stances of a martial form. He has long hair and a mustache, and wears loose trousers, a short tunic and a pair of boots. There’s writing beneath the drawings, but it’s difficult to read without getting closer. Dad lifts the lantern to better illuminate the wall. “Do you recognize the form?”

  I examine the position of the man’s feet and the angle of his body, how he propels himself forward. “It’s the Swift Step.”

  “All of our clan’s martial forms are drawn on the walls of these caverns. That’s why it’s forbidden for anyone but a chosen few to enter past the altar.”

  I scratch my leg to keep from glancing back at Tony. It must feel like crap having to view the scene of his father’s crime. I don’t know the whole story. Only that Second Elder had caught Uncle George in the caverns, taking pictures with his phone. Why did he do it? The rumor is he’d stacked up major gambling debts. Rival clans would pay top dollar to learn the Two Dragon Clan’s secret martial skills. Uncle George knew the penalty for such a betrayal. He has no place in our clan anymore.

  “Come.” Dad turns from the wall and heads for a passage leading to a rough stone stairway.

  We follow Dad through a series of tunnels and chambers, stopping often so he can point out the drawings on the walls. As we walk, our footsteps echo around us. After a while, I hear another sound, faint at first before becoming distinct, the sound of rushing water. A cool breeze blows through the passageway. I suck in the fresh air and look up. I can make out the rock formations above. The farther we go, the lighter it becomes until Dad no longer needs the lantern. The passageway gets wider until we enter a large chamber filled with light coming from gaps in the rocks above. Greenery creeps around the edges of a passageway that looks to lead to the outside world.

  Dad takes me to a wall with a drawing of a life-sized man, the same man as in the other drawings. He stands with his legs parted, knees slightly bent, one hand balled into a fist at his side, the other thrust palm outward. The Dragon Shout. There are two smaller depictions beside him. In one, he stands in the same stance before a large boulder. In the second drawing, the boulder is reduced to rubble.

  “The guy in the drawings, is he Jade Dragon?” I ask.

  He shakes his head. “It’s the first Dragon Son, Lau Chao Zong. He posed while Jade Dragon drew the forms.”

  My mouth drops open. “Jade Dragon was an artist?”

  “Jade Dragon had many abilities.” Dad’s tone makes it clear the conversation is over.

  I started drawing when I was a kid and everyone thought it was cute. After I became a teen, it stopped being cute and became a waste of time, according to them. That’s why I have to hide my sketchbook from almost everyone. They don’t want to hear that drawing isn’t just a hobby for me or that it’s something I need to do.

  I climb a pile of rocks that form a crude platform to get closer to the main drawing. Had Jade Dragon knelt here when he sketched his son’s face? Although the lines had faded, Lau Chao Zong’s stern mouth and determined gaze still show his personality. Jade Dragon had used his artistic abilities to aid the clan. I could do the same. Is this the right time to say something to Dad? Would there be a better time? I take a breath and shift around.

  Dad is looking at Tony. “Son, come closer. He’s your ancestor as much as ours.”

  Tony hesitates before joining him, his head bowed as if he can’t look our ancestor in the eye.

  Dad grips Tony’s shoulder. “You must stop carrying this burden. Your father is responsible.” He pauses and closes his eyes. His next words are a whisper. “The guilt is his.”

  All right, already. Can everyone please get past Uncle George and his epic fail? I sigh and face the first Dragon Son. No, they can’t. It’s the kind of failure that will be talked about for generations. For a moment, I almost feel sorry for my uncle. He got married before Dad. Had a son before Dad, but nothing is going to change the fact that Dad is the Dragon Son and he isn’t.

  I hoist myself up another level and crane my neck. Is there some kind of shelf behind the drawing of the Dragon Shout? I squeeze between two boulders and peer into the dark enclosure. Cool. Maybe Jade Dragon or his son hid some secret scrolls in there. I wriggle my way inside, groping around the tight enclosure, but all I come up with is dust.

