Nora & Kettle (A Paper Stars Novel Book 1)

by Lauren Nicolle Taylor

  I lean back on the railing, feeling my clothes slip on the waxy wood. Staring out the window, I wonder what Father is up to. Where did this sudden kindness sprout from? I want to believe that Mother’s death has given him new perspective but I just can’t believe it. A growing winter spreads in my heart at the prospect of being trapped in this house with him. And without her.

  I move faster up the stairs, the memory of my mother flying over my head like a ghost. It’s still too fresh to linger and I quickly wash and dress.

  Just as I’m fastening the last button of my dress, a knock at the door disturbs me. I tighten my belt and carry my shoes in my hand to the top of the stairs. My eyes close slowly as I consider the fact that no one is around and before I can talk myself out of it, I throw my shoes to the ground floor with a “thwack”, mount the rail, and let go. I shoot down like a greased marble, my breath still held at the top with my stomach. My hand reaches out to stop me, but I’m already at the bottom and have run out of handrail. I grasp the air as I slip off the end and fly toward the front door. My bottom hits the lower panel with a thud, and I let out a hysterical, panicky laugh putting my hand to my chest as my heart tries to escape. When I knock the back of my head on the door, I giggle.

  A sharp knock vibrates through my head, and I search the ground floor for Marie. Then I hear her wrangling Frankie into a dress upstairs.

  “Er, hello?” a muffled voice comes from the other side.

  My voice is much higher than it should be when I answer, “Just a minute.”

  I jump up to grab my shoes, putting them on as I walk. When I reach the door, I hover, my cheeks hot, my breath still shaky from my ride. I gulp and open it, expecting a strict-looking, middle-aged woman. Instead, I’m confronted with a young man, sharply dressed in a light gray suit, his hair combed back in greased waves. He smiles nervously as I step back from the entrance.

  He moves forward, his hand outstretched in greeting, and nervously stutters, “Are you Miss Deere? Err. I mean, Nora Deere?”

  I frown. “My father’s already left for court.”

  “Yes, yes, I know,” he says. “I, um, I’m Douglas Inkham,” he says, still holding his hand out to me. I retreat. “Your mother sent me.”

  I freeze, a strangling hope pushing at my feet and propelling me forward. Feeling flustered, I gesture grandly to the coat rack. “Would you like hang up your coat?” I ask, lips trembling. He nods and hangs his hat up as well.

  We step into the foyer and I hear a creak above my head. The bannister shudders as Frankie shakes it manically from above. “Nora, look!” Frankie and Marie stand at the top of the stairs, Frankie, too close to the edge, swings her skirts back and forth. She’s wearing a Sunday dress, a sweet silk flower tucked into her headband.

  Our eyes go to them and then back to each other.

  “My mother couldn’t have sent you,” I say flatly, quietly. “She’s dead.”

  Mr. Inkham fumbles with his case and stares at the floor. “I know, Miss Deere. And I’m terribly sorry for your loss. But your mother’s sad passing is why I am here.”

  Curious eyes follow me from the upstairs platform.

  “Marie! Take Frankie to her room to change,” I order. “That dress is inappropriate for school hours.”

  Marie drags a protesting Frankie back to her room with a “Humph”.

  “I need to speak with you, urgently. Privately.” His eyes are intense. Dark. They look like they’ve seen things I don’t want to know about.

  I gulp, nod, and try to pretend I’m grown up enough to handle what’s coming. “Please follow me, Mr. Inkham.” I gesture and lead him to the sitting room at the front of the house, echoes of Frankie ducking Marie and Marie’s frustration becoming quieter and quieter as we step down the hall.

  9. WORK

  KETTLE

  I gaze down at my rough fingers. The pads are like sandpaper. There are calluses, parts of my skin that seem to be permanently blackened now. Those fingers just braided a ten-year-old girl’s hair. I laugh as we leave the light and slosh through the dark tunnel to the door to the subway platform.

  Kin’s deep voice rumbles through the cavern. “What’s so funny?”

  I shrug though he probably can’t see me. “Nothin’.”

