Saving Red

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Saving Red Page 2

by Sonya Sones


  totally sad search that we’re on.

  And I’m pretty sure I’m starting to get frostbite.

  (I know this is

  Southern California.

  But when it dips into the forties here,

  it feels colder than Alaska to us!)

  I zip up my jacket

  and pull my socks higher,

  thinking that I can hardly wait

  for these four hours to be over

  so that I can slip into my pajamas,

  climb into my nice warm bed,

  cuddle up with Pixel,

  and drift off to sleep . . .

  But then I spot a young guy

  sleeping in front of the Converse store,

  wrapped up like a sausage in a moldy blanket,

  his swollen bare feet sticking out at the bottom.

  And all of a sudden

  I’m blinking back tears.

  Because seeing him

  lying there like that makes me . . .

  Makes me think about another young guy . . .

  Suddenly

  My fingers

  start tingling . . .

  There’s a ringing in my ears . . .

  I can’t breathe . . . !

  My chest—it’s splitting in two!

  I’m having a heart attack!

  But then Pixel’s here—

  standing on his hind legs,

  resting his soft white paws

  against my thigh,

  peering up at me through his shaggy bangs

  as if to say, “Easy now, kiddo.”

  He nudges the comforting knob

  of his nose into the palm of my hand,

  reminding me that I’m just having

  another panic attack—not a heart attack.

  That all I need to do is take

  some slow, deep breaths and I’ll be fine.

  I stroke his secret sweet spot,

  right behind that floppy left ear of his,

  and I can feel my teeth beginning to unclench,

  my heart rate returning to normal.

  What would I do without Pixel?

  Now It’s Almost Two a.m.

  And the only area left

  for us to search is Palisades Park—

  a strip of land so long and skinny

  it’s basically a piece of linguine.

  It overlooks the bluff that leads down

  to the Pacific Coast Highway

  and, beyond that,

  the wide, sandy beach.

  Feather and Eden have finally taken

  a break from trying to convert me

  to gluten-free soy-free whateverhood

  and have gone mercifully quiet.

  We scan every bench, bush, and shadow,

  while the Man in the Moon follows us

  with his sunken Man-in-the-Moon eyes,

  like he’s watching his favorite reality show.

  A thick fog’s creeping in from the ocean,

  swirling over the fence and around my ankles,

  making me feel like we’ve wandered

  onto the set of a horror film.

  There’s only the sound

  of the palm fronds rustling . . .

  of something scuttling in the brush . . .

  of my heart thudding against my ribs . . .

  And then—a woman screams!

  We Whirl Around

  And spot her right away.

  I’m relieved to see

  she’s not being attacked or anything.

  She’s sleeping on the bluff

  a few yards from us,

  on the far side of the fence—

  just beyond the sign

  warning people not to go

  beyond the sign.

  She’s curled up on top of a grungy

  sleeping bag, twitching like Pixel does

  when he’s having a dream.

  She thrashes around and cries out again.

  She must be having a pretty bad nightmare.

  Even worse than the ones I have.

  “Maybe we should wake her,” I whisper.

  But Feather says, “They warned us not to

  get involved with the people we’re counting.”

  “She’s right,” Eden says.

  “That’s the rule.

  We really should go . . .”

  But for some reason,

  no one makes a move to leave.

  We just stand here staring at her—

  like the way you can’t help

  staring at a car wreck

  as you drive past it on the freeway.

  And when I get a better look at her,

  I’m shocked to see that she seems

  only a few years older than me.

  Who Is This Girl?

  This girl

  who’s wearing six layers of clothes,

  her grimy feet jammed into

  a mismatched pair of flip-flops?

  This girl

  with the rust-colored curls

  who smells like she hasn’t had a bath

  in forever?

  This girl

  who’s been reduced

  to stuffing everything she owns

  into a rickety old stroller?

  I suck in a jagged breath,

  thinking about how

  she was probably in a stroller

  once upon a time,

  how she used to be

  a sweet little gurgling baby,

  cared for by someone

  who loved her . . .

  And suddenly

  I don’t care

  what the rule is.

  I want to shake this girl awake.

  I want to bring her home with me,

  draw her a bath,

  and feed her a nice hot bowl

  of matzo ball soup.

  For a Split Second

  I even let myself imagine

  inviting her to come and live

  with me and my parents.

  But something tells me

  that wouldn’t exactly

  go over too well with them.

