Saving Red
Page 7
In this kitchen. With me. Right now.
Then I glance at the clock.
Yikes! I text him. It’s 9:30! I’ve gotta jet
or I’ll never make it to Daybreak by 10!
Cristo texts back:
Good luck with Operation Red!
And I text back a smiley face emoji.
Just a regular smiley face.
Not the one with hearts for eyes.
Even though that’s definitely
the one I’m feeling . . .
I Throw on Some Clothes
Stuff my phone
into my backpack,
and scribble a
thank-you-for-the-Hanukkah-gelt-
and-I-took-Pixel-for-a-walk note
to my parents.
Then I snap Pixel’s leash onto his collar,
and the two of us
hurry out the front door—
and wade
into a smoggy haze
of eighty-five-degree heat.
Just another
unsnowy, globally warmed
December morning in Santa Monica.
We Manage to Get to Daybreak on Time
But Pixel and I are both panting
after our mad dash through the heat.
We scan the lobby,
but Red’s not here.
I ask the receptionist
if she’s seen her.
“Who . . . ?” she says,
looking confused.
So I describe Red to her
and explain that I brought her here last night.
The woman checks her computer and says,
“There’s no record of any new residents.”
“There must be some mistake,” I say.
But when she checks again
the answer
stays the same:
Red did not sleep
at Daybreak last night.
There’s a Ringing in My Ears
It’s getting
louder and louder
and louder . . .
I suck in a breath
but there’s not
enough air.
Then Pixel’s here,
burying his nose in my clammy palm,
gently guiding me back outside,
peering up at me like,
“There’ll be plenty of air out here.
More than enough.”
I squint
into the glaring December sunlight,
and think maybe I’m seeing a mirage.
Because there,
swing dancing with an imaginary partner,
is Red!
She Stops Dancing
and Grins When She Sees Me
“I thought you forgot about me,” she says.
“I was inside looking for you,” I say,
trying to keep the quiver out of my voice.
“They wouldn’t let me stay,” she says,
“unless I signed a form that said I was crazy.”
“Crazy?!” I say, pretending to be shocked.
“I’m completely nuts,” she says with a shrug.
“But I sure as heck didn’t want
to put that in writing.”
“So . . . where did you sleep?” I ask.
“Right here in the parking lot,” she says.
“No ocean view. But no would-be rapists either.”
She reaches up to scratch her head.
“I think there were some ants, though.
Or fleas. Something definitely bit me.”
That’s when I notice the leaves stuck in her hair,
and the dust and grime coating her skin
like a spray-on tan.
I don’t think I’ve ever seen
a person who needed a bath more
than Red needs one right now . . .
And suddenly
I know exactly how
I’m gonna spend my Hanukkah gelt—
I’m putting Red up in a hotel tonight!
It Takes Some Convincing, Though
A lot of convincing,
actually.
“I’m not some kind of charity case,” Red says.
“I can’t let you do that for me.”
“But I want to do it,” I say.
“It’ll make me feel good.”
“Maybe so,” she says.
“But it’ll make me feel like crap.”
I swipe at the little beads of sweat
that have broken out on my upper lip.
Then I suck in a breath and force myself to say,
“How about if I stay in the hotel with you?
Then it would be a sleepover.
A sleepover’s not charity.”
“It is when the girl who’s sleeping over
is homeless,” she says.
So I try
a whole new tactic:
“It’s the second night of Hanukkah, Red.
I wanna give you a present.”
“A present . . . ?” she says. “For me?”
And her eyes light up like a little girl’s.
“Aw,” she says.
“You shouldn’t have.”
And You Know Something?
I’m starting to think Red was right:
maybe I shouldn’t have.
Because, I mean, it could be dangerous
spending the night in a hotel room with her.
What if she has
some kind of meltdown?
What if she gets violent
or decides to wreck the place . . . ?
But then—
I think of my brother.
I think about how I wish someone
would do this for him
if he needed a bath
and a safe place to sleep.
And I know I have to go ahead
with my plan.
I have to.
For Noah.
Noah . . .
I think of him
and I can’t help smiling to myself.
He was so good at calming me down
when I was scared . . .
I remember this one day so clearly,
when I was around nine years old,
and I found an enormous bulgy
black spider in my bathtub.