  We hold our caps in our hands and fit them just as we reach the door. I press an eye to the crack in the wood and wait for the next train. In the flurry where everyone is getting on and off, that’s when we make our exit.

  The rickety whoosh of the subway sends stale air through the gaps, and we count. “Three, two, one…”

  We slip out, close the door behind us, and meld with the crowd.

  We become another clothed head in a sea of bobbing ones. Some are the lucky ones on their way to work. Everyone with a responsibility they probably can’t handle.

  We climb up and then down again, weaving our way through the tunnels to the platform we need. We know we’re nearly there well before we arrive as men have started to push and shove to get on the next car. You can feel the desperation, the need. No one wants to be late. If you’re late, you don’t get picked. It’s a tumbleweed of bad timing from that point on, which leads to an empty wallet, a bare pantry, and hollow stomachs.

  Kin parts the crowd easily due to his immense size, grabbing heads and yanking them back until we’re at the front. I stick close. The train pulls up and the front-runners hold the others back like a fence, working together so they don’t end up falling onto the tracks. When the doors open, we’re lifted by the sheer force of the men behind us onto the first car. I sigh with relief once we’re in.

  It’s strange, because after all that pushing and fighting, it’s now a forty-minute ride to the end of the line, the aggression drains out, and we wait. Men become respectful again for a short time. They relax as best they can and prepare for the sprint. Kin casually folds his arms across his chest, pulls his cap over his eyes, and rests.

  The men twitch and fidget. They rock on their heels and sway with the train. They avoid eye contact because unlike me, they think it’s bad form to be friendly with the guy you’re about to elbow in the face. I don’t mind so much. We’re all in this together. Kind of.

  We’re all pretty familiar now anyway. We’re each other’s competition and once chosen for the other side, we are each other’s workmates. It’s a strange relationship. Inside, we rely on the men around us to keep us safe. Outside, they will knock you out without thinking twice.

  An old man slumps against his seat, his face less taut with adrenaline and testosterone than the rest of us. He rolls an unlit cigarette idly between his fingers, twirling it tight as a bandage. Gazing up at me from legs spread wide, his milky eyes crinkle happily. Slowly, he lifts his shirt up and winks. I try to turn away from the flasher, but we’re wedged in. My eyes fall on his pale stomach, covered in gray hairs, and I understand. Then I lift my own shirt to show the same diamond-shaped bruises that crisscross my skin. He lets his drop, as do I, and we exchange a nod. He’s a front-runner. May not look like much, but those marks mean he’s made it to the front recently and more than once.

  Kin’s sharp tongue lashes out at both of us. “Put it away. No one wants to see that, old man.” A crumpled laugh ripples through the huddled men. It’s slight. Our minds are on the next few minutes.

  The train lurches to a stop and bodies press against the door. Men flex their arms and barricade their bodies. Kin stands tall next to me, and I stay close to his side. The old man lights up his cigarette and crosses his legs casually. I have the urge to tell him to get up, get up and fight if he wants to make it through, but then that would be one more man I’d have to grapple with. When the doors slide open, I lose him anyway. I’m sucked into the flow, pressure pushing us forward like a dam suddenly breaking.

  It’s comical the way we all run-walk. We sprint through the large spaces, bottlenecking at the narrow ones, and then we are forced to walk when we go up the stairs, through the turnstiles, and up the stairs again.

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nbsp; I take them three at a time, my elbows out, jabbing anyone who tries to pull me down. My breath flares through my chest as my face hits the cold fall air. Whitish light hits our eyes, and the smell of seagull shit and salty water floods our senses. A hundred men’s footsteps pounding the pavement is the chorus of determination. They will only pick forty. I have to be in that forty.

  There are few women on the street. They’ve learned not to be in the way of this multi-footed, anger-fueled monster that scurries toward the docks possessed. Eyes full of dollar signs and stomachs that churn with hunger.

  The cobblestones are pressed neatly into the road. Slammed down hard and smoothed by so many feet and so many heavy vehicles. We spread out. Each man taking what they think is the best route. Kin and I head straight down the center. It’s thicker with bodies, but it’s quicker. We’re quicker and younger.

