Fake: Book One of the Crossroads Series

by Lori Saltis

  I have eighty-two dollars after trading in my suit as part of the payment for a pair of frayed jeans, a black t-shirt with a faded Metallica logo, and a thick, hooded army jacket with patched elbows and lots of pockets.

  Outside, I pull up the hood, but still feel exposed. I don’t have a clue how to cut and dye my hair, or change my face. I continue down the street until I come to one of those stores that sells cheap, trendy shit to teenagers. Inside, I find a red and black striped slouchy beanie and a pair of round, John Lennon-style glasses with tinted lenses. After putting them on, I study my reflection. I look more wannabe than punk. Then I spot some fake septum rings in the display case. I stick a plain metal one in my nose and, damn, it’s amazing how something so small can change how you look.

  Now I’m less visible, but I still gotta figure out where to go. A lot of homeless people are squatting in the abandoned buildings off Market Street, which means that’s the first place Tony will look. I need to find someplace less obvious, where I can blend in. Above the counter are old posters from the hippie days. One of them has big, groovy letters that read, ‘Haight-Ashbury.’ I tug the beanie so it covers my hair and head out the door.

  Chapter 13

  Paul

  I get off the bus at the corner of Haight and Ashbury. Now what? I don’t want to stand here looking stupid, so I start walking. I need to find a place where I can sit and think, but I’ve never been in this neighborhood and don’t have a clue where to go. The storefronts are bright and colorful, trying to lure in customers with hippie nostalgia.

  I don’t see any hippies. There are a lot of homeless people. Some of them hold up cardboard signs pleading for help, while others rattle paper cups full of change. A group of street kids ambles past me carrying McDonald’s bags and cups. My stomach rumbles. I haven’t eaten anything today. I’ve barely eaten all week. It’s weird that I’m hungry now, but a burger couldn’t hurt. McDonald’s is at the end of Haight, across the street from Golden Gate Park. If I cut through the park, I can be at Auntie Cat’s house in twenty minutes. She’ll be pissed as all hell at me for running off and selling my suit, but she’ll get over it after I tell her everything. The trip to Hong Kong will be cancelled. She’ll stand up to Head Elder and fight Auntie Sylvia for custody of me.

  Then what? I stop and lean against the wall of a liquor store. Head Elder will stop at nothing to get his claws on me. He murdered his own daughter. Do I want Auntie Cat to be his next victim? My fists pound the brick wall before I push away and continue down the street.

  Inside McDonald’s, I order a Happy Meal and take the only remaining seat, next to a shabby, scabby guy who smells worse than he looks. Luckily, he gets up and leaves before killing what remains of my appetite. As I chew on my burger, I try to think above the din of the street kids shouting across the tables at each other. Most of them look like runaways. A Xia holds himself aloof from outsiders, especially outcasts like these kids. I stop chewing. Yang Guo in Return of the Condor Heroes was an orphan and an outcast. He disappeared and everyone wrote him off until he returned for revenge.

  That’s what I should do. Head Elder wants to rule the clan through me, but he can’t do shit without me. He’ll probably try to bluff his way through until the next Summoning Ceremony. If I’m not there, the clan will lose face and they’ll blame him. The longer I stay away, the worse it will get. The other clans will get suspicious and probably try to take over leadership of the Crossroads. Head Elder won’t have time to work his evil schemes when the clan is struggling for survival. On my eighteenth birthday, I’ll return to Chisel Knife Mountain and deliver justice. That’s what Yang Guo would do.

  I feel buzzed. I don’t know if it’s from the caffeine in my soda or from having a plan of action. I’ve spent the past week wishing I were dead. Now, I’m glad I’m alive.

  The street kids carry their cups out of the restaurant, so I do, too. Outside, the fog is rolling in, making the air damp and cold. Where should I spend the night? People with backpacks are crossing the street, heading into the park. Should I follow them and see where they sleep? All of them have sleeping bags. I should get one, but how much is that going to set me back?

