I nod once. Then repeat his words. “Home goods. Got it.”
He chuckles. “This might just work out.”
Judd walks over and peels a lid off one of the black canisters. It appears to be filled with rock salt, the kind Gram and I sprinkled on our concrete path when it was icy. But the top part of the canister lifts out to reveal a second, hidden compartment underneath where I spy mountains of leafy green- and rust-colored cannabis.
Judd pulls out the buds and separates them into clear ziplock bags. He stuffs the baggies inside the teddy bears after cutting ragged slits into their undersides with a serrated knife. For the white bears, he pulls special baggies of snow white powder from his backpack and slides those inside as well.
My job is to sew up each bear with a needle and thread. Judd tells me to be quick about it because there are deliveries to make and that dipshit kid messed up his schedule. I’m no seamstress, and I keep poking myself with the needle and wiping the drops of blood onto my jeans. The shed is drafty and soon my fingers and toes are numb, but that makes the needle pricks easier to take.
“Be careful,” Judd warns. “This shit’s worth more than your life.”
My life? Four months ago, I had a life. I was a typical high school sophomore, my biggest worry whether I got an A or B on a test. Four months ago I had friends, a home. A grandmother who loved me. Four freaking months. That’s all it took to erase everything. To turn me into this. I know what I’m doing is wrong and dangerous to boot, but for all my supposed smarts, I can’t think… I can’t think of a way out.
The shed is windowless so we work by the light of a few battery-operated lanterns. Despite the chill, Judd rolls up his shirtsleeves. On each arm I spy matching tattoos of a sword surrounded by flame. I consider asking about the tattoos, trying to play friendly, but then I remember how acting friendly worked out with Charlie, and I clamp my mouth shut.
Judd works fast and it’s hard to keep up. When I quicken my pace, he encourages me with one word, “better.” I don’t need his praise, but I think about how good that bacon tasted and how soft the attic bed was, and I keep sewing. There are so many bears to fill, and it seems like we work forever in the cold, dim silence.
My mind is not silent, though. Now that I let him in, I can’t get Charlie the foster dad out of my head. I keep picturing the day it happened, the way he sat so close with his hand on my shoulder, asking me about school, which subjects I liked best…the way he got me comfortable, got me talking, and then while I was explaining something about molecules, the way his hand slipped to my chest and his leg pressed down on mine, and his lips swallowed up all my words…
“Get your head outta your ass, girl. You’re spilling it everywhere!”
Judd shoves me aside, snatching a small bear from my hands. It is leaking a fine stream of white dust—I must’ve punctured the baggie. He drops to his knees, trying to pinch up the lost white granules. It’s hardly anything, and there’s no way to salvage it, but he’s frantic. Judd’s fingertips scrape at the wood, collecting tiny bits of powder under his nails before he accepts the loss.
Cursing, he stands up and slams his elbow against the side of my face.
Letting out a sharp cry, I crumple to the floor.
There’s not much pain, just the faint taste of blood where he loosened a tooth. That, and the wild animal feeling in my chest as I try to breathe. I stay hunched on the ground.
Judd finishes the sewing himself, muttering “worthless” under his breath every time he looks at me. I breathe raggedly and wonder what a person like Judd does with someone he thinks is worthless.
When the job is complete, he stuffs the bears into two backpacks—the one he brought along and a larger one that was stashed under the table.
“Get up,” he growls, and I scramble. He straps the smaller backpack to me and hefts the larger one onto his own shoulders. Outside, his hand grips my neck once more, rougher and tighter, for the cold trek back to his house. The trees watch us go, their branches shuddering.
I don’t open my mouth for the rest of the day, just do whatever Judd says as we drive from one shitty neighborhood to another. I carry the stuffed animals, though anyone with half a brain can see I’m too old for them. I hand the bears to the people inside the houses. Judd jokes with them—his dealers—but it’s clear that they fear him.
