by JB Salsbury
“I’ll try that.” She grins, which is completely pure, her features perfectly balanced with a delicate, sloped nose. I didn’t notice before, but she really is pretty—different, but still gorgeous once you get past her ghostly coloring.
“Good. If you—”
“Milo, where the fu—whoa!” Damian’s eyes practically pop out of his head, and he tucks just behind me to stare at Mercy.
Mercy’s chin drops at the shock in his voice, laced with a fair bit of disgust.
“What the hell are you doing?” he whispers just loudly enough for me to hear.
I imagine myself throwing an elbow his way to break his nose. “Mercy.”
She brings her eyes to mine.
“Go to class.”
She nods and scurries in through the door I’ve held open for her. Ms. Murphy gives me a grateful wave, and I smile before turning on my assface cousin.
“What’s wrong with you?” I shove his shoulder and move down the hallway.
“I was just about to ask you the same thing. You’re committing social suicide by talking to the freak?”
I slam Damian into the nearest wall, pressing my forearm to his neck. “Don’t.”
His mouth gapes like a fish’s, and I shove him once before releasing him. He rubs his neck. “Pendejo!”
“Emilio Vega!”
Shit.
I drop my head back and turn to see Mr. Grinaldi.
“To the principal’s office,” he says. “Now!”
Damian rubs his neck. “Milo—”
“Fuck off, D.”
AFTER A TWENTY-MINUTE lecture on the school’s no-tolerance policy, I’m finally given the chance to explain to Principal Mendoza that I was just messing around with my cousin in the hallway. I promised I’d keep what he called roughhousing off campus, and because I’ve managed to stay out of trouble so far, and probably because he feels sorry for my ass, he let me go on a warning.
He lifts one bushy gray eyebrow. “Think of this as a strike one, Vega.”
“I will.” I hook my backpack over my shoulder and nod.
“Get a pass from Diane, and get back to class.”
“Yes, sir.” I turn to do just that, happy to know he can’t see me roll my eyes. As if throwing a guy up against a locker is such a bad thing. Damian can handle himself. In our family, if we got punked by one of our cousins, our dads would make us duke it out until we were bruised and out of breath. This is just another reminder that the world don’t play by LS rules. Thank God, or the majority of the population would be dead.
I grab a pass, and once I’m in the hallway, I spot Damian. His hands are tucked into his armpits, and he looks as though he’s been pacing.
“Milo, man, you good?”
“He let me off the hook.”
He walks alongside me. “Good. I was hoping he wouldn’t nail your ass for that.”
“Nah.”
“I feel like a dick. It’s just, seeing her up close like that . . .” He blows out a breath. “Caught me off guard, ya know? No matter, though. I shouldn’t have called your sister a freak.”
“She’s not my sister.”
“You know what I mean.”
I don’t answer him because I do know what he means, and he should feel bad. Mercy did nothing but be born, and for that, she’s gotta deal with everyone else’s screwed-up ideas about what she should or shouldn’t look like. The most jacked-up part is I’m no different than everyone else, and that’s what’s eating me up. I was just as much of an ass the first time I saw her—those eerie eyes and cotton-colored skin. I only hate what Damian said because it reminded me so much of myself.
“It’s cool, man. How’d you get out of class?”
He pulls a blue slip from his pocket. “Said I had to go to the nurse to take medication.”
We turn down the corridor, and Ms. Murphy’s classroom is on the right. I don’t stop but peek in the window and see Mercy sitting in a circle with her hood still up to cover her face. But she’s not looking toward the front of the room or even at her teacher.
She’s looking right at me.
Milo
NOW THAT FOUR of us are sharing a bathroom, one of us being female, and all needing to be out the door at the same time, Laura has given us a shower schedule. My time is earlier than the rest, so I’m in and out before Mercy and the boys are up. The only problem with being ready thirty minutes early is trying not to fall asleep again, which I failed at this morning.
I rush to grab my things, and with my backpack slung over my shoulder, I race to the main house to get the boys in the car and off to school.