  I wander down Haight Street. Kids huddle in the doorways of closed shops, asking for spare change. Should I join them? Would that be weird? I settle in a doorway by myself. Across the street, people shout. A fight breaks out and ends just as quickly. As it gets dark, other people start showing up, adults heading for the bars and nightclubs. The street kids start drifting away in different directions. I drift, too. I hike up a steep hill lined with large Victorians houses. Spotting a hose next to a driveway, I turn it on low and refill my cup. After taking a drink, I look around guiltily. Peeing is a bad way to say thanks, but I don’t have much choice if I want to keep walking. I move away from the faucet and whiz in a drain.

  After walking a few blocks, I come to a house with dark windows. I slink onto the porch and huddle behind a wooden rail hung thick with trailing ivy. Despite this shelter, cold air settles around me, seeping through my jeans. I take off the glasses and rub the indents in the skin behind my ears. Then I rub my nose and almost tear the ring out. I put it and the glasses into a pocket and pull up my hood, tightening the drawstrings under my chin. I’ve done this before. Well, not this exactly. On Chisel Knife Mountain, I’d been sent into the forest with nothing and been expected to get through the night in one piece. In Kowloon, I’d spent nights on the rooftops of high-rise buildings during my training. This isn’t so different.

  Who am I kidding? This is completely different. Dad or Tony had always been somewhere nearby. Here, for the first time, I’m alone. The word brings a dull ache to my chest. No parents, no family, no friends. Alone.

  I sleep in fitful spurts and uneasy dreams. A blaring car alarm startles me awake and I huddle in the corner, heart pounding, until I realize it has nothing to do with me. Still, the sun is up and anyone walking by can see me. I creep off the porch and stretch my stiff limbs. Despite the cold, my armpits are humid. My mouth tastes like sand. It hits me that I can’t brush my teeth. I have to buy a toothbrush and toothpaste, and even then I need running water and a sink. Being homeless is more complicated than I thought. I need some guidance and there’s only one place to get that. I make sure my glasses, beanie and nose ring are in place before heading downhill.

  More money is gone after buying coffee and a breakfast burrito. I doubt I can last a week with what I have left. I eat without tasting and wipe my hands on my pants. Haight Street is a busy place on a Saturday morning. There are lines out the doors of some restaurants. The people waiting talk in loud, excited voices about what they did last night. I watch a bum approach a group with his hand out. They turn away, faces pinched, like he smells bad. How do the homeless survive? I spot a group of kids my own age, but keep walking when I see them passing around a bottle of Jack Daniels.

  I slow down when I see another group lounging under the awning of a hippie souvenir store. Three guys and two girls sit in a circle and pass around a couple of huge muffins and a large Styrofoam cup. They’re all wearing the uniform of the street kids: ripped jeans, black leather jackets and boots. Something about them feels different. They look cleaner than the others. I lean against the wall and wait.

  The tallest guy, who has a short red Mohawk, calls out, “Hey, Lennon.”

  It takes a moment to realize he means me. “Yeah?”

  “What’s up?”

  I shrug.

  “You just run away?”

  I nod.

  He looks me up and down and shakes his head. “Go home.”

  “Can’t.”

  “You can’t stay out here.”

  “Yeah, I can.”

  “What about your family?”

  “Don’t have one.”

  Our eyes meet. He’s sizing me up. He runs his index finger along the row of small, silver hoops that ridge his ear. Then he nods for me to join them.

  “What’s your name?” he asks as I
sit.

  I open my mouth and shut it again. He cocks his head. “Think fast. Something easy. I’m JJ.” He turns to the others. “What do you think?”

  “Too pretty and too soft,” scoffs a dark-haired, brown-eyed guy. “He’ll make good money, but they’ll eat him alive.”

  My eyes widen. “I’m not gonna do that.”

  “Yeah? How you gonna eat?”

  “I’ll get a job.”

  “You got I.D.?”

  I shake my head.

  The third guy says, “You can try selling Molly, but you gotta find a supplier and there’s lots of competition.”

  I stare. Those are my choices? Being a hooker or a pusher?

  JJ folds his arms. “Look, we gotta eat, so we hustle. If you hang with us, you gotta contribute. That’s gonna mean selling your scrawny ass, whether you like it or not. You don’t gotta do butt sex. Blow jobs earn decent bread.”

  My jaw drops. He’s trying to shock me and doing a damn fine job. As I get to my feet, I mumble, “K. Thanks.”

