by Janel Kolby
“King says right.”
I turn right. And smile. I knew he’d give in.
“Tired of surprises yet?” he asks.
“No. What is Denise like? Is she a good dancer? Does she have a lot of money? If I made money of my own, I could decide how to spend it. Right?”
“Right? I mean—King says keep straight. You want to know what it’s like to be stuffed with money?”
“Sounds good to me.”
“We’ll go see Rachel. She’ll tell you.”
“You’re going to let me talk to someone? In person?”
“Well, I don’t got a phone to call her,” he says.
Phone.
If I had a phone, I could call Matisse. I could give the bag back to her. I can do it. I can get Cook to leave us alone, and King wouldn’t have to do a thing. I remember about phones being on street corners. I stop to look around but don’t find any.
“What are you looking for?” He looks around as I did. “Did you see something? Maybe we shouldn’t be here.”
I shake my head and walk ahead of him again. “No, nothing. Come on. I want to meet Rachel. Maybe she has a phone. She must be a good friend if you’re letting me talk to her.”
“Ain’t been too friendly to me. Kind of a pig, actually.”
“Why we want to see someone like that?”
“Cuz she’s loaded. Isn’t that what you’re after? Why do you want a phone?”
“No reason.” My back tingles from talking to King, since I can’t see him and he can see me. Shouldn’t be that way if I’m in the lead, should it? I should be able to see everything.
“This here’s Rachel. Go on and talk.”
“She’s a pig.”
“I told you,” he says.
So many people. More than I’ve ever seen. So many I can’t tell one from the other. A mass of swinging arms and legs swirl around as we stand in the center of the market. I crowd close to Rachel and hug myself. Glad King can’t see the goose bumps crawling up through the numbers under my long sleeve.
“You think I can talk pig?” I ask.
Someone bumps into me. I huddle closer to Rachel and rub my arms. “She’s not even a real one.”
King reaches out—to shove the person maybe, but he misses by inches. Too late. He shakes out his hands. “She’s the size of a real pig. Bronze, too.”
I hold my arms closer.
“Are you cold?”
“No.” I focus on the pig. Easier than all this talking and shouting and music and honking and laughing and movement. So much movement. I focus on Rachel. “My hair’s still wet, that’s all. You said she’s loaded?”
“Naturally. Come closer. Take a look.” He points to a slot on the bronze pig’s back. “People put money in there. There’s thousands.”
I put my eye to the slot, but Rachel’s not showing me anything but the dark. That’s fine with me. I’d rather be in the dark right now. “What they put money in there for?”
“Poor people. Do you wanna sit on her?”
I pull away. “Why?”
“I don’t know. Sometimes I see people sitting on her and taking pictures. Guess they like riding pigs that keep quiet. That’s what she gets. Put money in the pig, take a picture. Sometimes kiss her snout. Want to?”
“No.”
“I’ll put in a quarter.”
“Go ahead and put in the quarter. I’m still not riding her or kissing her snout.”
King digs out a quarter and drops it in. “For poor people.” No hollow clink. Pig’s probably half full.
“Can I have a quarter?”
“Why? You changed your mind?”
“No, it’s not for Rachel. It’s for me. In case I need it. I promise not to turn into a pig if you give it to me.”
He lifts his eyebrows. “You mad?”
“No, but I figure if you’re throwing quarters in a pig, maybe you could throw me one, too.”
He keeps his eyes on mine as he fishes in his pocket and plants a quarter in my palm.
I drop it in my pouch. “Thanks.” Now all I need is a phone, and a way to slip away for five minutes.
“You’re acting strange.”
“I told you I need practice,” I say. “This is Pike Place?” There must be a phone.
I scoot close to Rachel, and my leg grazes her cheek. I look around. Try to break up the mass into parts so I can make sense of things. The people don’t all walk the same—some fast, some slow—most don’t pay attention to anything, but others take pictures with their eyes, and some with cameras to remember later what things look like. If I had one, I wouldn’t take pictures of the streets or the buildings. I’d take pictures of small things—like that orange flower petal that’s almost falling from its center, or that dripping slice of peach, fresh cut and being offered up for tasting. My mouth waters. The pieces are easier to see than the wholes. The wholes smother everything. Including phones.
“Can I stand on top the pig?” I ask.
“I don’t think she’d mind. She’s used to that.”
I swipe his arm, and he smiles.
He steadies me as I climb and balance on top of her.
Now I can see. The streets and shops go on forever. Fruits and vegetables, meat and fish, breads with yeast scents. Jewelry of all kinds except for Dad’s bracelets—not today—clothes, pictures, and decoration-hang-type things. Phones? No phones. But people—wanting and pointing and buying. I imagine Dad here. A normal person doing his normal selling. Without anyone knowing about me.
I dig my big toe in the slot of the pig. I don’t want to kiss it, but its edges kiss me hard enough to tear the foot of my stocking. They don’t. Behind me are cheers.
For me?
I turn to the back of people’s heads—they’re watching. I watch, too. A fish flies—no, is thrown—through the air: mouth open. Used to be in the ocean.
People’s mouths open.