The kitchen is the usual frenzy of organized chaos. Laura and Chris are running around, making their lunches, pouring their coffee to go, and throwing dishes into the dishwasher. Looks like I’m not the only one who has fallen behind.
Miguel isn’t there. I assume he’s packing up his backpack or grabbing his shoes, but Julian and Mercy are sitting at the table, both huddled over their breakfast of what looks like oatmeal.
“Oh, Milo.” Laura screws the lid onto her coffee mug. “Do you mind taking Mercy to school today? I have a client who needs to be seen early, and—”
“Yeah, that’s cool.” This should be interesting. But her request makes me think. “How does she get home?”
Laura’s digs her keys out of her purse. “Crystal drives right by Chris’s office on her way home, so she gets dropped off there.”
“Crystal?”
“Ms. Murphy.” She waves goodbye over her head before slipping out the door.
I look over to see Mercy with her spoon suspended in the air, inches from her mouth, and clumps of oatmeal fall into the bowl as her eerie eyes fix on me.
“Finish up.” I snag a granola bar from the pantry. “We’re late.”
Miguel slumps into the kitchen, his hair a mess and his shoes untied. Good enough. Julian carries his bowl to the sink, and Mercy follows him, mimicking his every move, all the way down to putting the rinsed-off dish in the washer.
She’s wearing those baggy jeans and an oversized black T-shirt that manages to make her skin look impossibly whiter. Her hair is pulled back into a low ponytail, and when she slips on her sweatshirt, she makes sure to tuck her hair in before pulling up the hood.
The backdoor swings open, and Laura grabs her lunchbox, which was on the counter right by the door as though she put it there so she wouldn’t forget. “You guys have a good day.” Her eyes meet mine, and she mouths, Thank you so much.
I lift my chin in response.
I know pulling into the school lot with Mercy is going to draw some attention. People are going to be dicks and make jokes. Since when did I start caring what people thought about me?
“Let’s go. Andele!” I grab the sack lunch I put together earlier and help Jules put on his backpack before we’re all walking like a dysfunctional row of baby ducks out to the car.
Miguel usually takes the front seat, so I’m surprised when he hops into the back with Julian. Mercy tries to crawl back there with them, but this ain’t Emilio’s Chauffer Service.
“Mercy,” I say.
Her eyes snap to mine.
“You sit up front.” I don’t wait to see her reaction even though I am really curious but instead toss my backpack at Miguel’s feet and fire up the engine.
She slides into the seat next to me. The sun at seven thirty in the morning isn’t all-powerful, but it’s still warm and shines in through the windshield directly into Mercy’s face. She tucks her chin so deep that I’m afraid her entire head will disappear under that sweatshirt, and she pulls the sleeves to cover her knuckles. It reminds me of the time I saw her so tentatively reaching for the light that shot through from behind her blackout curtains. “Does it hurt?”
She tilts her head enough that I can see her bizarre blue eyes through the shadow of her hood.
I nod toward her hands, resting firmly on her thighs. “The sun. Does it hurt?”
She pokes the tips
of her fingers out from the long sleeves and wiggles her ghostly digits. “No, not really. Only if I sit in it for too long.”
“A güera like you . . . I bet you get a mean sunburn.”
When she doesn’t answer right away, I wish I’d kept my big mouth shut.
“Yes.” She tucks her fingers away. “I burn.”
She doesn’t seem angry, but because she’s hiding out the way she is, I can’t really tell.
I turn out onto First Street and head north to drop Julian off. “You like living with Laura and Chris?” Small talk—it’s a good start.
She watches out her window as we roll through middle-class Los Angeles suburbia. “Yes, they’re nice people.”
“Better than where you came from, I’m guessing.” I keep my eyes on the road and hope I come off casual rather than nosy.
“Here is louder and”—another tug of her sleeves—“bigger.”
Laura and Chris have a pretty small house. Maybe she’s referring to her room at the facility.
“No brothers and sisters?”
She shakes her head.
“Only child to having to share a bathroom with three guys. Lucky you.”
