by Janel Kolby
I remember the baggie and stick my hand in my pouch to feel for it. Still there.
Heels spike-click out of the V—right up close to me—and I tense.
“Jess.” A woman’s voice. Fake sweet. Denise?
I sit up tall. Don’t ask me to leave. I won’t leave. I’d rather dance than leave.
“There’s my little chicken. I have a refreshment for you.”
I shrink. Little chicken. A bottle clinks to the ground next to my feet.
“We have a party coming. Clean up in the bathroom. If we need you, you can sleep in the back tonight. Be perky.”
I nod.
The heels spike-click back in.
Little chicken. I open my book to the sea witch surrounded by her serpents, then slam it shut.
With a single finger I lift a corner of the blanket. Not a serpent. Not poison. Only beer. I’m overthinking because I’m overthirsty. I’m losing my mind to tales. I lick my salt lips. Just a sip would be okay. The bottle’s colder than my hand, but a nice sorta cold. My whole body knows it’s going to get something. My mouth waters.
I put the bottle to my lips and tip in the gold liquid. It’s like drinking bread. I swallow again, then pry the bottle from my lips. My stomach growls angry.
Oh, Jessiebel. You’d better come soon, or you won’t have no more beer. My stomach is greedy. I shouldn’t’ve given it so much today—making it think it could be so big with all that MoonPie and chili. It hurts when it gives up space—like there’s a war going on with my stomach always losing. It wants too much. The cramp comes on again, and I can’t help but take another sip since it will stop my stomach from shrinking.
How am I supposed to feed a cat? Or my new hamster. King will help.
King pushed me.
I take another drink. He didn’t mean to. He wouldn’t.
And that’s how they find me—
With the bottle to my lips
Drinking
The last of the sips.
With my forehead gone tingly, and my mind soft on King.
About what might’ve happened if we hadn’t run to the edge.
Cook had a knife. We were trapped. He wanted me.
And then I understand.
King got me out of the way.
He didn’t push me.
He saved me.
“Was that my beer?” Jessiebel taps his toe—the loose sole wags at me with a foul odor.
I extract my tongue from the bottle and laugh at the wagging mouth. Until I see Hamlet.
Giant and gray. Not saying a thing.
With his apples, his drum, and his bucket of hamsters.
I bite the edge of the bottle. “Denise says you have a job. To wash up and maybe sleep out back. What kinda job is it you getta sleep at night?”
“Nothing King wouldn’t know.” He takes the empty bottle from me as if it still has worth.
“Come,” says Hamlet.
I stand and turn to Jessiebel. “She called you her little chicken.”
“That’s what she calls all of us.”
“So you can’t go in there.” I lower my voice. “She’s a witch.”
He laughs. “Your first beer? Nothing’s wrong with listening to some music and moving with the other little chicks.” He drops his palm on Hamlet’s drum and thumps it.
Hamlet shoves the bag of apples at me and grabs Jessiebel’s wrist. Jessiebel squirms to wrench it away, but Hamlet’s strong.
I squeeze the bag against me. “You shouldn’t’ve done that.”
“No shit. I’m sorry, okay? What is it with guys and wrists? Is it a daddy thing?”
Hamlet throws down his wrist.
Jessiebel rubs at it. “This is what I get for helping you? An empty bottle and a twisted wrist? How about that necklace, huh?”
I squeeze the bag harder to guard me. Hamlet reaches into it and holds an apple out to Jessiebel.
I remember the half-eaten one in my pocket, salt marinated, and think of Dad. Wonder if it’ll make him sick to taste the ocean.
“Keep it.” Jessiebel picks his blanket off the ground. “I’m going to have a feast tonight. Eat food straight out of your dreams, and I don’t want to spoil my appetite. Tell King he owes me for my assistance. He’ll know how to pay properly. Now, if you’ll excuse me . . .”
Hamlet steps aside, and Jessiebel disappears through the lair.
“Have you seen King?” I ask Hamlet.
“Come.”
12
ALL THE HAMSTERS ARE asleep, and I’m as floaty as they are—only a twitch of the ear here and there when the bus hits a bump. I wonder if they dance in their dreams, if they rear up to dance in pairs—boy-girl, boy-girl, boy-girl, boy-boy, girl-girl, and one lonely boy since his partner’s back home.
I’ll dance with you, I tell him. You can dream about me.
I don’t feel anything hidden at the bottom of the bucket. Jessiebel was so wrong. They dance lovely.
I shiver as cold air blows through slits at the top of the bus. My damp sweatshirt’s chilly and leaves wet spots on my seat. Can’t wipe it with anything. Driver didn’t even look when I climbed on after Hamlet. All he saw was money going into the machine.