The fish slaps down in thick hands. Another cheer. Yay, for the fish to become someone’s dish. First comes the white paper wrapping.
Change happens so fast.
My body feels numb, and I hold up a hand to make sure I can see it, but my hand blurs and my knees sway. King’s hand goes to my ankle. I don’t want to be here no more. I’d rather be in the dark. Inside Rachel.
And then there’s King, standing up here, too.
“Hey, hey,” he soothes. “Steady. Close your eyes.”
And I close them.
“Keep them closed and count to thirty,” he says.
I count out loud to my fast heartbeat.
“Slow down,” he says.
“4 . . . 5 . . . 6 . . .”
“Slower,” he says.
“7 . . . 8 . . . 9 . . .”
Then he’s silent as I keep counting. Almost like he’s disappeared, but I know he’s still there. And I’m almost home again in my rock garden.
“13 . . . . 14 . . . . 15 . . . .”
If I pulled off my cap, I’d feel his breath on my hair and I could shut out everything. Would be him and me, and no one else. Making our own world as always. Real enough for both of us.
“20 . . . . . 21 . . . . . 22 . . . . .”
I put my hand on my cap and begin to lift it.
“23 . . . . . . 24 . . . . . . 25 . . . . . .”
And that’s when I hear it.
Drum music.
Real drum music. Not like back at the V.
This music is clear and familiar, and it’s louder than my counting. It is the same drum as at home.
I stop counting, and no one tells me to keep going.
King’s still here. Isn’t he?
“King?”
I open my eyes. There I am. Through his dark pupils.
“See,” he says, “you haven’t disappeared. Neither have I.”
Another fish flies through the air. This one’s mouth is closed. The drum continues, but the fish won’t tell me where it is. I twist to find the music.
“You hear the drum?”
I ask. “Can you hear it?”
“Naturally.” He points to a street corner with a fruit-and-veggie shop crowded with people. The people shift their weight with the drum, and between the shifting, some of the bodies part to reveal a drum and a grizzled head.
“Hamlet?” I ask.
“That’s him.”
“What’s he doing here?”
The drumming ends, and more gaps appear. Some people peer into a white plastic bucket. I know what’s in that bucket, and what might be for sale.
“No!” I jump off the pig.
I run to that corner. So fast King can’t grab me.
I slip between the people gaps—King too big to do that—and dart to the bucket of hamsters. I slide my head between two others, jab out my elbows to make space, and check the hands around me.
All empty.
Down in the bucket. I stick my hands in—count the pink noses and fluffy bodies, some piled on top of one another, others squirming, happy to see me. Eleven.
I count again.
Eleven.
I count again.
There should be twelve.
Hamlet sits above on an upturned bucket. He’s huge and gray from head to toe, practically stone. He’s counting, too. Counting money while people wander off.
My face heats up.
When King shows at my side, Hamlet stands and glares.
King stuffs his hands in his blazer pockets and sniffs. Almost snarls.
“Looking to get attention?” Hamlet says. He nods toward me without looking.
I count the hamsters again and keep small.
“We won’t be around much longer,” King says. “And, it’s her birthday.”
I count again. Eleven.
“I know. I dropped a hamster off this morning. Traded with her dad.”
Hamster twelve. From Dad?
I wonder what that hamster’s doing. Probably sleeping like I’d be now. I want to see it.
A man in a green apron comes over with a full brown paper bag and hands it to Hamlet. The man goes back to his fruit-and-veggie shop surrounded by the same people who were listening to Hamlet’s music.
Hamlet reaches in and pulls out two apples. Pink Lady—light shade of pink with yellow-green spots. They were Mom’s favorite.
Hamlet gives them to King. “Feed her and take her back.”
“Feed me?” I ask. “I’m not a hamster.”
King shakes his head at me.
I shake my head back. “What? I’m not.”
“Show her how they dance, first,” King says. “She’s never seen. After this, we’ll go back.”
Hamlet looks at me sideways—my hands still in the bucket—and he sits.
His drum is crosshatched all around in bamboo and stands taller than his lap. He cradles it between his knees and then brushes his fingers across the drum to set a quiet beat. A hamster moves beneath my hand.
They all do.
Hamlet uses his palm, and the sound gets bigger. The hamsters wiggle. People laugh and point at them.
I back away from their voices:
“Do you see them dancing?”
“They’re not dancing. They’re trying to get away from each other.”
“They are dancing!”
“I’d go crazy trapped in that bucket.”
“Ooh, gross.”
Hamlet looks right at me.
Go.
9
“WHAT DID YOU THINK of their dancing?” King points ahead to a hill of grass, and we walk that way.
“Did Hamlet train them, or did they already know?”
“What do you think?”
“I think they knew on their own.”
He hands me an apple. “Sure. Why not.”
I take a bite and catch the sugary juice before it drips down my thumb. “Is that where you got your moves?”
He laughs and takes a bite of his own. “No. They got their moves from me.”
Something odd about King eating that apple. I can’t figure it out.
He notices how I stare. “What?”
And then I know. “How come you’re eating your apple that way? Why don’t you use your blade?”