No response.
I get the sense she’s done talking.
A couple minutes later, we pull up to Julian’s school. He slings on his backpack and shuffles out of the car.
“See you after school, ese,” I say.
He waves at me over his shoulder, and I wait until he’s inside to pull away and head to Washington. Miguel is in the back with his headphones on. Who knows whether he’s actually listening to music or just avoiding conversation?
I turn on the radio, and Mercy watches as I try to find a good song. Miguel likes one station that’s mostly rock and emo. I leave it there because I don’t care what we listen to, and the rap I like seems too raunchy to put on in front of someone like her.
At a stoplight, I notice her staring at the speaker in the door.
“You like music?”
“Yes. I think so.”
Okay. “Do you have a favorite? You can change it to something you like better.”
She swings her gaze to the radio buttons then shakes her hooded head. “No, this is fine.” She reaches forward and places her hand on the speaker in the door as though she’s feeling the vibration of the sound. Weird.
The rest of the ride is comfortable, but I notice even when the songs end and the morning DJs’ voices come on, Mercy keeps her hand on the speaker. I wonder what she would think if I showed her the subwoofers in the back. I grin just imagining her reaction. Then I frown because I don’t know what the hell my problem is. It’s a ride to school, not a damn date.
The car is barely in park when Miguel jumps out and heads across the lot alone. I don’t need my 3.5 GPA to figure out he’s trying to avoid being seen with Mercy, which means she’s stuck with me.
I hop out and grab my stuff from the back, grateful to see her following. Her backpack looks mostly empty, and it’s nothing like the fancy patterned packs most of the girls at school carry. Hers is navy blue and used. It looks like something one of my brothers carried a couple years ago.
I lock up the car, and she meets me at the bumper. We share a look before her eyes drop to my neck and linger there. I can practically feel her gaze against my skin, and when I can’t take much more, I clear my throat, getting her eyes back to mine.
“Do you know where you’re going?” I jerk my head toward the school.
The parking lot is busy, and now that we’ve been here for a few minutes, we’ve caught the attention of the few people who’ve walked by. I roll my lips between my teeth as impatience nips at my nerves.
“Ms. Murphy. Room Thirteen.” Her gaze skitters around. Also, her voice is quiet, and if I’m not mistaken, it shakes a little.
“She gets nervous around groups of people.” Laura’s words remind me, explaining Mercy’s sudden shift from fairly relaxed to skittish.
“I’ll walk you to class.”
Those pale eyes peer up at me, and there it is. It’s tiny, but damn . . . those powder-pink lips quirk up on the sides. A smile.
“Thank you, Milo.”
Something is funny about the way she says my name. With her mild accent, it sounds more like Mee-loh, which is the Spanish pronunciation. That doesn’t matter—any way she says it sounds good in my ears, but it makes me wonder where she came from.
I head toward the building, and she sticks close to my side. If I slow, she does. When I pick up the pace, she does the same, mimicking me just as I saw her doing with Julian in the kitchen this morning. It’s another curiosity to add to my growing list when it comes to the mysterious foster girl.
“Milo!” Damian calls to me from across the lot. “Wait up, assho—oh!” He stops from his jog right in front of Mercy. “Hi.” His eyes dart to mine then back to her.
Hers do the same, possibly waiting for an introduction.
“I’m Damian.” He reaches out a hand, and she stares at it. “Emilio’s cousin.” He lifts his chin toward me.
She follows his direction, her gaze fixing on me. “Emilio?”
There’s the accent.
“Milo’s a nickname.” I turn to Damian. “This is Mercy.”
My dumbass cousin sits there with his hand hanging out, waiting for her to shake it, but when she doesn’t, he finally drops it. “Right, so . . .” After being properly snubbed, he turns away from her toward me. “We still on for tonight?”
I start walking, and Mercy scurries to keep up, flanking my right with Damian on my left. “You mean will I be home when you show up at my place to play video games and annoy the crap out of me?”
He shrugs. “Yeah.”