I’m grateful for that fear when I notice some of their ravenous eyes on me. In one house, a man pushes up so close to me that I make a small whimpering sound. Judd’s hand shoots out toward the guy’s bearded face, squeezing the man’s jaw until he cries out in pain. The message is clear—I am Judd’s and I am off limits.
By nightfall Judd looks relaxed, maybe even happy. He smokes while he drives, listening to the radio and nodding to the beat of the music. Now that he’s in a good mood, Judd looks at me with lighter eyes. “You screwed up earlier, but you’ll learn. Gotta keep your focus, girl. Next time I’ll take it outta your pay.”
“Okay. Sorry,” I croak and wonder which he would deny me—shelter or food.
Ayla is alive, content and lounging on the couch when we return. I don’t know why I feel such relief at the sight of her, since the feeling is not reciprocated. Ignoring me, she smiles pretty for Judd. He groans with pleasure and falls on top of her, ready for more dancing. I rummage through the kitchen for food to take up to the attic. This time I take twice as much. I’ve earned it.
Before I leave the kitchen, Judd stops mauling Ayla long enough to raise his head and say sharply, “Bones. Be ready by eight tomorrow. S’gonna be a long day.”
Upstairs, I gaze out the hexagonal window at the moon, a crescent tonight, and wonder if Gram, if anyone, can see me.
Chapter 6
Then
Four days before Christmas, I climbed off the school bus and trudged up the driveway to the foster home a few steps ahead of the other kids. It was officially winter break, and the frosty air slapped my cheeks as if to prove it. I yanked on the brass handle of the front door, ducked inside, and stopped.
There was a woman in the kitchen chatting up Charlie. Her voice was unmistakable—low and raspy. My backpack slipped off my shoulder.
“Forget how to walk?” grumbled one of the foster girls, shoving past. The others streamed around me, heading for the rec room in the basement.
My frozen cheeks suddenly flushed hot. I wasn’t ready for this, for her, so I took the roundabout way to the bedroom. I sat on a futon and hugged my knees, took a breath in and blew it out slowly. Ayla was here. She’d come back for me. So many conflicting emotions rushed at me—anger, relief, fear—that I couldn’t make sense of them. How would she be this time? Did I even want to go with her?
Then, through the wall, I heard Charlie say in his smooth-operator voice, “I can see where your daughter got her good looks,” and Ayla flirt-laughed and I snapped back to my senses. I gathered my things.
“Here she is!” boomed Charlie, catching sight of me in the kitchen doorway, bags in hand. “We’re sure gonna miss this one.”
Slowly, I met Ayla’s eyes. She wore a denim jacket and big hoop earrings, her dark, clean hair cresting her shoulders. She looked way better than the last time I’d seen her, so good that I wondered if she’d managed to turn things around. Like Gram always hoped she would.
“Hey there,” Ayla said, half-friendly. Her voice sounded hoarse, but her pupils were clear. She spoke as if we’d seen each other hours ago, instead of months. “Ready to go home?” she asked, stubbing out her cigarette in a tin can with a picture of a purple beet on its label.
I stared at the can. I hated beets. They’d been served for dinner every night since I’d arrived here, along with some overcooked chicken in a thin mustard sauce. I remember how Diane had said matter-of-factly on my first night, You kids eat what you’re given, or you don’t eat. Makes no difference to me.
“Ready,” I said, blinking
.
“Thanks for keepin’ her fed,” Ayla told Charlie and stood up. My mother is tall compared to me, all leggy and lithe, and she was wearing four-inch patterned heels that day. I wondered how she could even walk in those things, but I was thankful she was walking, period, instead of falling down drunk or stoned.
Charlie followed us to the foyer. At the door he initiated a side-hug goodbye, but I slipped away before his arm could capture me. “Come visit anytime, Andrea,” he called, all friendly.
I slammed the car door.
As Ayla drove us home in Gram’s Buick, the pressure that had been squeezing my chest for days dissipated a tiny bit. Outside, the gray December sky gave the world a dusty look. The car’s blinker clicked rhythmically, like a heartbeat.