  Besides. You never know.

  She could have lice . . . or hepatitis . . .

  or maybe she even has a knife . . .

  Then—

  Eden sneezes,

  startling the girl awake.

  She sits up and gasps when she sees us,

  wrapping her arms around herself

  like she wishes she had an invisibility cloak.

  “S-s-sorry we woke you,” I stammer.

  She doesn’t say anything.

  But her eyes are warning us

  not to come any closer.

  Then She Turns Away

  And burrows down

  so deep into her sleeping bag

  that we can’t even see

  the top of her head.

  My heart starts pounding again,

  threatening to crack apart my chest . . .

  Pixel nudges his nose

  into the palm of my hand.

  Then Feather whispers,

  “We should go. She’ll be okay.”

  And I suppose

  she will be . . .

  So why is my stomach

  twisting into knots

  as the four of us

  walk away?

  The Next Morning

  When

  I hand in the sheet

  to my Freshman Seminar teacher,

  the signed sheet

  that proves I’ve completed

  my four hours of community service,

  she smiles at me and says,

  “I guess God decided she didn’t

  want you to get a C in my class after all.”

  I know she’s only kidding,

  and I know God isn’t exactly sitting around

  worrying about my grades,

  but I can’t help wondering why he

  (I mean if there even is a he) (or a she)

  didn’t c
reate enough houses

  for everyone.

  I Mean Seriously, God

  Homelessness sucks.

  Why did you create that?

  Come to think of it, there are a lot

  of questions I’d like to ask you.

  Like why did you create french fries

  and Snickers and pepperoni pizza

  and then decide that all that stuff

  should be so freaking fattening?

  Not to mention

  zit-inducing.

  And why did you create

  periods and cramps

  and then choose girls to be

  the ones who got them, instead of guys?

  Did you honestly think

  that was fair?

  And why did you create

  high school, God?

  Why did you create popular kids,

  but then create unpopular kids, too?

  Couldn’t you have just made

  everyone popular?

  Would that really

  have been so hard?

  Most Days

  I can handle

  eating alone in the cafeteria.

  At least I’ve got Pixel to keep me company.

  He’s a service dog.

  So when I showed the principal

  a note from my doctor,

  she gave me permission

  to bring him to school.

  Why do I need a service dog?

  I’d rather not talk about it.

  But it seems like everyone else

  would like to.

  They always start whispering

  when they see us coming.

  Or exchanging looks, like,

  “Who’s that weird girl with the mutt?”

  Before I began

  bringing Pixel to school,

  before the awful thing

  that happened last winter,

  before the night

  when everything changed forever,

  I used to be

  in on the joke.

  But ever since then,

  it feels like I am the joke.

  My Friends

  Tried to be nice to me after it happened.

  I mean, they aren’t jerks or anything.

  They did their best to be supportive.

  Especially

  my two BFFs,

  Rosa and Jasmine.

  But it was pretty obvious

  that the whole situation

  was creeping them out.

  They just

  didn’t know what

  to say to me.

  And maybe they felt

  wrapped up in it somehow.

  Though they never said.

  By summertime,

  things had gotten so awkward

  that they just sort of drifted away.

  And now that we’ve started high school,

  I’m as pathetically alone as that girl

  I saw sleeping on the bluff last night.

  Rosa and Jasmine and all the others

  have started getting piercings

  and going out with boys.

  But me?

  I still haven’t even

  been kissed . . .

  If I had known that middle school

  was gonna be the high point of my life,

  I would have tried harder to enjoy it.

  Generally Speaking

  Walking

  home from school

  is my favorite time of day.

  This lovely little break

  between the misery of my school life

  and the misery of my home life.

  Though on this

  gloomy Thursday afternoon—

  not so much.

  Because as

  Pixel strains on his leash,

  leading me from tree to trash can to bench,

  I can’t stop fixating

  on the fact that it’s officially

  the start of winter break.

  Only this year our family

  won’t be making our annual pilgrimage

  up to Big Bear to play in the snow.

  This year

  no one’s even mentioned

  going away.

  Pixel and I Are Only Halfway Home

  When the sky

  turns strangely dark.

  Even darker than the mood I’m in.

  So dark

  that if you Googled “ominous”

  you’d see a picture of this sky.

  And a second later

  everything goes eerily silent.

  Even the palm fronds stop rustling.

