by Janel Kolby
The books tower around me. They hum. Once upon a time. Once upon a time. They want to tell me their stories.
He looks to my stomach. “Your book in there?”
I hug my knees. “Yes.”
I pull at my wet hair.
“You promised you’d give it,” he says.
“You promised he was gone.”
His eyes go hard. “Put on your boots. We’re going back to camp.”
“I don’t want them.”
He points to his swelling eye. “I got ’em back for you.”
I press my chest to my thighs. “I didn’t ask you to.”
“Okay,” he says. “How many books you want? Can’t take too many. Be quick.”
This can’t be how today ends.
“I want them all,” I say.
He laughs. Fake.
“Borrow them,” I say. “Like anyone else.”
“You need a library card,” he says, “and an address with proof to back it. You ain’t got proof of nothing.”
“We can draw the map like you showed me.”
“Put on your boots.”
“Why don’t you show them?” I say.
“It’s got to be an address with numbers, like, or names so they know where to collect the fines if you don’t bring them back. You’d get way fined up if they knew about you.”
“I’ll promise them.”
He pushes his hair back, but it drops forward again. “Get your stuff on.”
I put on the boots. Then I do as King says and twist my wet hair up into my knitted cap.
“The book?” he says.
“Not a chance.”
“Then I’m not getting more.”
“Whatever.” I stand. “Let’s go.”
King walks on the near side of the librarian. She smiles at him. I grab King’s hand, and he clenches it hard.
I bet she can write.
My feet slip and slide in my boots as we walk down the hill, and my stomach groans. I don’t know if Cook is doing this to my stomach, or if it’s because I’m mad at myself or King, or if Hank’s sign ahead is getting the better of me.
My stomach complains again, and King looks sidelong at me.
He lets go of my hand and takes a deep breath. “You hungry?”
“I don’t know.” I prefer to be hungry over afraid, and I don’t want to be mad at King. I make up my mind to be hungry. “My dad said not to ask for anything.”
He laughs. “That didn’t stop you from the MoonPie or the books. Anyway, you’re not asking. I am. Are you hungry or not?”
“Maybe for the chili.”
“Yeah, me too. Wait here.”
I stay on the sidewalk with my back to the police station while King walks into Hank’s. A siren sounds behind and locks my knees. I clench my front pocket, but my book breathes next to my skin, so I do, too. That siren’s not for me. That library lady couldn’t see my book, not with King there. No one can see nothing. And I doubt King’s sticking up Hank.
Car wheels spin behind me on the street, along with their lights and sirens, and then they’re gone and I’m still breathing.
King comes out with a yellow paper bag, not looking at the station. He swings his arms like he never heard the siren and pulls out a container. It warms my hands.
“Careful, it’s hot,” he says. “Listen. Don’t worry about him. I’m sorry I got mad. I’m just hungry.”
I find myself repeating my dad. “Hungry’s not an excuse.”
“I know,” he says.
“And you’ve got to stop telling me what to do. I’m too old for that.”
He kicks a small stone. “I know how old you are. Believe me.”
“Then tell me. Why are you sure he won’t be back?”
“Cuz he won’t, and I don’t wanna talk about it when I’m about to eat.”
Water runs down the gutter beside the street, and I shudder.
His eyes shift to the bag. “This used to be a fish ’n’ chips place. Remember eating some of that? Used to get it for you sometimes. Same owner, Hank. Known him a long time. Told him he should add salmon to the menu, but he never did. Now it’s hot dogs ’n’ chili.”
I open the lid to the chili, and the steam burns my face. My stomach responds to the smell of the chili.
Yes, I was only hungry.
“Hank—he knows you? Did he ask about your eye?”
King shrugs.
“I like fish ’n’ chips,” I say, “but the chili smells good.”
“The fish ’n’ chips was better.”
I tilt the cup to my lips. It nearly burns, but the tomato meat is surprisingly delicious.
King reaches in the bag and pulls out a dog. “The fish ’n’ chips cost more, though. These are four for a dollar. A bargain.” Half of it goes in his mouth. I know he’s not tasting.
I sip slow this time, and my mouth fills with cocoa and cinnamon from the chili.
Up ahead at the corner is the same man with the souped-up cart. He has a brown sign, cardboard, but I can’t see what it says. Guess no one else can either, cuz the cars keep passing.
I swallow. The full bite goes down to keep my stomach quiet. “When you worked those mattress signs—you said people took notice?”
King takes another bite, and the dog is gone. “Naturally.”
My elbow points to the man. “Maybe he should dance. So people can see him. We could tell him to dance.”
King stops chewing, and I know I’ve said something wrong. “He shouldn’t have to,” he says, and then he’s off.
I hurry to press the lid on my chili and catch up to King while my feet slide in my shoes again. We get close to the man—trim beard, drippy eyes. I read his sign. We pass.
His sign.
And King gives him something—his bag with three dogs left. This time I see the sign.
HOME.
Not homeless. HOME. Like it vanished, and he’s asking where it went. Makes me think of that bulldozer with splintered wood and broken stone.
Once upon a time there was a home.