  I dart and slide between people, moving lithely like a dancer. Kin just knocks men out the way. The dull, cyclone-wire fence surrounding the dock seems to shudder as we approach.

  Someone grabs the collar of my jacket and jerks me back. I fall, tumbling several men like milk bottles in my wake. The man I’m essentially sitting on snatches at my hair, his hand wet with oil from the black puddle he fell in. It slips uselessly from his hands. I jump up, give him a smirk, and keep running, preparing for the pain.

  It’s like running full force into a brick wall—a writhing, huffing, puffing wall of frenzied men. We are five men deep in the crowd when the sirens sound.

  “You ready?” Kin asks, as if I have a choice.

  “Sure,” I say, rolling my shoulders.

  He holds his interlocked hands out, crouching, his forehead resting on the back of the man in front. I step up awkwardly, fighting for space in the crush. “One, two, three…” He launches me forward and I dive into the sea of bodies, kicking one guy lightly in the head and almost pulling someone’s ear off as I land. But I’m in front and Kin’s pushing people aside like they’re made of corkwood.

  “We’re hiring forty men today. Please behave in an orderly fashion as we open the gates to count,” the man with the speaker grunts sarcastically. He knows there’s no order to this. He’s counting on it. The men who get through are the strongest, the most determined, and the most hardworking. It’s what they want.

  Men with guns in their belts stand on either side of the ten-foot-high, sliding gate. They have a twist to their faces, enjoying the small power they have over the rest of us. I’m being squashed like a flower between two books now as the men surge forward, aching to get through the small, man-sized gap they’ll make in a few seconds.

  Two armed men bang on the fence hollowly, guns in hand. “Back off,” they warn as desperate bodies squish against the wire. There’s no controlling them. There’s only the push, sweat, and sea air.

  The gates start to rattle open, hard knuckles gripping the edges, ready to slam it closed once they reach their count. Arms go first, then heads and bodies slide through the gap like some sort of reverse birth. I don’t even need to fight that hard, I’m carried along with the crowd. I hear the number twenty called out as I pass, my forearms ripping as I’m batted back and forth against the sharp ends of the wire. Kin is two men behind me and gives me a wink. The rest pour fluidly past like grain poured from a sack, and then some men assist the guards in shutting the gate. Fingers are crushed. A face is slammed with the butt of a gun. I turn back and glance at the sad and angry faces left behind. I can’t smile about my fortune because it means I cheated others out of theirs. I turn away before I make a decision I’ll regret, like giving up my place. We all need it as much as the other. There is no story more or less pathetic. We wouldn’t be here otherwise.

  Dragging gravel beside me with his wrinkled toes is the old man from the train. Kin laughs as he slaps the man on the back. “You made it through, old man. Good for you!”

  He shakes his head and spits on the ground, a chewed cigarette hanging from his lip. “Yeah, we just won the worst prize on the planet. Back breaking labor for minimum wage,” I snap, rolling my eyes at Kin’s chipper demeanor. It’s not as easy for me to ignore the hopelessness of the ones trapped on the other side who won’t get to feed their families tonight.

  Kin shrugs and kicks stones as we near the water. “These were your rules, Kettle. I’m just trying to play nice like you asked me to.” The black water swallows the stones without a sound, sinking into silty darkness.

  He pulls his cap low over his eyes and rubs the back of his neck. I watch his broad back shift away from me, and I know I’m probably going to get the silent treatment for the rest of the day.

  My eyes search the sky. Gray clouds hang heavy over the water, edging inland slowly. The breeze is salt, fish, and rusting metal flavored. I lick the corner of my mouth and head to the sign-in station, my feet thudding against damp jetty sleepers.

  I slap Kin on the head as I pass him, and he swears at me.

  The old man coughs and turns his gray face toward me. His eyes narrow as he really takes in our dark skin and Kin’s almost black eyes. “You two brothers?”

  Kin scoffs.

