by Janel Kolby
I shake my head and go to the washer to occupy my mind.
Our clothes are clean, and it’s time to dry. On the other side are machines that say Dryer, and there’s a button that says Start. Well, that’s easy. I could dry them myself if I had King’s coins.
I walk to the glass front of the laundry place in my stocking feet, and wait.
King wouldn’t take my boots.
A gray woman in brown walks by, and I shrivel to the side—brown coat, brown skirt, brown shoes. Brown shoes that shine. Someone else walks by—orange penny shoes—not sure if a man or woman. Black heels click-click. Their stems wither away. There are black boots, but not mine. They have buckles. Mine have laces. None of those shoes are mine.
King wouldn’t bang on the bathroom door, and he wouldn’t take my shoes.
The library, he said. This is where you go if anything happens.
My skin crawls. This is something happening.
I twist up my hair to put on my cap, but my hair’s still wet, so I put the cap in my pouch where it can keep dry. I pick up the book that’s meant to return since I promised and snap it into my waistband beneath my sweatshirt. I step outside where it’s bright. The door jingles as I leave. I flinch. Did it jingle when we came in? Why is it so loud?
A car screeches past, and I close my eyes.
My head buzzes, and I make myself breathe.
Alone. I’ve been alone before. Not outside the Jungle, but I’ve been alone plenty. I know how to be alone.
The cement is cold through my stockings. Good. Will help me walk fast, cuz the faster I walk, the faster I’ll get to the library and see King. Because nothing can happen to King.
I look far, but don’t see him.
In front of me must be the street from King’s map. The one that ends at the library.
“Those were your boots?”
I turn to a girl who leans against the wall. Her hair is black, tips dipped in purple. Her eyes nearly match those tips, but lighter. Violet. She’s in a white dress. An actual dress. And the whitest white I’ve ever seen. The top part like a man’s shirt with short sleeves, a wide black tie at the neck.
My sweatshirt is a man’s—we’re the same that way. But hers is a man’s made for a woman. The bottom part stops just before her knees, where the laces of tall, black boots crisscross down to her feet. Not my boots. Not mine anything. Her body fills her dress like mine would never fill my sweatshirt. She must eat plenty. Not too much. The right amount.
“You saw?” I ask.
She pushes herself from the building. “Who wouldn’t?” She points to my bootless feet. “They were yours, right?”
She bosses as a man does, but her lips are red. Lipstick. A large, black bag hangs from her shoulder. I bet she has lots of makeup in there. I wonder how old she is. Sixteen? Seventeen? She narrows her eyes. Questioning, maybe, about me.
Across the street, a sign with a hand flashes as red as her lipstick.
I ignore its warning and nod.
Someone took my boots.
“I’m so done with him,” she says.
King? She doesn’t know him. Or else she’d never say that.
“You’ll get your boots,” she says. “Your friend’s more pissed than I am. The only reason I’m waiting is to give him what he had the nerve to put in my bag. That, and I never want to see his face again. I’m not doing it anymore.”
King? The flashing hand across the street stops.
She takes in my wet hair and no-makeup face. “How do you know Cook?”
Cook.
The name hits my gut, and my blood drains. That must be what the gutters are for between the street and the sidewalk. There are no gutters between my trees.
“You do know him,” she says. It isn’t a question. Her face falls. “What did he do?”
Blond comb tracks. Too straight and too deep.
King said he was gone for good.
“You don’t need to tell me,” she says. Then she screams, but it’s a quiet scream. Like some of the rocks back at home. “He’s an asshole. And I’m an asshole for believing him. He saw your friend in there and told me to stay. Like a dog. Then he ran out with your boots, and your friend chasing.”
The tips of her hair are the color of those berries.
I shake my head. It can’t be him.
She leans back against the building. “Is that guy your boyfriend?”
I’m nobody’s. He’s nobody’s.
“He seems nice,” she says. “Nice enough to go after your boots. But you never know. Obviously.” She looks my face over.
I try to look older. Stand straighter. Cock a knee like hers.
“I met him at a club. I thought he was nice. Special, even.”
Special?
“I thought I could help him,” she says. “He lives . . .”
I uncock my knee.
She looks me over, and an eyebrow raises. “Do you live around here?”
I nod.
“Where? I live in Queen Anne. I’m Matisse. What’s your name?”
She talks too much. Trusts too much. How could she think he was nice? The soil beneath my trees would refuse to bury him.
She can believe.
Because her name is Matisse. She can say her name out loud. And she’s from Queen Anne. The daughter of a queen. Bad things happen to princesses all the time, but they never expect it.
“Evil isn’t special,” I warn. “Don’t wait for him.”
I need to find King. I look up and down the street.
I take a step.
She holds my arm. “I believe you. And I’m sorry for whatever he did.”
“It’s not nice to talk about the past.”
She leans her head to the side, and her purple tips brush her shoulder. “You can’t walk in stockings. You’ll hurt your feet.”
Is it odd to walk in stockings? Maybe it’s odd. Must be.