“So they told you…what happened?” I ventured, staring at my hands.
Ayla’s gaze rested on me for a moment. “Yeah. We’ll be okay, though.” She said it soft, husky. Tender, almost. Like the Ayla from Gram’s stories.
I glanced up, surprised, but the woman who shared half my DNA was busy lighting another cigarette. She didn’t look at me again. She didn’t talk again either.
Three days later she charged into my bedroom, ordering me to hurry up and pack because we were leaving town, now. Her dark hair was tangled, her movements twitchy, and her eyes wild. I knew this woman—she desperately needed a hit.
My heart hammered as I shoved handfuls of clothing into my duffel bag. I wasn’t ready for this. I hadn’t even told Delaney about the realtor putting our house on the market. I guess a part of me thought if I pretended things were normal, they would be. How stupid.
“Let’s go.” Ayla plucked my half-packed bag off the bed and headed down the hall. I snatched a few books off my nightstand, shoved them into my backpack, and followed her to the living room. Then I saw the stockings by our fireplace and the Christmas tree in the corner, lights unplugged. It was Christmas Eve, I realized. My feet stopped.
Ayla whirled around, impatient. “Come on.”
“Where are we even going?” I demanded.
“I got us a place.” Her dimple showed when she smiled, proud.
“But we have this place.”
“Not for long.” She nodded toward the window and the For Sale sign visible in our front yard. “I got an offer.”
I chewed my lip, hating that she got to make these decisions. Ayla! Who only ever showed up when she needed money or a place to crash. I didn’t have any special love for Indianapolis, but this was Gram’s house, full of Gram’s things.
“What about school?” I pressed.
Ayla snorted. “You don’t think they have schools anywhere else?”
“Yeah, but I have friends here,” I said, my voice rising. “I’m on the honors track. I have a life.”
Ayla rolled her eyes, then smirked. “You want to stay? Fine by me. When the new owners kick you out, I’m sure Charlie will be thrilled to have you back.” She dropped my bag with a definitive thump and walked out the door.
The house got abruptly quiet. Flat light poured through the window slats onto the couch where Gram liked to read. Glancing at the bookshelves, my eyes zoned in on the blue photo album, the one Gram was looking at the last time I saw her alive. I shuffled over and ran my fingers down its spine. I stood still for a moment, letting Ayla’s words bleed into focus. My mind flashed to the foster home, to the rainy afternoon with Charlie. That was all it took.
Tucking the album under my arm, I grabbed my bag and ran out the door, the memories and photos and knickknacks of my childhood all disappearing in a white-hot blur.
Chapter 7
Now
Judd’s elbow leaves a sad yellow bruise on my cheek that makes me look tougher than I feel. He got his point across. I don’t make any more mistakes. Each day I spend hours working in his shed, hiding drugs in various household items that we pretend to sell. I help him pack everything up, switch out his license plates, make deliveries. The dealers call me Bones now. I fear I might become her.
We’re sitting in stopped traffic on our third day of deliveries when Judd glances at me across the front seat. His voice scratches at my skull.“You don’t look much like her. Your mama.”
“No,” I agree in a neutral voice, knowing it’s because of our eyes. Ayla’s are auburn and sultry-looking. Mine are arctic blue and, nowadays, cold to match.
“She and I go way back, didja know that?” Judd’s cheeks disappear as he sucks hard on his cigarette.
I did not.
“I saw a picture once, when you were a baby,” he continues. “Somethin’ about you made her real sad.”
Yeah, I think bitterly. My birth. But I’m shocked to hear that Ayla ever kept a photo of me. Maybe she cared, back then. Gram said she stayed sober during most of her pregnancy. I try to imagine Ayla as the kind of mother who smothers her baby with kisses, who sings soft lullabies, who breathes in that new-to-the-world scent and whispers I love you, sweet girl.
It takes a lot of imagining.
“Couldn’t believe my eyes when she walked into the bar the other night,” Judd says. He shakes his head like it’s the darnedest thing. I glare at his profile, imagine raking my nails down his face. “Guess it was fate,” he concludes.