  “JJ, cut your shit out,” says one of the girls. Then she calls out, “Hey, you can spange.”

  I turn. “Spange?”

  “Yeah, spange. You know, ask for spare change.”

  “He won’t earn enough,” says dark-haired guy.

  “Give him a chance.”

  JJ sighs. “Dude, you should go home.”

  “I don’t have a home.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Lennon works.”

  The other girl smiles and says, “Lennon. That’s cool.”

  “Look, Lennon,” JJ’s eyebrows raise as he says the name, “You can hang with us for a couple of days, ‘til you figure out what you’re gonna do.”

  I nod and rejoin them. They introduce themselves. The smiling girl is Nix. A blue bandana covers her curly red hair, making her freckles stand out against her pale skin. The other girl, Amethyst, has a head full of tiny braids and a pierced eyebrow and upper lip. The dark-haired guy is Sway. The third guy is Good Dog Carl, but everyone calls him just Carl. He’s shorter than me and has blond hair with dark roots.

  “Let’s bounce.” JJ makes a gesture with his shoulder and we head out to the street.

  For the next couple hours, at JJ’s instruction, I work the bus stops, approaching the older passengers and claiming I’ve lost my transit pass. On the first try, I must have looked as ashamed as I felt, because the woman gave me a dollar. After that, it became a little easier, until by noon, I’ve panhandled almost ten dollars.

  “Not bad,” JJ comments when I show him the take. “We’ll work this angle while you’re still a fresh face.”

  That night, I return to the hippie store and perch on the stoop with Nix and Amethyst. The guys take off down the street toward the park. My stomach churns. There’s no way I’m going to do that. I’d rather sleep in a ditch and dig in the trash for food.

  “Spare change?”

  The girls sound like a stereo on either side of me. Amethyst lifts up a McDonald’s cup while Nix holds out a piece of cardboard that reads, ‘Homeless and Hungry! Please Help!’

  A man reaches into his pocket and drops some change into the cup. Nix turns to me. “Only use a cup from, like, McDonald’s or Burger King. If you use a Starbucks cup or some kind of coffee place, people will think you’re spending their money on lattes.”

  “Spending it on McDonald’s is better?”

  She shrugs.

  A group of adults pass by, chugging down coffee like it’s liquid gold. Do they think their precious brew is too good for us? What a bunch of hypocrites.

  Amethyst looks at me with sympathetic eyes. “I don’t like turning tricks, either. It’s…” She grimaces and shudders, “gross. Thing is, it’s easier for us,” She nods at Nix, “to spange. People prefer giving money to girls. Check it out.” She hands me the cup. “Go stand on the corner.”

  Ten minutes pass and no one drops even a penny into the cup. My stomach twists as I hand it back to Amethyst. I barely made fifteen dollars working the bus stops all day. I can’t survive on that, not for the next two years.

  “If you’re a guy, you gotta have a gimmick,” explains Nix. “Like a dog or a broken leg.”

  I don’t want either, so that’s not going to work. Even at the bus stop, most of the people I approached knew it was a scam.

  A woman wearing yoga pants and a tank top approaches, grimacing as she tugs along a screaming toddler with snot dripping from his nose. Amethyst rests the cup on her knee and Nix flattens the sign. The woman stops in front of us, her face nearly as red as the kid’s. The toddler’s screams increase, one small hand groping toward the plastic bag she’s carrying.

  “All right! All right!” The woman reaches into the bag, pulls out a small, colorful cardboard box and gives it to him.

  The kid slams the box to the sidewalk with a shriek that breaks my eardrums. The woman lifts the squirming bundle into her arms and continues on. The kid howls over her shoulder, hands straining toward the fallen box.

  Amethyst crawls over to the box, opens it and peers inside. She shakes her head and starts to toss it away.

  “Hey,” Nix calls out. “What is it?”

  “Chalk.” Amethyst looks inside again. “Excuse me. Broken chalk.”

  “Yeah?” I hold out my hand and she tosses me the box. I look inside. A treasure trove appears before my eyes. “It’s colored.”

  Both girls giggle.