The bus hits another big bump, but I hang on to the doubled-up buckets—one for the hamsters and the other for Hamlet’s stool when he plays his drum. Nearly all Hamlet’s world is here on this bench. The brown bag of apples crinkles in his big hands over his drum as the bus turns. It’s a good thing I’m holding the bucket instead of him holding it. I can keep the hamsters steady and gently dreaming. They’re going home, and I’m going home. I do want to go home. Really.
The hamsters nuzzle against one another.
Boy-girl, boy-girl. Soon I’ll see King.
“I was saved twice today,” I say.
Hamlet doesn’t move.
“Into the ocean and out of the ocean. That’s how love happens in stories. When you get saved. Or you save him. Those three who pulled me out—the little one was sweet, but he was too little. Mama Bear, Papa Bear, Baby Bear. None of them were just right.”
The bus bounces again.
“But King saved me, too. When he pushed me in.”
“He left you. I’ll deal with him.”
“He didn’t have a choice. You’re not listening. Someone was chasing us. Someone dangerous.”
His head jerks. He checks around. The nearest person’s a few seats away. “You are the one who’s dangerous.”
I laugh. “Me?”
“All this running around. Bringing attention. You’re why we got those notices.”
“No, it’s not. No one’s seen me.”
“Like today?” he asks.
“Today’s different. I’m not the reason.”
“Aren’t the police looking for you? That kid with the mohawk said so.”
“Yes, but to help—”
“A helpless young thing like you.” His face crinkles. Might even crack.
I look out the windows over Hamlet. “That’s not fair.”
“No,” he says. “It’s not.”
I don’t recognize anything familiar outside, and my head fights against the fog caused by the beer. “Where are we?”
Hamlet clears his throat. “I never supported a child living with us. I told them this would happen.”
I scoot to the edge of my seat and speak loud. “Where are we?”
“Lower your voice. They’ll put you in a nice home with everything you need and leave the rest of us alone. Should’ve done this long ago.”
I half rise, and the hamsters stir. “That has nothing to do with it. You can’t take me from my family.”
He looks at me hard. “You have no choice.”
I stand in the aisle with the bucket hostage. “I’m not helpless.”
He leans forward and slowly lifts his hand to me. “You’ve been a ghost for years. You don’t speak. Sit back down.”
I scream. Past the rising hurt in my throat. “Stop the bus!”
> Hamlet’s eyes widen, and the bus lurches as people stare.
They see us.
They see me.
And that’s when I understand. Part of being seen is showing yourself.
He springs up, and I tip the white bucket to the ground. The hamsters pile in a lump—black, brown, gray, orange, white—boy-girl-boy-girl-and-lonesome-boy. They scatter free across the floor as people shriek.
“Babies!” Hamlet drops to his knees. “Oh, babies!”
The doors of the bus open.
And the hamsters dance.
13
THE HIDING SPOTS ARE different here. The trees are too far apart, the rocks the size of pebbles. Narrow alley streets separate buildings—possible for hiding—but my head tugs me past them. Unsafe.
I notice the ones who think they’re hiding. But I see them. They cling to corners where walls meet. Some eyes say Occupied. Some eyes are stuck in ghost worlds. Other eyes—his eyes, that one smoking a cigarette stub in clean clothes—are friendly. I take a step to him. A sharp rock jabs my heel.
He drops the stub and grinds it underfoot.
I take another step. What should I say? Take me to the Jungle?
He smiles.
Too friendly.
He’d hide me. For sure.
“Winterfolk.”
Who said that? I turn to a woman who’s looking down at the sidewalk.
Reading.
I read, too, and that’s what it says.
WINTERFOLK
It’s Matisse’s writing.
But why?
“Winterfolk,” I say.
The woman looks at me. She’s as old as my mom would be. She walks away.
I follow the woman, though I’m not sure the reason.
A suit jacket and skirt, her hair in a neat bun. She walks fast, but I keep up with her. She turns the corner ahead. I speed up not to lose her and catch her walking into a coffee shop.
Coffee. What did Matisse say?
I back up to look at the sign overhead. Swallow. No, not where Matisse works. She said Spazz.
I feel my sleeve. Still wet from the ocean.
Oh, no.
Matisse’s number.
I tug up my sleeve and prepare to see smears from the water. Instead, there are solid, black numbers. I kiss my arm.
That lady moves up in line. I step closer to the window.
All those people right up close to one another, and they don’t talk. They tap and wipe at phones.
Phones that can call numbers in black Sharpie.