  I smile at the old man and shake my head. “I’m far too handsome to be related to that ape in a hat.”

  Kin forgets he’s mad at me and speaks, “Yeah, we’re brothers. He’s the smart one and I’m the much smarter, pretty one with the good hair.”

  The old man is looking like he’s sorry he asked and picks up his pace. His gait is fresh and speedy, and I realize the frail old man stuff was an act. I smile, impressed at his deception.

  The shadows of crane arms cut our path, and I gulp in anticipation.

  “Ready to fly?” Kin asks, wiggling his dark brows.

  I don’t answer, thinking good thoughts.

  10. UNEXPECTED

  KETTLE

  Mister Black, the supervisor, ambles over, his black, squiggly hair bouncing under his hard hat, his white shirt hanging out past his jacket cuffs. “Kettle, you’re up, boy,” he orders gruffly, tossing me a hardhat and a bright yellow vest covered in greasy stains. His voice is tired, whiny, and full of impatience at his current circumstance.

  He hands me one large, rusty hook the size of my head. It sinks in my arms. His severe frown is compromised by the frosted look of his beard and moustache, salt-crusted from working near the sea all day, every day. I clasp my hand around the metal. It’s reassuring. It’s so heavy, so solid that it edges out the small fear I harbor in my heart. I’m not even sure fear is the right word; it’s more of a small ball that spins and builds to a rush. It’s rough-edged, but it doesn’t hurt. It’s what pushes me up, makes me crave the sky.

  My eyes lift. The sky is veiled in tattered lace, clouds so thin they seem to be part of the blue. I grin. I want to believe the sky has something for me. That it isn’t empty. That it’s full.

  Black jerks a finger in the direction of the first container, red and dented. “Hook it up, ride it over, set it down,” he says as he twirls around so his back is to me. His hair flies out from his face, and I have to clamp down my lips to stop from whistling at him.

  I nod, though he can’t see me. I know the drill.

  Moving fast across the cracked concrete, I scurry up the side of the shipping container, the metal dimpling and rebounding as I land on the roof. I crouch down, fingers spread, ready to grab the thick chains that will sail down from the sky. One of the chains is missing a hook. It swings more loosely, unsafely, and I don’t want to think too hard about how it happened. The chains land on the metal roof with a clang, sweeping and dragging like a giant, teasing necklace as I try to catch the hooks and attach them to the anchors. I screw the replacement hook in, tighten it, and couple it to the last anchor point. My eyes scan the oil-streaked ground for Kin, but there’s no proud head amongst all the others that count the cracks running like dried-up veins along the floor. I shrug. He must be working in another area, and he’s probably sulking.

  No one looks at me as the container lurches
from the ground; their heads are down or on the next job.

  I clamp my hand around one of the thick chains. It’s instantly stained orange, but my skin has always been copper colored so you’d barely notice. I center myself and hold tight as we lift into the air.

  Metal makes a strange sound when it’s fighting against gravity. It protests, it whines, and groans. I rise past the levels of colored containers stacked on the docks. Piled high like giant sugar cubes, full of things I’ll never see, nor have. Things I don’t really want either. I know how precious my freedom is, my independence. It’s enough.

  I keep to my knees as the crane swings over the water, one hand holding the chain, the other keeping my hat on my head as the cold blast of wind coming off the water hits me in the chest. I don’t hold the hat to my head for my own safety, though. If I lose it, it gets docked from my pay. If I fell from up here the only part of me that would survive, ironically, would be the hat.

  I puff out my chest, breathing in deeply. This is the part I love—this small window of time between leaving the ground and setting down on the ship. Through that window, I can fly. My hair flares back from my face, my cheeks sting with cold, brackish air. Fear leaves me, and I am free.

  I crow like a rooster as the container lifts higher, wanting to crook my elbows and spread my wings, but it’s too dangerous to let go. It swings in the wind, seeming like a feather and not tons of steel. A few men glance up to find the source of the noise, shielding their eyes with their hands. Their confused faces make me grin, my lips basted with salt, my eyes fighting to stay open against the wind.