“Let me give you a ride. You could stay in the car while I wait for him. It’s around the corner.” She adjusts her bag. “I wish I could leave, but I don’t have a choice. If I don’t give this back, he’ll never leave me alone. Afterward, I’ll drop you off. Where do you need to go?”
I shake my head.
“You want to go after your friend, don’t you?” she asks. “You’re worried about him.”
I fold my arms over my book.
“If it makes you feel any better,” she says, “it looked like Cook was playing. I’m sure they’ll be back soon.”
My fist clenches around his name. “They’re not playing. You should go.”
She pulls at the tips of her hair. “I wish.”
My hand jerks forward and covers her mouth. “It’s not kind to wish.”
Her eyes grow wide, and she steps away from me.
I clasp my hands behind my back. Focus on my toes. Rub my big one hard against the cement. I didn’t mean to make her afraid.
“It’s okay,” she says.
And I look up at her.
“I’ll go,” she says. “After I give this to him.”
“He wants it that bad?” I ask.
“Bad enough.”
My words speak on their own. “Then give it to me.”
She holds up her hand. “You don’t even know what it is.”
“Something he wants.”
She clutches her bag, and her eyes think they know me. They say, You’re one of them. As if I could ever be like him.
A car whirs past—as fast as my heart. To have something Cook wants. To take it.
I shake my head. “It could help my friend.”
Her grip loosens. She looks around, then reaches into her bag. Looks around again and stuffs something in my front pocket.
She backs up quick. “You really don’t care what it is, do you?”
“No.”
I wait for her to leave so she doesn’t see where I’m going. But she still looks at me.
Look away. I will her to.
I’d look away if someone wa
s looking at me. But she’s not.
I cock my knee again. Hard.
She sticks her hand in her bag. Something else of Cook’s?
“Why am I already regretting this?” she says.
I hold my pouch closed. I won’t let her take it.
She pulls out a marker. Grabs my arm and pulls up my sleeve. I’m as surprised as she is.
“Do you mind Sharpie?” she says. She writes. On my arm. It tickles.
“That’s your name,” I say. “Matisse.” I look up at her, and she seems more real now that her name is written. “How do you do that?”
She pauses. “Jesus.” Then writes more furious. “This is my phone number. If anything goes wrong. I work at Spazz.”
I’m sure my face is blank.
“Spazz Coffee?” she says. “On Second Ave.”
“Do you want my name?” I ask. “On your arm?”
She offers the marker, but I push it toward her.
“Rain. R. A. I. N.”
She pulls up her white sleeve.
I step close so I can watch her write the letters. One after the other. Until my name appears.
“That’s me,” I say.
I want to touch the letters on her arm. She’s going to be looking at them later and be thinking about me. I feel as permanent as the marker—as solid as the concrete that runs down the street, as great as the wall we climbed, and as old as the hill that is our home.
“Do you have a number?” she asks.
“No.”
“What about the number of a friend?”
I shake my head.
She presses the cap of the marker between her fingers, then slowly starts to put it back on. Like she’s hoping for more.
“Wait,” I tell her. “Will you write something else?” I look around for something to write on. Something people will see. I point to the cement under our feet. “There.”
“What?”
I pull down my sleeve. “WINTERFOLK.”
She nods and squats with her knees together to one side. She starts to write in big letters. She gets to the T, and I trace it with my toes. Two logs. That’s all they are. One balancing on top of the other. If you took the bottom away, the top would fall down.
She frowns and finishes writing. “Is that how you want it?”
“Looks real, doesn’t it?”
She stands and puts the lid on the marker. “Sure.” She shakes her head. “Seriously. You have my number, right? Call me.” She puts away her Sharpie. Waits for me to leave.
But I don’t. I wait for her.
She shakes her head again and walks down the street. She’s getting smaller. The word must be getting smaller, too.
“Can you still see it?” I yell.
“Call me!” she says back.
I keep watching until she turns the corner and I don’t see her no more. I press my arm against my book and read again.
WINTERFOLK
I study the letters like a map that could take me back home.
I shiver.
The sign across the road turns red again, and I cross.
I gasp as gravel digs into my soles, but it doesn’t stay. Just like people.
They come and they go. And the hurt goes away. Mostly.
I turn to look back at her, but she’s really gone.
Was she ever here?
I lift my sleeve, and her name is across my flesh, as mine is across hers.
We are here.
I put my hand in my pocket and feel the thin plastic of a baggie. I pinch it as I step careful for ants and any other little thing. I don’t want to feel them squish. As my innards now do when my fingers sink into something finer than salt or sugar. I pull the corner of the baggie out from my pocket, and it’s as white as Matisse’s dress.
What did I do?
I trip over the curb, and my head buzzes. What will he do when he finds out?
I shake my head to clear it.
Follow King’s map.
Find King.
Get my boots back.
Think of the map.
Dig your feet into the map.
Ahead is a store on the same side as I am with posters of hot dogs and chili. Good. Just like King said.
I’m going the right way. Doing something right. Keep going.