And there were swing sets and water fountains and sandy beaches. Four walls with a roof, and a fence.
I want to smack his sign. IT’S GONE! He should forget.
He leans over his cart for privacy and eats one of the dogs. I know how hungry he is by how slow he eats.
And I imagine the Winterfolk here. Lined side by side on the road for as long as you can see. All holding that sign. HOME. Cars drive by with no notice, except for one who yells at them to dance.
How do you make someone see you?
“We can’t go home yet,” I tell King.
He tucks his empty hands in his blazer. He looks at that sign, too. Then he narrows his eyes the way he does to blank out everything.
Including me.
My fingers tingle around my cup, going from warm to hot to hotter from the chili, but I keep them there as they go numb.
King’s eyes clear, and he looks up and down the street. For Cook? Police?
I squeeze the cup.
Air huffs from his lips, and his eyes fill up with me.
I adjust the cup in one of my hands for a cooler spot above the chili, and my fingers tingle alive again.
“Okay.” He sees my smile and smiles back at me. “We can leave the laundry. No one’ll take it. We still have time. Know if your dad is going to the market today?”
“No, he’s going to make more bracelets. Said he might teach me when I get back.”
“Don’t you know how already?”
My chili-warmed fingertips glide against the necklace at my neck. Of course I know. I’ve been watching for years.
“Yes, but he wants to teach me and I’m going to let him. Are we going to the market?”
He shrugs. “Maybe. Eat your chili. All of it.”
“All?”
My stomach will complain tonight as it shrinks back up, and I hate to muffle the sound under my blanket. Dad will blame me. As if I can help it.
&
nbsp; “Yeah. All. Cuz we’re gonna walk far and fast. But you’ve gotta stay with me. You won’t find your way back by yourself.”
“Let me first take off these boots,” I say. “It’s the only way I’ll keep up with you.”
7
MY FEET LOOK BIGGER out here than when they’re buried in soil, and I like how they bend when I walk—first my heel against the hard pavement, and then the cushion under my toes, missing the tender middle altogether. My boots bounce across my shoulder. One in front, one in back, tied together by their laces.
King points to the next store coming up on my side. “Look what’s in there.”
I run to the window, and guess what I see? Baby cats, three of them, curled up sleeping in a wood box—one black, one white, and one orange.
“I like the orange one,” I say. “With the scrunched face. Look how long her fur is. Must take forever for her mom to clean and comb. I bet she doesn’t fuss. Is her mom in there?”
“Don’t know.”
“Do you think we can go in? I’ve never pet a cat.”
King opens the door, and a bell rings—ding-a-ling. “Don’t say anything to get you noticed.”
The store smells like Hamlet’s bucket of hamsters.
A man looking like a stuffed koala with big ears stands behind a table in back. He looks up at King, but I do a good job with him not seeing me.
Rows of bags, boxes, and little cans sit beneath a sign that says Pet Food. I know it means food for a pet, and not to pet the food like I wanna do—pet each bag, box, and can that will keep the kittens alive. I don’t look at the price tags.
“How much does a cat eat?”
“A bag a day,” King says.
I look sharp at him. “If I ate cat food, that bag would last me a month.”
“Good to know,” he says.
I bump his arm, and a corner of his mouth curves up. He tilts his head, and his hair covers the rest of his smile.
Over us is a Toys sign. Feathers, long stringy things, scratchy boards, and balls line the shelves on either side of us. Must like to play. I could make some of those things if I had a cat.
We pass a couple of empty cat boxes, then one with a full-grown orange cat that backs into a corner. Hair sticks up and big eyes reflect. Cats are known to see the otherworldly.
“Not to worry. I’m not going to hurt you,” I say.
And then I lean over the box with the sleeping kitties and find the orange one.
“Will they let me pick her up?”
“How do you know it’s a girl?” King says.
“She’s the smallest. See?”
He blinks. “That’s not always the case.”
As far as I know, it is. “Can I pick her up?”
He looks behind at the man, who must be harmless, because King nods.
I reach in and scoop up the kitty as gentle as I can and hold her in the space between my neck and shoulder.
King takes the boots off my shoulder, and my shoulder rises.
I bury my fingers in her deep fur.
“She’s so soft. Is she still asleep?”
King nods.
“Of course she is. I’d be, too.” I lean my cheek against her. “Her breath smells sweet. You sleep all day cuz you’re in here? Ever sneak out at night and play with those feathers? I bet you do. No one sees you, do they? You should see my rock garden. I collected them all myself. You’d like them. Wanna come with me? If you polish them, they’ll tell you a secret.”
“No.”
I hardly heard, but I know what King said, and his eyes keep looking out the window with not much on his face to tell me anything. I’ve tested him. But I’m not done.
“I can share my food with her, if that’s your worry. And it’s not like a barking dog—or even a hamster. Plus, she’d keep me company. You know I don’t like being alone.”
He stuffs his hands in his blazer pockets. “You’re not alone.”
I nuzzle the cat. “You know what I mean.”
King says no more, and I say no more about what it’s like when he’s gone. How the leaves of the trees rustle in whispers, and I answer them back.