And then we are on to the next delivery and it is too late to quip, “Or just bad luck.”
When we pull up to a dilapidated-looking Cape Cod house in a rundown section of Columbus, Judd cuts the engine and hands me a boy’s winter coat from the box in the backseat. I know the drugs are sewn into the hood because I poked myself twelve times trying to get the needle through that slippery material.
Judd wraps his fingers around my chin and turns my face toward his. “You know the signal, Bones?” His stare is so intense that even if I didn’t know, I would lie. After I nod, he says, “They know what they owe me. Don’t give ’em the product until the money’s in your hand. You put the money in your pocket. Then you walk out here—walk, never run—and put the money in my hand. Got it?”
“You’re not coming in?” I blurt. The stupidity of my question earns me a hot glare.
I look up at the house, at the massive door with its peeling white paint, and wonder who’s waiting on the other side.
“I don’t have all day,” Judd mutters as he shoves a cigarette into his mouth and flips open a small black notebook. My mind reels. I should have seen this coming. After all, what use am I to Judd if he has to escort me everywhere?
Transforming my face into a mask of stone, I get out of the car and climb the porch steps. I glance down the street at the long row of sad, saggy houses just like this one. Shutters falling off, broken windows covered with sheets. The pulsing beat of music pounding a few doors down.
I squeeze Gram’s watch for strength and think of what she said the first time I had to present a project in front of my classmates—“No one can see your nerves, love.”
On the top step, I take a breath and knock the way I’m supposed to. I know the signal.
“The fuck is it?” a voice thunders from the other side of the door, followed by raucous laughter. The guy must have seen me walk up alone. No one would respond to Judd’s knock that way.
“Bones,” I answer, proud of how tough and flat my voice sounds.
The door opens. I go inside and the door closes. There are a few people sitting in the main room, all staring at me, and one guy in the entry with sweat glistening on his big brown muscles. I don’t look at his face, but I can smell his acidic body odor, like he was working out. He says something, but the words don’t process over the thumping of my heart. I give up the coat before he produces the money, but he’s good for it. Once I have the cash in my pocket, I’m outside and fast-walking down the steps to the shelter of Judd’s sedan.
My hand trembles as I place the bills in his outstretched palm. Judd notices. He purses his lips and says gruffly, �
��They won’t hurt you. They know you’re mine.”
As we drive away, I think about his words, how they make me feel safe in one way and completely screwed in another.
Chapter 8
Then
When Ayla and I arrived at The Lofts, a trendy hotel in downtown Columbus, I have to admit I felt a flutter of excitement. The lobby, decked out for the holidays, was nicer than any I’d ever seen. But when the lady at the front desk politely informed us that our reservation didn’t start until December 30th and the hotel was booked until then, my mother, who is never in the right place at the right time, launched into a full-blown tantrum. As she ranted about their idiotic mistake, I tugged her outside into the cold.
“We’ll stay at a different hotel for a few nights,” I suggested.
But Ayla refused to spend her “fun money” on a week’s worth of crappy hotel rooms. Instead, she drove to her friend Trey’s apartment building, knocked on three doors before she found the right one, and sweetly asked the young man who answered if he remembered her from last year’s Mardi Gras party and by the way, could she and her little sister crash there? The guy flipped a shock of shaggy blond hair out of his eyes and looked Ayla up and down, like he was trying to place her by her body instead of her face. “Why not?” he said, opening the door wide. I spent Christmas Eve sleeping on a stranger’s couch under a stained blanket. Ayla stayed in the bedroom with her “friend,” but I can tell you, they didn’t sleep.
In the morning, we were kicked out early and unceremoniously. Ayla drove us to the bungalow of Scott and Sylvie—hippy-types who were generous with their food and their drugs. A small party was underway when we arrived, and there was a lot of giggling from the adults camped out on the porch. After gushing about how adorable I was, everyone pretty much ignored me. At least there was turkey for dinner.
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