I stare at the Hank’s Hot Dogs & Chili sign. My stomach’s squeezed tight, but even if I had King’s coins and nothing else in my pocket, I couldn’t eat anything of Hank’s. I need to find King. Someone in Hank’s alley pokes in a trash can. Has a souped-up cart on six decent wheels. Good luck.
Keep going.
Across is the police station. I walk on the balls of my feet and try not to look at that rectangle building. King says they have red-and-blue policing power, red for some and blue for others.
They stick it to you, he says. That red-and-blue power. Stay away.
I keep my head forward.
Ahead is like a museum with brown brick and lots of windows, but the sign over the door says Beacon Hill Library. I thump the book under my sweatshirt. I saw a picture of a library once with smiling people. Every single one of them. I smile like I’m supposed to. There’s another sign posted on the door. Shirts and shoes required. I open the door since signs aren’t for me.
A girl about King’s age is at the front desk. Not noticing me, of course. She doesn’t wear glasses like the library ladies I saw in picture books when I was little. Not at all like in the pictures. Her brown skin is darker than her hair—cut short like a boy—and her shape is like most boys, too.
She talks to a little kid who does have glasses, as well as droopy jeans she keeps in place with her hands in her pockets.
“I’m sorry, but you can’t check out any more books until you pay your late fee,” the library lady says. “After that, you can check out five books and try to return them on time.”
I glide past them—my feet too quick to notice—surprising how fast without shoes. And then I see the books. All those books. King never told me how many. He’s been stingy. Row after row. Don’t seem to stop. I reach out my hand and run my fingertips across them—all different colors and sizes. How many pages, how many words? How many stories?
King said to look for the nature section. That’s where he’d be. I scan the cards on the stacks. Research, History, Science, Mathematics, Computers, Philosophy, Poetry, Fiction, Fantasy, Horror, Nonfiction, Children’s, Nature. In the back corner with the posters of tree frogs and leaves.
King isn’t there.
I squeeze my book and read the card again to be sure. Nature.
The librarian gets up from her chair. I sit against the wall on top of my feet. Can’t let her see my feet, or she’ll know I don’t belong.
He’ll be here. I know he will. I close my eyes, ignore the bulge in my front pocket, and reach to the books. Some titles bubble beneath my fingers, others lie flat and unseen. My hand rests on one of the unseen ones, and I pull the binding free from the shelf, set it on my lap, and rub its glossy cover.
Eyes open. See the ocean.
I open to pictures of tropical fish. I squeeze my hair and a water drop falls to the green carpet. My book of fairy tales digs in my ribs, but I can’t take it out yet. I lean my head back against the wall and want to sleep beneath this roof held up by words. My feet and all my fat pig toes snuggle and rest. What’s the story about pigs? The first fairy tale King ever brought me. The smart one built his house with bricks, but bricks can be bulldozed. He should’ve built it with words instead.
“Rain.”
He’s breathless. My boots hang from his right hand. His hair is in blue-black waves—a storming ocean.
“Your eye’s swelling,” I say.
“Your hair’s wet.”
Because it’s been crying, I want to say, but I don’t say that. I’m where he told me to be. And he has my boots. He got them without me having to do anything. If King found out what I did—
“Why’d you take my boots?” I ask.
I k
now he didn’t take them, but I don’t know if he’ll tell the real truth.
“I didn’t. I was gettin’ them back.”
“From?” I ask.
“Someone I used to know. Thought it funny.”
I itch my arm. The one with the name. “Who?”
Tell me.
King shifts his weight.
My stomach flutters. Don’t know if it’s me or what he might say that does it.
His face tenses. He stretches his fingers wide across my shoes, and the tension ripples from his face to his hands. He sits down next to me and sets my boots in front. “Cook.”
The fish book falls to my lap.
“You said the fucker was gone.”
His face blanches. “Don’t talk like that. I thought he was. I really did. But you don’t gotta worry. He was just pranking.”
“Why? Cuz he’s a funny guy?”
His jaw clenches. “No. I don’t know why I said that. He won’t be back this time.”
“You use your blade again?”
“He won’t be back.” His eyes float down to the book. “What you reading?”
I point to the fish. My finger shakes at what he might have done, or what he might not have done. I don’t know what I want more.
“Amphiprion percula,” he says.
I concentrate on the fish. “Clownfish. Funny fish.”
“What about this one?” He holds my finger steady and points to another one. “Centropyge aurantonotus.”
“Flaming angelfish. You got me this book once. Don’t you remember? Had it for a long time.”
“I remember,” he says.
I slip my finger from him. “It’s a children’s book.”
He folds his hands together. “I know.”
“I had this book too much time. Didn’t know there were so many books.” I smell the fish book to check for home, but nothing distinguishes it.
He looks around. “Too many books. You bring it?”
“What?” My cheeks flame. Not like the glow of an angel, or that angelfish swimming on the page—blue with a golden stripe on top.
I clutch my pouch, and sweat beads above my upper lip.
His forehead wrinkles. “The book.”
“Oh.” I wipe the sweat from my lip.
He doesn’t know.
He picks up one of my empty boots and taps my foot with it. “Steady,” he says.