I screamed bloody murder
and cowered in the corner till
Noah came running through the door,
his eyes wild with worry.
But he relaxed when he saw
what had made me freak out,
and wrapped me up into
a bear hug.
Then he pulled back
and looked at me, dead serious.
But he had that here-comes-a-joke
gleam in his eyes . . .
“Aw, Molly,” he said.
“You gotta remember—
you’re more afraid of that spider
than it is of you!”
And I rolled
my eyes at him
and jabbed him in the ribs
with my elbow.
But Noah’s Joke About the Spider
Led to one of those deep
meaning-of-life talks
we always used to have.
Sometimes we talked about stuff
like the difference between
fate and destiny.
Or about whether God was real or not.
And if he was real,
then what did he look like?
But this time we talked about fear.
Noah said he always felt the most
exhilarated when he was scared.
And I said I always felt the most
terrified when I was scared.
And we both laughed.
But then Noah got this real thoughtful
look on his face and said, “I guess the closer
I get to death, the more alive I feel . . .”
And looking back now
on the kind of kid
that Noah was,
<
br /> I think that must be why he loved
horror films and roller coaster rides
and novels by Stephen King . . .
Why he loved bungee jumping
and white-water rafting and why he only
went surfing when the waves were huge . . .
But I Can’t Think About Noah Right Now
Because I’ve gotta focus
on making this whole hotel thing happen.
And it’s turning out to be an awful lot harder
than I thought it would be.
I mean, I’ve got to Google a dozen places
before I finally find one I can afford
that’s also pet friendly,
and then I’ve got to help Red find
the perfect hiding spot for her stroller
(tucked into the middle
of a huge hibiscus bush on the bluff),
and then I’ve got to sneak her into our garage,
leaving Pixel to stand guard
while I race inside and tell my mom
I’m going to a sleepover,
and then I’ve got to grab my Hanukkah gelt
and some granola bars
and some food for Pixel and a baseball cap,
plus some pj’s and clothes for Red and me,
and smuggle all of it out to the garage
along with a damp washcloth and a bar of soap,
and then I’ve got to bribe Red with the granola bars
to wash her face and put on the clothes
(which involves a lengthy discussion
about how the clothes aren’t charity—
they’re just a very temporary loan),
and then I’ve got to persuade her
to wear the baseball cap to hide her dirty hair
so that she’ll look legit enough
for the hotel clerk to let us check in,
and then, out of the blue, she starts
asking me all about Pixel and about why
I need a service dog and I’ve got to explain
that he helps me with my panic attacks,
and then I’ve got to get her over to the drugstore
to buy her a toothbrush and then all of a sudden
she turns into this crazed shopping demon
who wants to buy shampoo and Silly Putty
and Skittles and Pringles and bubble bath
and every trashy magazine in sight,
plus a couple of pairs of knitting needles.
Knitting needles!
While We’re Waiting in Line to Pay
And Red’s engrossed in an article
about The Bachelor in Us Weekly,
I fire off a quick text to Cristo—
asking him if he’s having fun
in New York.
He texts me back right away,
telling me that
he just saw this amazing play
that was so incredible
it made him cry.
And suddenly
I feel sort of swoony.
Because I love that he’s the kind of boy
who doesn’t mind admitting to a girl
that a play made him cry . . .
But I can’t tell him that.
So I just write: That sounds awesome!
Then he asks me for an update
on Operation Red, and I tell him
about the hotel sleepover plan.
He replies:
Did you know that there are only 4 words
in the English language that end in
“dous”: tremendous, stupendous,
horrendous, and hazardous?
And your point is? I text back.
But I add a couple of smiley faces after it,
so he won’t think I’m being rude.
My point is, he answers, that all 4 of those
words apply to what you are about to do.
Well, I text back,
at least those last 2 do.
And he replies:
You are very brave, Agent Molly.
Call or text if you need me.
I’ll be right here.
It’s Late Afternoon
When we enter the lobby
of the Océano Hotel.
The man behind the front desk
looks up at us and smiles.
As we head over to him, his eyes narrow.
“May I help you?” he asks.
But his voice sounds like
he really doesn’t want to help us at all.
I tell him we made a reservation
and give him my name.