  “Son, what are you doing up there?”

  I cough. “Nothing.” I squirm back out and climb down to join him and Tony. “Are we going back to the Ancestral Hall?”

  “No. We’re staying here for the week.”

  “The whole week?”

  Dad points at a tarp covering a heap of stuff against the wall. Tony pulls away the tarp like a magician, revealing cots, sleeping bags, lanterns and plastic containers that hopefully hold more food. If it weren’t for all the bullshit with Head Elder, I’d think this whole thing was pretty damn cool.

  “There’s a pool in the next cavern,” Dad says. “We’ll use that to bathe and the stream running into it for water.” I open my mouth. “We’ll relieve ourselves outside.” I close my mouth. “During the week, you will learn the Dragon Shout, how to find your way through the caverns, and-” he reaches under his T-shirt and pulls a gold chain from around his neck, “-how to wield the Yang Pearl.”

  A coiled dragon pendant dangles from the chain, its center set with a shimmering pearl, the largest piece from Jade Dragon’s great pearl.

  I hold my breath while Dad drapes the chain around my neck. As the amulet lies against my chest, I feel a surge of power, like an electric shock. With careful fingers, I lift the amulet and stare into the depths of the Yang Pearl. Something brushes my mind, like the Silent Speech, but it’s not Dad or Tony. It’s something huge with glistening scales that coil as it moves through air and water.

  I gasp. The connection breaks. My heart pounds. I look at my father with wide eyes.

  Dad nods. “Jade Dragon.”

  Chapter 5

  Penny

  This morning’s sticky note reads: Penny Sparrow gives lousy head and includes a crude drawing of a cock and balls. On the Crossroads, this would be the same as challenging me to a duel. Whoever did this would step forward and we’d settle things with our fists. I don’t know what Bleaters are supposed to do. Cry? Not bloody likely. Peach? Sharpers don’t snitch. Sucking it up seems to be the only alternative and it’s making me hate myself, almost as much as I hate whoever is doing this.

  As I walk down the hall, I hear whispers.

  “Slut.”

  “Whore.”

  I spin around.

  Three of the Daisy Chain stroll by, their arms linked and their mouths pursed into mean little smiles.

  I stand my ground. “Say that to my face.”

  They look at me like I’m dipped in shit and continue on in snotty silence. With their backs to me, they b
urst into high-pitched giggles and one says, “She’s so weird.”

  Kids passing in the hall stare at me, some with pity, while others look quickly away as if what I have is contagious. What do I have? Why do these girls hate me? Is it about Kevin Anderson? I haven’t done anything with him, or any other boy for that matter. The warning bell rings, jangling my nerves.

  I’m still seething when I drop into my desk in English Lit. Ms. Chang starts out with a pop quiz on Macbeth, which I ace. My mouth twists as I think of Bill’s words about my education. He doesn’t know shite. I’ve been reading Shakespeare for years. Matthew and I would act out the scenes for our family.

  While Ms. Chang grades papers, she tells us to read Twelfth Night. I open my notebook and start drawing costumes for Viola and her twin brother, Sebastian. The whole play revolves around everyone getting those two confused for each other because back in the day, a woman would never dress like a man. I start with a basic sketch of both characters in leggings, thigh high boots, and short, belted tunics. My lip curls. Too boring. I draw fitted biker jackets over the tunics and give the twins spiky Mohawks with long, braided tails. Much better.

  A shadow falls across the page. I look up. Ms. Chang smiles as she hands me the graded quiz, until she glances down at the notebook. She huffs before she speaks. “I said read, Penny, not draw.”

  “I’m drawing Viola and Sebastian.” Matthew would have loved that answer. Ms. Chang looks at me like I’m speaking a foreign language. “I’ve already read Twelfth Night.”

  Ms. Chang huffs again. Then she clicks her pen, scratches out the ‘A’ on the quiz and replaces it with a ‘B.’