I give the kitten a light squeeze before I lay her down how she was, still sleeping, and not ever knowing I was there.
But then the cat’s eyes open. Green. She looks at me.
Meow.
King’s arm dangles down with my boots, and the laces swing on their own with no one telling them.
I turn my face from King so only the cat sees me, and I tell her I’ll be back. She doesn’t got to worry. I’ll find some way to get money, and when no one’s looking I’ll come. I remember how to get here. If anyone else comes, she’s to be disagreeable. Her claws will protect. They’re nearly as long as mine.
She nods her head. She understands I’m not really leaving. That I’ll do almost anything. And then she closes her eyes again.
I put the boots across my shoulder—boots heavier than a baby cat. My shoulder lowers, but I breathe in and ask.
“Where next?”
“My eye still swollen?”
“Yeah, and purple now.” His whole face would turn purple if he knew what was in my pocket.
He adjusts the cap over his eyebrows so the cross is straight and slows his walk. “You ever go out at night? Like you thought that cat might?”
I stumble, and King notices. “Out? What would I do out?”
“Don’t know,” he says. “Collect rocks? Take care of the stars.”
My laugh turns to a croak. “You’d know if I went out.”
“Naturally. Still.” He touches a finger to his puffy eye.
“You should put a cold rag on that.”
“I know. When we get back, but I’m serious. Don’t go out at night, ’kay?”
“Why? You said he’s gone.”
He touches another part of his eye and winces. “Yeah, but he has friends—not all that smart.”
“Can’t be as smart as you.”
“Course not. Does all kinds of things to get noticed. Wants to be noticed. See that bench up there? Would do a somersault right over it just to turn heads.”
“Can you?”
He smiles. “Who you think showed them?”
“Show me?”
He clicks his tongue. “Just told you it’s not smart. Gives a rush like racing down Suicide Hill, but not smart.”
Suicide Hill’s where he watched horse races in the good years when he was little. They’d race horses down a steep hill and across a river. Some stumbled, some fell, some died.
“But you’re not like that.” I stop and look around. “Come on, no one’s here.”
“No one you can see.” But he bends his knee and pulls a leg back into a stretch.
“Come on. I’ve never seen a flying somersault before, and I know you’re not a showoff.”
King stretches his arms across his front now.
“Can you do a somersault with a blade?” I ask. “I can hold it.”
His eyes catch me. Knows I want to see what’s on his blade. “It’s folded. Won’t stick me.”
He secures his skullcap and blows into his palms. Then his eyes go hard and narrow on that bench. He pounces forward faster than I’ve ever seen. Can barely see his feet. Running so fast he’ll never come back.
I crush into my book. If he keeps going, I’ll run after him.
Before he slams his shins on the bench, he leaps into the air and spins like a rising star never to come down again. But he does. That star falls on the other side to a graceful landing. I can’t help myself. I run over and hop onto the bench to stand over him.
“Why your eyes so big?” he says. His energy shining. “You didn’t think I could do it?”
“I know you can do anything.”
He laughs and stands up straight. Straightens his jacket.
Then everything changes at once.
He grabs my wrist, pulls me down hard off the bench. I ready up to scratch, but stop. He must have a reason.
His eyes are in slits, and I follow their path across the street.
Blond comb tracks.
The ground swallows my feet as it does in my nightmares. But this is real. King tugs on my arm. He doesn’t know how my feet can’t move, and how I can’t say anything—how the words catch the way they do when I try to write anything.
Somehow we run.
King grabs my boots, and we turn a corner and run down a hill. Only my toes touch the ground. Almost flying. He drops my hand, and we use our arms to pick up speed. Look both ways across the street and we cross over. Down another. Behind me, I try to see, but don’t see nothing. Hard to catch breath. But King’s still running, so I do. There’s a bus at the corner—starts to leave, but King waves.
The door opens and King helps me in. Pulls out more coins.
The bus starts up, and I fall down on black rubber. On all fours I can’t move. Not with the bus moving under me and someone chasing.
King holds out his hand.
The bus is too unsteady for me to reach out to him.
“Will you hold on a minute, please?” asks King.
I think he’s talking to me.
“Wait till she gets her seat?”
He’s talking to the driver.
The bus stops. I scramble up and King finds a seat. Him next to the window. Looking out. Surveying.
My hands shake on my shaky knees. From the bus, I think. Or from running.
I put my head on his shoulder. “Where we going?”
“Uptown.”
Bus is half full. So many people so close. I shiver.
“That wasn’t him,” I say.
“It was. I need to get more money. Wasn’t planning on the bus.”
I lift my head to look at him. “Was one of his friends.”
He turns his face to the window with the light shining. My boots are on his lap with his hands on top, fingers stretched wide.
“It wasn’t him,” I say. “He didn’t look hurt.” Though all I saw were the comb tracks.
King slams his fist against the side of the bus. I don’t care.
“Does he want my boots?” I ask. “He can have my boots.”
“Your boots?”
My front pocket crinkles, and my stomach gurgles sick.
I sit back against the seat and close my eyes. Try not to feel the bus move beneath me. I taste a bit of sour tomato from the chili. I concentrate on the book that rests on my stomach.