He doesn’t even glance at his computer.
He just turns to Red and says,
“You need to be twenty-one to check in.
May I please see your ID, miss?”
Her ID?
I can feel my face turning pale as paper.
There’s no way
Red’s twenty-one.
We’ve never talked about how old we are,
but she barely looks eighteen . . .
Red’s Cheeks Flush
“My ID?” she says.
“Oh, sure. Okay . . . No problem . . .
Just give me a second to find it . . .”
As she shoves her hands into her pockets,
pretending to search for it,
Pixel nudges his nose into my palm.
But then—
she actually produces a driver’s license!
The clerk seems as shocked as I am.
He peers down at the photo,
then up at Red’s face,
then down at the photo again.
Finally, he hands it back to her,
makes her sign a form, gives her a key,
and says, “Thank you, Ms. O’Brien.”
Which is when
my heart practically leaps out
of my chest.
Because now I know Red’s last name!
And if I can just sneak a peek
at that license and see her address,
I’ll be that much closer
to getting her home
in time for the holidays!
When the Elevator Doors Slide Shut
I say, “It’s lucky you had that ID.
I didn’t know you were twenty-one.”
“I’m not,” she says. “I’m eighteen.”
“But . . . But your license says you are.”
“Oh, that? That’s a fake. Well, I mean,
everything on it’s true except for my age.
But how else would I be able to buy beer
and go clubbing and stuff?”
“Oh. Yeah . . .
Right . . . I figured,” I say,
trying to sound casual,
like all my nonexistent friends have fake IDs.
“How old are you, Holy Moly?”
“I’ll be fifteen in February.”
“Aw . . . Fourteen and three-quarters?
That’s adorable.”
She ruffles my hair and pinches my cheek.
“You’re such an innocent little thing.
I guess I’ll have to teach you
the ways of the world.”
And even though I know
that someone like her
probably isn’t the best choice
for a ways-of-the-world teacher,
I’m weirdly thrilled by the prospect of this.
It’s a Beautiful Room
All aqua and white and clean,
with a balcony, an ocean view,
two cushy queen-size beds,
and a bathtub bigger than the Pacific.
Red’s eyes almost pop out of her head
when she sees that tub.
She pours in half the bottle of bubble bath
and turns on the water full blast.
We watch as the bubbles rise,
billowing up like cartoon clouds.
Then Red switches off the water
and starts undressing.
I begin sidling toward the door.
“Hey,” she says. “Where are you going?”
“I’m . . . um . . . giving you your privacy?”
“Aren’t you gonna join me?”
“Oh . . . That’s okay. I already had a bath today.”
“Well, then keep me company at least.”
So I plunk down on the toilet seat lid
as Red eases herself into the bubbles.
She heaves a deeply appreciative sigh
and says, “Thank you, Jesus!”
“You’re welcome,” I reply.
And both of us crack up.
A Minute Later
Red leans back, closes her eyes,
and goes so quiet and still
that I think maybe
she’s fallen asleep.
I glance around the room and notice
her jeans lying in a heap on the floor—
her license sticking out of the hip pocket . . .
I could find out her address!
And if I’m going to reunite her
with her family by Christmas Eve,
I’ve only got nine days left
to pull that off!
So I make sure Red’s eyes are still closed,
then I begin tiptoeing toward the jeans.
But someone slams a door in the hall
and Red’s eyes pop open.
“What are you doing?” she asks,
sitting up and eyeing me suspiciously.
“I . . . I thought you were asleep,” I say.
“I was gonna watch some TV.”
She glances down at the bubbles
and her eyes triple in size.
“Please don’t go,” she says. “Something . . .
something bad might happen to me.”
“Like what?”
“Like . . . a piranha might attack me.”
I start laughing.
But Red doesn’t join in.
“Or there might be snakes in the water,” she says.
“Or maybe there’s leeches . . .”
She suddenly looks like a little lost kid.
So I sit back down on the toilet
and promise to keep her safe.
When Red’s Finally Through
Soaking in the tub
and her skin’s all rosy
and scrubbed clean,
and she smells
more like bubble bath
than like bluff,
and her hair’s washed and shining
and it looks more like paprika
than like rust,
and she’s changed into
the blue flannel pj’s