  Typical Bleater. No idea of fair play. The quiz crumples in my fist. It would feel so good to hurl it at her stiff back. With any luck, I’d get expelled. Then I think of Bill’s reaction. He wouldn’t shut up about it for weeks – no, months. I shred the quiz in my lap. After the bell rings, I toss the pieces into the trash on my way out the door.

  This is all Bridie’s fault. She went to primary school in Ireland for a couple years and told us how she’d been called a dirty gyppo, and that the teachers expected her to be stupid. Did she think it would be any different for me? How could she dump me into this hateful place, all for the sake of an easy life?

  For Strowlers, education of the Bleater variety comes last. Working and fighting come first and we start learning both at an early age. Work includes anything from manual labor to parting Bleaters from their gelt with a bit of shammery. Musical talent is encouraged if you can earn a living from it. We learn these skills from our elders, not from people like Ms. Chang, who are paid to act like they give a toss when they don’t.

  Other Crossroads clans have different policies on education, like the Two Dragon Clan. Matthew caused a huge stink when he dropped out of Oxford to be a wide boy, living by his wits on the Wayward Way. With all his smarts, it seemed a waste for him not to teach Kai and me a thing or two. Bridie and Gerry sat in on some of the lessons since it’s difficult to write lyrics when you’re basically illiterate. Everything we learned applied to our lives and it was such a good life. At night, we’d perform on stage as Wild Sky, playing a fusion of Celtic folk, rock and punk. During the day, the adults would work odd jobs or shams while I sewed and took care of Kai. We never had much money, but so what? Who needs money when you have happiness? Has Bridie forgotten all about that?

  I can’t stand another minute in this hellhole. Unfortunately, my next class is U.S. History and Mr. Cole always takes attendance. I’ll have to wait for gym to cut class. The P.E. instructors are too lazy to do anything except pretend to pay attention while we muck about on the field. I haven’t been caught yet. All I have to do is slip out of the dressing room, through the parking lot, across the street and I’m in Golden Gate Park, easy as you like.

  There’s no note when I get to my locker. The Daisy Chain needs to rub all their brain cells together for an entire day before they can come up with the next insult. Whoever is doing the dirty work seems to know my schedule since I haven’t been able to catch her. Yet. When I do, there’ll be hell to pay and I’m the devil.

  “Hey, Penny.” Kayla Hipp comes up beside me and turns the combination at the next locker.

  Kayla is all right. She’s not a friend, but she talks to me when we’re at the lockers. I glance at the sticky note at the center of the wall of insults: no one likes you. Maybe I need to try harder. I smile. “Hey.”

  “I love your outfit,” she says as she pulls out her U.S. History book.

  “Thanks.” It’s important for Strowlers to look flash when going out among the Bleaters. No one knows my blouse was rescued from a thrift store pile for ninety-nine cents. I’d cut off the sleeves and the collar, and those ridiculous shoulder pads, but left the frilly material down the front. I made the skirt from a gorgeous paisley print I’d found in a fabric store remnant bin. Ankle-length, it suits me just fine and looked rum with the blouse. I finished the outfit with a black, fringed scarf.

  “Did you make it?”

  “Most of it.”

  “I love the scarf. Did you make that, too?”

  I finger the beaded fringe as I nod. I knew it’d turned out rum.

  Kayla stares at the small mirror attached to her locker door. Her index finger smears the thick black eyeliner rimming her lids. She likes dressing different, too – sort of Goth. Today, she’s wearing black leggings and a huge, black baggy T-shirt printed with a red cartoon skull. “I wish I could sew.”

  “You can. Anyone can. You should take sewing with me next semester. Ms. Gagliardi is a really good teacher. You can do any kind of project you like, even knitting.”

  She gives a wistful sigh. “I’d love to know how to knit.”

  “It’s easy. I can teach you.” I gnaw my lip. The next step would be to invite her home, but I can’t. When we first moved in, Bill stated there would be no friends allowed in his house. He doesn’t want the mess. His words. Teenagers, to him, mean mess. He’s such a bellend.

