Life Before

  These are decent people. Why are they here? No one remotely resembles the stinking woman in New York City. No one except me, of course.

  After a scuffle about my not being a Vermont resident and my repeated assurance that I have nowhere else to go, the guy behind the table asks where I’ve been sleeping. It’s not a trick question.

  Shudder. I may have had company in those woods. A normal person would opt to stay in a homeless shelter instead of staying outside where a number of unsavory things could happen. I’m not normal. And not the new normal, either.

  Using my Graham Bel ID is convenient. Intake paperwork includes lots of embarrassing questions I can evade because I’m Graham. For example, Are you the victim of abuse?

  Nope. Graham’s life is peachy. Georgia peachy.

  In the end, Graham Bel is my undoing. They don’t have any beds. Burlington’s only available beds are for under-18s: runaways and youth-in-crisis. And at this point, I can’t very well whip out seventeen-year-old Alexander Fife’s ID.

  Why didn’t I know about that before I became Graham Bel? I could have been staying here since landing in Burlington. Nice.

  I can’t win. My real self would have been fine in this situation. As Graham, I’m screwed. What the hell?

  Can’t they tell that I need a bed and shower more than Mr. Suit and The Suitcases? An adult with a suit or suitcase obviously has resources, whereas I have nothing.

  I need to catch a break.

  I mean, another one.

  An hour later, deep in the forest, I wish on a star for the first time in years: please, no rain tonight.

  TWENTY-SIX

  For the first time in maybe forever, my wish comes true: the rain holds off until morning. I am so famished that one peanut butter sandwich doesn’t do it. I tear another slice of bread in half and slather on the peanut butter. I’ll need a new jar tomorrow or the next day.

  If I ever get out of here, I’m never eating peanut butter again.

  Plenty of real food is just two hours away at work. I strap on my backpack. I’ve made it through another night undiscovered.

  Twigs break in a walking rhythm, and they’re getting louder. I pick up the knife, caked with peanut butter, and hide behind the biggest tree I can find.

  I’m not undiscovered at all.

  “Hello?” His hello knows I’m within earshot.

  I peek from beyond my tree to see a guy in a black uniform. A cop, facing away from me. I scamper to a tree even farther from my campsite.

  What kind of trouble am I in? I know there’s no camping, but that’s what? A misdemeanor?

  I need to get out of here. I don’t want to leave all my stuff, but I don’t exactly have a choice. I can’t get involved with the cops.

  Knife in hand, I drop to my knees and crawl in the general direction of the path until brush and trees stand between us.

  Far enough from the campsite that he can’t hear me, I break into a run.

  Shit. What about all my clothes? What about that peanut butter?

  I do a mental inventory: knife, iPod, IDs, books, Labello, bracelet. The important stuff is on my back. I can come back for the rest later. Jogging toward the trailhead, I fold the knife in my hand.

  I emerge from the woods to find a tiny police officer leaning against her cruiser in the parking lot.

  She draws her gun. “Lower your weapon.”

  I do, in the most literal way: I drop it straight onto the ground.

  “Stay where you are, with your hands where I can see them.”

  I raise my hands toward the sky and she pulls out a tiny walkie-talkie.

  “I’ve got him, Walt.”

  Walt’s response is garbled.

  I got too comfortable. And there’s no sense running from this girl. I’m out of shape, my lousy backpack is weighing me down, and she looks like she’s fresh out of the police academy; I don’t stand a chance.

  She knows it, too. “Why are you running around with a weapon?”

  “I thought someone was after me. Protection. Just that, I swear.”

  “You the guy who’s been sneaking around here after hours? Lots of complaints from the neighborhood.”

  One very important thing I learned from Chief Dale Bernard at a very young age: don’t talk too much. I’ve already talked too much, so I wait for her to ask a genuine question.

  “How long have you been sleeping here?”

  Do not shrug. “A couple nights.”

  “You have ID on you?”

  “I do.”

  We stare at each other for a minute before she reaches toward me. No words, just an outstretched hand. She thinks I’m being a smartass, but I’m really, really not. This is a make-or-break moment. Jill’s dad once locked up a guy for thumbing his nose.