  Then—BOOM! CRACK!

  A clap of thunder so loud

  it’s like a bomb’s gone off.

  Even Pixel jumps.

  He looks back at me

  as if to say, “Dude . . .”

  And then—it begins to rain.

  This isn’t just a sprinkle.

  It’s a full-on drencher:

  torrential, epic, angry.

  We Break into a Run

  The rain’s squishing in my high-tops,

  streaming down the back of my hoodie,

  flooding into every crevice of my being.

  And, also, of my backpack.

  I’m running like a bunny, like the wind,

  like Superwoman on Red Bull,

  pretending there’s a gang

  of serial killers chasing us.

  Is that weird?

  Yeah. I guess it is.

  But it’s helping me

  run faster.

  And the faster I run,

  the faster I’ll get home

  and out of the rain.

  Out of the Rain . . .

  Out of the rain . . .

  Out of the rain . . .

  I begin chanting

  the phrase in my head,

  keeping rhythm with the pounding of my feet

  as Pixel and I dash through the downpour.

  Then

  something inside of me

  shifts.

  And that’s when it dawns on me—

  I’m not running home

  to get out of the rain.

  I’m running there to grab

  the fold-up tent I use at the beach,

  and maybe a raincoat

  and some boots and stuff,

  to bring them to that girl I saw

  sleeping on the bluff.

  As Usual, the House Reeks of Pot

  Mom’s sitting in the family room,

  watching the Home Shopping Network,

  probably ordering one

  of everything they’re selling.

  (It turns out

  that getting totally wasted

  while watching that particular channel

  is an expensive habit.)

  She doesn’t seem at all fazed

  by the puddle forming at my feet.

  But she does pause between puffs

  to ask me how school was.

  “Why bother asking,” I growl,

  “when you don’t actually care?”

  “Of course I care,” she murmurs, as I grab

  Pixel and stomp up the stairs to my room.

  I change into a dry T-shirt and jeans,

  get out my duffel bag, and throw in

  my raincoat, my rubber boots, some old

  clothes, and a handful of granola bars.

  Then I shrug on Mom’s dumb yellow

  windbreaker, race back downstairs,

  grab the tent from the front hall closet,

  and charge out the door with Pixel at my heels.

  As We Sprint Through the Storm

  I imagine how the girl’s face

  will light up when she sees

  all the things I’ve brought her.

  I imagine how grateful she’ll be.

  And how good that’ll make me feel—

  sort of like I’m a hero or something.

  Maybe

  she’ll be hud
dled

  in her soggy sleeping bag.

  Or maybe

  she’ll be hunkered down under it,

  using it as a tarp.

  Or maybe

  she’ll be hiding out beneath

  one of the dwarf palms on the bluff . . .

  But when

  I’m a few dozen yards away,

  I catch sight of that red hair of hers.

  And I can see

  that she’s not huddled

  or hunkered or hiding.

  She’s dancing!

  She’s Shaking Her Hips

  And whirling around

  and stomping in puddles,

  grinning like she just won the lottery.

  And then she starts singing

  “O Come All Ye Faithful”

  at the top of her lungs.

  But a few seconds later,

  when she notices me coming,

  she freezes—

  just like a squirrel freezes

  when it sees you

  watching it.

  I drop the tent and the duffel bag

  onto the nearest bench,

  not quite sure what to do next.

  The girl’s eyes

  flicker to the left.

  Then to the right.

  And for a second I think

  maybe she’s getting ready to bolt.

  Which I really don’t want her to do.

  So I blurt out the first thing

  that pops into my head:

  “Wet enough for you?”

  And instead

  of running away,

  she bursts out laughing.

  Kind of Hysterically, Actually

  Like I’ve just told

  the most hilarious joke

  she’s ever heard.

  And it’s so infectious,

  this laugh of hers,

  that I join in.

  Then all of a sudden she stops

  and says, “Is it wet enough for you?”

  “A little too wet,” I say.

  “Not for me,” she says. “I love it!

  This is as close as I’ve gotten

  to taking a bath in months.”

  Then she grabs hold of my hands.

  And now—

  both of us are dancing!

  And She’s Twirling Me Around

  Singing “Santa Claus Is Coming to Town”

  and then I’m singing too

  and we’re tapping our toes

  and clapping our hands

  and the rainwater’s flying

  everywhere

  and Pixel’s prancing around us

  in happy circles

 

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