  I kneel on the sidewalk in front of them and sweep away the cigarette butts and other trash. Then I stare at the girls, taking in the shapes of their faces, the curves of their necks, and the color and texture of their hair. Both girls stare back with pinched brows. I dig around in the box until I find half a stick of blue chalk. Hunching over the square of pavement, I start sketching an outline.

  After a few moments, Nix asks, “Um, Lennon. Are you drawing us?”

  I nod. They shriek. What the hell? I look up. They’re running their fingers through their hair and wiping their faces on their sleeves. When done, they smile and sit completely still. I don’t have much experience with girls outside the clan. Well, even inside the clan. I don’t know if this is normal behavior. It’s kind of cute, though, like them. Now, I feel nervous, wondering if I can even pull it off. A man jogs past, not even looking at us, his foot barely missing my hand. His running shoes smeared the outline of their faces. Amethyst flips the bird while Nix swears a blue streak at him. I use my fingertips to repair the damage and continue drawing. I’m going to show jerks like him that we’re people, not scum you can shit all over.

  Nix starts warning off the foot traffic, while Amethyst holds up her cup and calls out, “Support the arts.”

  Some people are annoyed as they step around me. Part of me wants to stop. My family would expect me to stop. I keep drawing and manage to capture Nix’s wide, appealing eyes and Amethyst’s crooked smile.

  A guy with gray hair and a brown leather jacket stops and watches for a moment. Then he reaches into his pocket. “That’s pretty good.” He drops a dollar into Amethyst’s cup and walks away.

  I stare at my hands, coated with colorful, grainy powder. I knew I wasn’t wasting my time learning to draw. I wish I could tell my parents. More people stop to look and contribute. Some make comments, mostly one or two words.

  “Good.”

  “Not bad.”

  “What the hell?”

  JJ is standing over me. “So, you got talent, huh?”

  “Look, look!” Amethyst thrusts out her cup, heavy with spange.

  JJ fingers through our take. “Chump change compared to what we just made, but it’ll do for now.”

  I shrug, trying not to show the relief coursing through me. I carefully pick up each piece of chalk, no matter how small, and put them back in the box. The spange is used to buy dinner at McDonald’s. As I wolf down my cheeseburger, I think about the delicious meal Mom would have made tonight, like sesame chicken with mushrooms and water chestnuts. That’s
my favorite. I usually helped in the kitchen, cleaning and slicing the vegetables while we talked about stuff. My eyes start to sting. The burger sticks in my throat. I wash it down with a long slurp of Coke.

  I figured we’d be sleeping in the park, so I’m surprised when we hop a bus heading downtown. No one pays, so I don’t, either.

  “Do you guys crash in one of those buildings?” I ask, because if that’s where we’re heading, I’m going to have to bail.

  “You mean Boomlandia?” JJ shakes his head. “Nah. You had to get in there, like, right after the crash. Hobos there are territorial as hell.”

  “Not all the buildings,” argues Nix. “Some are full of families. Some are really scary, though. Full of users who would slit your throat for a dime bag. Most of them don’t have water or electricity. Don’t worry. We got better digs than that.”

  We get off on Market Street and JJ leads the way to a hotel right next to the freeway. He pays cash to a sketchy guy at the front desk, who barely looks up from the porno on his laptop, except to leer at the girls. It makes me want to punch him in the face.

  The room smells like mold and old cheese. The only furnishings are a rickety double bed, a metal chair and a chipped desk covered with pizza boxes. Clothes lay in meager piles all over the floor. Sway points out the bathroom like it’s a great luxury.

  JJ plops down on the chair. “Here’s the deal. We got this place cuz none of us are tweakers or crackheads. We hustle ‘til we make the rent. If you wanna party with what’s left of your cut, that’s cool. Booze and weed are fine. We catch you with meth or crack, you’re out.”

  “I don’t do drugs,” I say.

  Sway rolls his eyes. “Just come up with your end and you can stay.”

  I sit on the floor and wait while the others take their turns in the bathroom. By the time I get in, there’s no hot water and the threadbare towels are wet. I wash quickly and go back out to the room, dark now, except for the glow of a streetlight shining through the frayed curtains. Prone forms occupy the bed. From their hair, I can tell it’s the girls.