  I can’t go to jail. It would be all over the news.

  This cop is eager. “ID please?”

  Another very important thing I learned from Dale? Never lie to cops.

  Ever.

  My fingers brush quickly over Gretchen’s Labello as I dig in the tiny pocket of my backpack. And here I am, Xander Fife, surfacing in Burlington.

  The cop looks at my driver’s license and opens the back door of her cruiser, inviting me in. It’s more demand than invitation. Climbing inside feels very final.

  She studies my knife, pulling out the blade and smelling it before folding it again. She calls someone on her cell phone, but takes the call outside the cruiser. It’s practically soundproof in here, and she’s facing away from me.

  A few minutes later, her partner—Walt?—emerges with my duffel. Is it evidence now?

  Why was I so casual this morning? How could I let Jill convince me to let my guard down? Yeah, maybe Gary’s not on my tail, but I am breaking laws here.

  And now I’m going to jail. Prison! I’m a criminal. And if they put out a news release or something, Gary will know exactly where I am.

  I’m being paranoid.

  I’m probably being paranoid. I’m—

  “We have to take you to the station.” My cop is off her phone climbing into the cruiser.

  It takes us five seconds to get there. God, Burlington is small.

  I don’t remember anything else Dale taught me about dealing with the police. No one has read me my rights.

  “Am I under arrest? I believe if I’m not under arrest I do not have to submit to questioning.”

  She eyes me in the rearview mirror, hops out of the cruiser, and gets on her phone again. Walt stays in the front seat, rubbing his temples. The cop turns around to look at me twice.

  Something is happening. She returns the phone to her holster, glances at the sky, and opens my door.

  “Sorry about this.” She reaches toward me and, in a hot second, I’m splayed across the cruiser’s trunk. She’s not rough, but she handcuffs me before god and country and oh my god, I am so screwed.

  My chin rests on the cruiser’s roof while she cuffs me. “Am I under arrest?”

  “You got skittish. I think you’re a flight risk.”

  Shit. What can I say to that? “I have no money to fly with.”

  She’s unimpressed.

  Walt says, “Amy,” and my cop has a name. “What about his bag?”

  Officer Amy says, “Bring it in.”

  Inside the police station, which is easily five times the size of Laurel’s, Officer Amy introduces me to her captain, Mack Davies. Irritable and hurried, he sizes me up before returning to his office. In the bare hall outside the captain’s office, Amy makes me sit with my hands still cuffed behind me. Through his huge office windows, I watch Davies dig inside his nose and pick up his phone.

  It’s all very Glengarry Glen Ross with the phones and shenanigans and I really just need a break. I desperately need a break. Like right now.

  He approaches the door, antique corded phone in hand. “Yeah, one of my guys found him.” He slams the door. Silence.

  Who is he talking to? Who the hell is he talking to?

  He
bites his cuticles while he’s on the phone, so I can’t even read his lips. It’s probably one of the nosy neighbors near Cosley Woods. He could be calling Laurel. That seems unlikely, but then, so does my being handcuffed and sitting in a narrow hallway on a cheap plastic chair in freaking Burlington, Vermont. All for sleeping in a park.

  What if they put me in jail? I don’t want a shower that badly.

  The captain keeps staring at me through his smudged window, and once even stands up to study me. After twenty minutes of toying with his rubbery face, he gets off the phone and calls Officer Amy into his office.

  They talk very near each other, with the door closed again, and Officer Amy keeps turning to look at me. They’re trying to decide what to do with me, and my get-out-of-jail free card, Dale Bernard, is nowhere near here.

  Shit.

  Another million years later, Officer Amy emerges from the office. “Follow me.”

  Standing up while handcuffed is tricky.

  All the little warning bells in my head start going off when she takes me to a tiny interrogation room. She closes the door and unlocks my cuffs.

  I have to do one big stretch, even though I wasn’t restrained for long. It’s just what you do.