“Whatever.” My locker is straight ahead, but Mercy’s classroom is to the right. “I’m going to walk Mercy to class. I’ll meet you at the lockers.”
Mercy fidgets beside me, her hands balling up and ripping at the fabric of her sweatshirt sleeves and her head managing to sink deeper between her shoulders. I take a look around—more people, and they’re close, some of them even pushing past her.
“Oh, don’t forget.” Damian’s eyes grow big, and he starts to smile as though he’s about to say something he thinks is hilarious. “You’re playing—”
A kid goes racing by. Mercy tenses. Another kid chasing him pushes past us but jerks to the side to avoid hitting someone and crashes into Mercy from behind.
Her body lurches forward, the momentum too much to stop. She falls hard to her hands and knees.
I grab the guy by his backpack and drag him around to face me. “What the hell is your problem?”
He holds up his hands, and his face drains of color. “I’m sorry, man. It was an accident.”
“Oh yeah?” I shove him so hard he falls flat on his back. “Oops. Accident. My bad.” I turn and squat to help Mercy, who is still on all fours. Other kids have gathered around us, probably expecting a fight.
I ignore them and kneel in front of her, hoping to shield her from the gawking. “You okay, Güera?”
“Yes,” she whispers. She reaches out her sweatshirt-covered hand and takes mine so that I can help her to stand.
Even through the thick fabric, I can feel her fingers tremble.
She tilts her chin up, and when I tug her to her feet, her hood slides off her head. There’s a collective gasp and a buzz of whispers as Mercy’s face and hair are exposed to most of the junior and senior classes.
She scrambles to pull up her hood.
“I got it.” I reach back and pull it up until she’s tucked safely under the protection of her sweatshirt.
She steps in close as if using my chest to hide her face.
“It’s all right. Let’s just get you to class.”
Her eyes dart to one side, where a group of girls are huddled, whispering with disgusted looks on their faces. “Okay.”
“Oh snap!” Frank laughs obnoxiously along with his poser posse. “The janitor playing hero to the
special-ed girl.” He high-fives a guy wearing a bandanna under a Raiders hat next to him. “Classic.”
I’d give my left nut to see these guys live a day on the streets of East LA. Thinking about these little bitches face to face with the LS and pissin’ themselves is the only thing that keeps me from ripping their throats out. I almost feel sorry for them.
Frank’s eyes zero in on Mercy. “Think you went overboard with the Clorox on that one, Pepe.”
I lunge at the guy, but feeling a tug on the front of my shirt reminds me Mercy is there and shaking like a mouse in a den of lions.
Damian glares at them and says something low enough for only them to hear. Whatever it is it silences their laughter. He then looks at the rest of the students crowded around us. “You got a problem with something you see?” When no one answers and the crowd begins to scatter, he looks at me. “Get her to class. I’ll meet you later.”
“Yeah, cool.”
He shoves a group of junior guys. “What the hell are you looking at? Mind your own business.”
The hallways are full, and to keep Mercy close, I hold onto the top of her backpack as we walk side by side. People move out of our way but not without openly staring at Mercy. I struggle with wanting to protect her versus wishing she’d rip off the damn sweatshirt and get all the staring over with already.
I stop at Ms. Murphy’s room and face her. “Hey.”
Her eyes hesitantly come to mine.
“You sure you’re okay?” I nod down toward her denim-covered legs. “You hit the floor pretty hard. Do your knees hurt?”
Her pale brows pinch together. “I’m okay.”
Again, the way she talks—accented very slightly and practically whispered—does something to my chest. “You sure?”
“I’m sure.”
“All right.” I stare at her for a few more seconds until the bell rings from the speaker above our heads, and I blink, realizing I’m going to be late if I don’t haul ass. I open Ms. Murphy’s door, and the woman looks up from her desk.
“Mercy, come on in.” She smiles at me as if to say, I got her from here.
“I’ll see you tonight,” I say to Mercy’s back as she heads into the room.
She turns around and looks at me. It’s only a quick glance, but in that moment, I catch a hint of what Laura was talking about yesterday.