  “Hey, Penny.” Speaking of bellends. I don’t turn, but that doesn’t stop Kevin Anderson. “Hanging out with Hippo?”

  Kayla’s shoulders hunch. Her cheeks redden. Hurt fills her eyes.

  “Penny. Hey. Why you hanging with Fat-ass Hippo?”

  “Ignore him. He’s a knob.” I pull out my American History book and shove it in my bag. “Did Mr. Cole give us homework yesterday? I couldn’t tell.”

  Kayla clears her throat. Her voice shakes. “He wanted us to watch that show about George Washington on KQED last night.”

  “I know. I mean, besides that.”

  “My buddies want you to meet them in the park,” Kevin calls out.

  Now, that I can’t ignore. I start to turn.

  Kayla catches my arm. “Kevin’s been telling everyone you met him in the park.”

  “I didn’t meet him. I ran into him when I was cutting gym yesterday.” He’d waved a handful of his endless supply of tiny liquor bottles. One of his parents must work for an airline. “He told me to come over and I told him to fuck off.”

  “He told everyone you went down on him.”

  Penny Sparrow gives lousy head.

  I drop my book bag and spin around.

  Kevin stands in the midst of his usual crew of toadies. I’ve overheard girls talk about how cute he is. All I can see is a face too red, hair too blond and a mind too small. His mouth is fixed in a smirk and his eyes glint blue cruelty.

  Gerry taught me never to reveal my hand in a card game or a fight, so I show a poker face and speak cold. “You said I went down on you?”

  He shrugs.

  “Say it’s a lie.”

  “Why should I?”

  I stride up to Kevin and look him in the eye as I enunciate each word, “Say. It’s. A. Lie.”

  He makes a sucking sound followed by a gulp.

  My fist connects with his jaw. His head snaps back. I punch him in the gut and he falls backward, landing on his arse with a hard bounce. Pain s
hoots through my hand. I haven’t hit anyone in a long time and it never felt so good before. My heart beats faster and I have to restrain myself from kicking him while he’s down.

  Silence falls over the hall. Kevin’s crew stares down at him with gaping mouths.

  I return to my locker and a wide-eyed Kayla. “Yeah, I watched that show.” I reach for my bag. “It was kind of boring.”

  “Come back here, bitch. I’m gonna kick your ass!” Kevin uses his toadies to claw his way back to his feet.

  I sigh. Bad day to wear a long skirt. I’ll have to fight my way around it. I tug up my skirt, tucking it into the waistband.

  Alarm shows in his eyes, chased by relief as the bell rings. He calls out over his shoulder as he scurries down the hall. “In the parking lot. After school.”

  “I’ll be there,” I shout after him. I slam my locker shut. “Shite. Now I can’t cut gym.”

  Kayla blinks. “You’re not going to fight him, are you?”

  “Of course I am. I accepted his challenge. I can’t back down now.”

  “Where did you learn to hit like that?”

  I bite my lip. Time to fake and work the sham that keeps me from saying I’d been raised to fight. “I took a boxing class in Ireland.”

  Kayla’s eyes narrow skeptically. “They teach boxing at school in Ireland?”

  “No, at a gym.”

  “Oh.”

  As we head down the hall toward history class, other students stare and whisper. News travels fast. Kayla gazes at the other kids before casting a quick, guilty glance at me. Then she speeds up so we no longer walk together.

  No one likes you.

  My throat tightens. Why did I even try? Am I that lonely? I don’t want to think about the answer, so I walk even faster, bypassing Kayla to get to class first.

  I take my usual seat in the back. Kayla sits beside another Goth girl in the middle row. People are eyeing me as they cackle to each other. My cheeks burn, but I hold my head up proud. I’ve done what none of them dared and stood up to a common footpad. If my bravery in the face of their bleating cowardice makes me a pariah, so be it.