  She eyes me like I’m nuts. “Okay. First off, no more sleeping in the woods. You have a written warning for that. Drawing a weapon on an officer is against the law, but you weren’t actually brandishing the knife, so, uh, it’s a gray area. We’re going to let you off with a warning but we, uh, we have to release you into the custody of an adult. Someone local. Do you know any adults here?”

  Well, yes and no. I can think of only one person in all of Burlington who might pick me up. And he won’t be ashamed to do it, probably.

  “If I can call Curt’s Deli, I can get someone to pick me up.”

  Dropping her shoulders, she grins. “Curt Danley will pick you up?”

  “Yeah. The younger Curt?”

  “Little Curt? Alrighty. That’ll work.” She dials and hands the ringing phone to me.

  “Hey, is Curt there? The one … with hair?”

  An eternity later, he says, “Curt.”

  Officer Amy is right here. I turn my back to her and whisper, “It’s Graham.”

  “Hey, I was wondering where you were. I was expecting you fifteen minutes ago.”

  “I’m at … the police station?”

  Behind me, Officer Amy says, “North Avenue. He knows the place.”

  “On North Avenue? Could you, um, could you come get me? I’ll explain everything, I swear. They need to release me into someone’s custody and you’re sort of the only person I know here.”

  “Yeah, sure, give me a minute.”

  I hand the phone back to Amy. “He’s coming.”

  She walks me back to the hallway. “Sit while you wait, Mr. Fife.”

  I’m not handcuffed or anything. I could walk out of here and avoid the unpleasant conversation I’m about to have with Curt. Davies looks at me through his office window, but he looks old and slow.

  I could run and hide.

  Then again, that hasn’t been working so far.

  Curt and his winning smile arrive, so I’m out of options. He shakes hands with Officer Amy before half-hugging her.

  “There’s a story here, isn’t there?” he asks.

  She shrugs. “How’s your dad?”

  “Alright. Headed back to Montana next weekend to pack up my grandmother. She’s moving in with him.”

  Amy’s guffaw suggests there’s a story there, too. She says, “Talk to Mack for a minute,” and I’m stuck twiddling my thumbs again while Curt ducks into the captain’s office.

  Amy brings my bags from around the counter and hands me my blade. Dale’s blade.

  Curt glances back at me a few times during their chat. He shakes hands with the captain before opening the door.

  How bad is it?

  “Okay, man, let’s go.”

  He doesn’t say anything for a few blocks. “You said you had sorted out your living situation, man.”

  I never actually said that. I lawyer-answered him. It was kind of a shitty thing to do. “Look, Curt, you were being so generous with the job, and I didn’t want to ask for anything else. I was running out of money, and I figured making some money would get me partway to finding somewhere to stay.”

  He shakes his head and is quiet the rest of the way. Steps from the deli, he says, “Look, you can crash at my place until we figure out something else. Just don’t say anything about this to my dad, okay? He has enough going on right now. We don’t need him freaking out about you. Just be cool.”

  “Thank you.”

  “No worries,” Curt says. “Hey, you okay?”

  “I don’t even know anymore.”

  To his credit, he doesn’t press further. I follow him inside, grab my scrubby brushes, and get to work on the toilets.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Slimy, wet kale turns my stomach, and the deli uses a lot of it: kale in salads, kale on the side, kale chips, kale, kale, kale.

  Kale Jail. I have to laugh. Worlds away from Dale Jail, I’m still captive. An hour before close, while shaking a plate of soggy kale chips into the trash, the plate slips from my fingers. Thousands of ceramic shards scatter.

  For a moment, the only sounds are running water and the fryer’s distinct sizzle.

  “Oh, God. Oh, God. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry! It just slipped. I’ll pay for it. I will work extra hours to make up for it.” My heart races while I sweep the pieces into a dustpan. It’s over: job, gone. Bed, gone.

  The kitchen starts up again and Curt slaps me on the back. “No worries, man. It’s just a dish. Why dwell?”

  Because it costs money? Because I was careless? Because I am a worthless idiot?

  But then, those are my father’s answers, not mine.

  They aren’t the answers of any normal person in the world. People break plates. Stuff happens. Maybe I can stop beating myself up over it … so to speak. It’ll take some getting used to.