He shrugs. “It’s dirty.”
I swallow an apple lump. “Can’t be that bad if he’s following us.”
He walks up the hill of grass. When we get to the top, the ocean comes to view, and my breath catches.
Only three or four streets lined with buildings down the other side of the steep hill separate us from the ocean. But there are no sandy beaches. Wooden docks line the shore, one after another, and drop to the water.
King watches me as he sits on the grass.
The ocean is bigger than I thought it’d be, and I know it’s not the ocean. It’s the Puget Sound, which leads to the ocean. Even so. It’s big. And looks like the mirrored top of a puddle when the wind blows across to make ripples. But deeper and colder.
Too deep for swimming. Definitely too deep. But this is a safe distance. I drop my shoes to the grass and sit.
King turns his gaze to the water. His eyes narrow. Thinking, I guess.
I know patience.
I flex my feet to stretch my calves, tight with ache, and run my hand over the grass tips. They can’t decide whether to tickle or prick me.
He finishes his apple in two more bites and places the core in the grass, where it hides.
I can’t eat any more cuz of my stomach churning, but I don’t want to set my apple down to get dirty. I hold it in the air and look around for something to wrap it.
“Use the washcloth.” King fishes in my pocket before I can stop him.
He pulls out the baggie of white powder.
Seconds.
Less than seconds.
He looks at it.
He stabs it back in my pocket. “What the hell? What the hell, Rain?” he whispers loud. He’s almost on top of me. “Where did you get that?”
And I let it all loose. “It’s his. I’m sorry. He’s not following you—it’s me. I thought it would help us, and I wanted to take something of his. I really did. I wanted him to know how it feels to have something taken.”
He backs off me, and I slip out from under him.
“How did you get it?”
I lift my sleeve to show the name and the phone number.
“Matisse?” he asks.
“She understands. I think she knows what he did to me.”
He grabs my arm. “Do you know how stupid—”
“I know.”
“If you got caught, you know they can take you away, right? You’re a minor. And your dad isn’t—”
“I know all that.”
He lets go of me and takes a deep breath. “So . . . at the library. You already knew he took your boots. And you were asking me all those questions?”
I can’t look at him. I find the washcloth in my pocket, wrap the apple up tight, and fold it back in there.
“I can’t believe you.” He yanks my sleeve back down.
My eyes sting.
Since he searched in my pocket, I stick my hand in his. For the blade. But he grabs my wrist.
“I’m not the only one who did something stupid,” I say. “Just for boots.”
“You know it wasn’t about boots.” He lets go of my wrist. “I thought . . . I really thought I killed him this time. I wanted to.”
I grab a fist of grass by its roots. And I hang on.
King pulls off his cap and drops it between his knees. He runs his hands through his hair. “Okay. We’ve just gotta think of a plan. It’s gonna be okay.”
“How do you know?” I feel for the locket beneath my shirt.
He touches the locket with a finger. “Ever try to open that?”
“It’s glued.”
“How do you know your mom’s in there?”
“Cuz you told me.”
“Like I’m telling you now. It’s gonna be okay.” He stands and pulls on his cap, then holds out his hand to help me up. “Com
e on. You have that girl’s number, right? Matisse? I’ll show you the waterfront—our edge, as far as we go. Then we’ll call her, head back, and you can see your hamster. It’ll all be over.”
“All over.” I let him pull me up. “And then we pack, and leave. While my trees get demolished, and the Winterfolk disappear like they never existed.”
He keeps one hand on my arm. Doesn’t answer.
I look past him to the ocean. “Looks cold, doesn’t it? Too cold for swimming.”
“Unless you’re half fish.” He smiles, but I can’t.
“My mom swam in water like this.”
“We can go back now if you want,” he says. “We don’t have to go out to the water.”
“No. I want to see it closer.”
He leads me through the indoor part of the market with an overhead sign. Has a hand with a finger pointing to the words: More Shops. Didn’t think it needed more.
The shopwindows show what to expect, so people don’t get disappointed. One is a bookstore with regular-type books, and another with comics. There’s a whole store just for maps, and a small one, not much bigger than the doorway, for magic. And one’s all dark with glowing stars. Fake stars. Imposters.
Each time we pass a shop, I pretend to visit a new country. I’ll take anywhere but here, walking with King to the edge.
Here’s a place with bronze goddess statues and long brown sticks with spicy smoke lifting from the tips. “India.” We could stay the night. Wake up with that perfume in my clothes and hair and ride an elephant to the Taj Mahal. Then rise with the smoke and forget everything.
The next store is full of purple lavender—candles, wreathes, and lotions. “France,” I say. “We’ll climb the stairs to the top of the Eiffel Tower. I’ll look down and won’t be scared of falling.”
King raises his eyebrows like I’m losing my mind, but doesn’t say anything.
The next shop is wines. I know what wine looks like. Finished a bottle once after Dad fell asleep. I liked the taste even if it was bitter, but the wine got wasted when it came back through my mouth and nostrils outside the tent. Tried to keep quiet. I declare this is Italy, and forbidden for now.
We walk on ramps that lead us down. And down more ramps.