  After the customers have gone, I load the last batch of dishes, clean the toilets, and mop the floor.

  Curt finally talks to me about something other than cleaning and toilet brushes. “I’m going to put you on my couch.”

  “Thanks, Curt, really. Thanks. I’ll find a place as soon as I can.”

  He locks up the deli and we start the trek back to his house.

  “Right. Look: this is a little complicated. Don’t tell my ma you’re working at the deli. And don’t, under any circumstances, tell Dad you’re staying at my house. They know what they need to know, and they would be suspicious if they knew both things.”

  “Suspicious of what?”

  “Just … suspicious,” he says. “Trust me, they won’t be talking to each other. Just keep your mouth shut.”

  I don’t know what they would be suspicious of. And if they would be suspicious of something, why isn’t Curt? He’s acting suspiciously himself, turning around every five seconds like someone might be following us. Maybe he’s looking out for the girl he mentioned during the other-Mustang fiasco. Maybe he’s more paranoid than I am!

  Near the end of a cu-de-sac, Curt’s house is just one floor, and eerily quiet.

  Inside the back door, he says, “Ma is already asleep. Otherwise, Kat would be at the kitchen table. Kat is her caretaker most days. So, quick tour: living room, kitchen, bathroom, bedrooms.”

  We don’t move during the tour. We don’t need to.

  “Okay. Take a shower. Wash all your clothes, too. Laundry’s in the bathroom. Tomorrow, come out clean and fresh and shaven. The line for my mom is that you’re visiting Burlington for a couple of weeks.”

  “Where will you be in the morning?”

  Curt checks his watch. “Here with you. Tomorrow is Wednesday. I’m always off on Wednesdays. You’re off with me tomorrow. But tonight I have a date. Watch TV. Surf the web if you want. Whatever.”

  Curt moves a wad of sheets from a tiny clos
et into my arms. “Couch is yours until the morning. Try to be quiet. Don’t eat all the ice cream. See you in the morning.”

  And then he’s gone.

  Two weeks ago, I didn’t know Curt. Now I work for him. And use his sheets in his tiny house with all the luxuries of home.

  Obedient—and grateful!—I head for the shower. Heavenly. The second water hits my scalp, a whiff of my own stench overwhelms me. No wonder I have to shower before meeting Curt’s mom. No wonder I’m assigned to toilets and dirties.

  I wash my hair twice to get rid of the stench.

  Shaving cream prevents any new cuts. And here, in the mirror, is Xander. I’m still here. Somewhere, some part of me feels normal. For some definition of normal, at least. I look older. Tired. My eyes look a lot like Mom’s. Tired. Needful.

  Lonely.

  I’m almost happy while I shake out the sheets over Curt’s squishy green couch. I have made it through a lot of shit. Good on me. I’m done sleeping outside! Good on me!

  Curt left without giving me his computer password, but I’m happy to go for a run instead. The first glorious run since Mom died (unless you count my frantic run through Cosley Woods, which I don’t).

  Two miles from Curt’s house, I feel alive again, for the first time in a month. It’s quiet enough here that I can run in peace. (Dale’s knife rests in the key pocket of my shorts. I’m not totally over the paranoia.) It feels almost a little bit normal, as much as running in Chucks is normal.

  I feel so good. Running off the stress of the last several weeks takes a long time. Not marathon long, but well over an hour. Back in the house before midnight, I treat myself to another shower before switching on the TV. More normalcy in Curt’s house.

  By two, he still hasn’t returned and I still can’t shut off my brain. I miss home. Tonight I’m missing Jill’s birthday party for the first time, ever.

  The skate park is full. Movie theaters, too. The colorful town gossip continues, though now I’m part of the fodder. My boss is probably desperate to fill my job. Dairy Queen was probably hit pretty hard, too; most people lack my capacity to devour ice cream year-round.

  Maybe Burlington has good ice cream.

  Staring at the water-marked ceiling, I wonder where Gary is. Dozens, if not hundreds, of people are hunting for the man who killed my mother with his bare hands. Surely that’s on my side.