All of them—except for the woman, who stares off into space. I wonder if she has a phone. I imagine my mom here. In line. Getting coffee. She’d stare off the same way as this woman.
The woman’s eyes float around the room, they float out the window over me. She steps up to the counter and states her order. Exchanges money. Waits. I wait with her. She doesn’t know I’m keeping her company.
I imagine where she’s going next. To a building, an office with a big desk. She’ll leave before it gets dark. Before the stars come out. Stop off at the store to get groceries, and when she gets home, she’ll make dinner for her family. Spaghetti. She’ll smile, and it’ll be a real smile when she tucks them into bed. She’ll unwrap that bun at the back of her head, unwind her hair down to her feet, and walk out the front door.
She turns to take the coffee.
I scoot from the window and lean up against the brick. The door opens, and I pretend not to look.
She holds out a cup to me.
She sips on one while she holds out the other. For me. She did see me.
I take it from her. “Thank you.”
Her eyes disappear again, and I try to pull them back. “Do you have a phone—”
But she’s gone.
I sit up against the wall and drink the coffee. Some help.
Some people help.
I need to call Matisse. She said to call her. She’ll help. She’s already helping.
It’s because of her I got this coffee.
I watch one after another walk out the shop. They all have phones. I could ask. I should ask.
One by one, they leave.
Now I really will ask—this guy coming out of the café in T-shirt and jeans. Old enough to be my dad, but this man’s shirt doesn’t have any wrinkles. He’s walking away.
“Excuse me.” I run up to him.
His head turns. He almost smiles, but then he glances at my stocking feet and walks away faster.
I’m quicker to the door this next time—two ladies in short summer dresses.
“May I use your phone?” I ask them.
They don’t see me. They don’t hear me. Except for one who rolls her eyes. She did see me. I know she did.
“Hello?” I say to her.
Too late. They’re gone.
I throw away my cup.
Some people help. Some people don’t.
I turn myself in a circle to see where I am. I’m on a hill. Farther up are buildings and more hills. I can’t see the top. Down the hill—still more buildings, and I can’t see the end of them.
This morning I sat on the wall with King and we looked down to the ocean. Down where my boots scattered near the shore. Down at my feet, a rip in my legging starts at my big toe up to my knee. I want my boots back. Which are down by the water.
Down, down, down.
I find the stairs. All by myself, I find them. When I saw the market, I knew where to go. I remembered everything. Strange how some memories stick to you, while others are hard to find. Some, you hold—try to feel their edges and figure out their shapes—sort out if it’s yours or someone else’s.
My feet are at the top of the stairs.
I check for people and step down quiet. The steps are nicer to me this time, maybe because I’m not trampling on them.
I imagine King at the bottom, picking up my boot, with the other in his hand. Where you been? I ask. He shrugs. I been looking for you. What you think?
Only that’s not what happens when I get to the last stair. No one is there.
I look around for my boot. The concrete is spackled with hard gum and grime, and under the stairs is a small shadow.
I don’t like shadows.
They lie. You can never tell what they really are until you’re close up, when it’s too late to do anything. I push away the curiosity of shadows. Most of the time.
I duck my head under the stairs and move closer.
The corner smells like urine. I cover my nose, and the shadow moves. A furry shadow—not a hamster kind of furry. A rat kind. Which turns its black eyes and sharp-bone feet to me.
I step back. Slow. I don’t want it chasing.
Rats are Old World, King says. They have memory of rats before them. To be smarter than a rat, you have to turn into one. I had nightmares of them nibbling my hair when we didn’t have food. King built traps. Does this rat remember? Was it the one I set free—fur matted with a clump missing on the hump of its back?
The rat’s mouth opens.
I scuttle back.
A hand grabs my arm.
I look up into eyes. Too friendly. He smiles—
Bared teeth stained with nicotine.
14
“CAREFUL,” HE SAYS.
I try to tug away, but his grip only gets tighter.
“Are you hungry?” he asks. “You look hungry.”
“Let me go.”
“What happened to your shoes?” A fat tongue licks his bottom lip.
I reach a hand in my front pocket and close it down on my bound apple.
“Do you need some shoes?” he asks. “Come with me. I’ll get you some shoes. How did you get so wet?”
I turn my head away.
“You don’t got to be afraid of me. I’m with the missionary.” He smiles.
The rat twitches. Been around a long time. Doesn’t believe this man’s out for saving—any more than I do.
The man nudges my arm.
“What�
��s that book you have there, sweetie?”
His stubby fingers reach out.
I hold it away.
He laughs like I’m teasing.
I’m not. My sharp fingernails dig into the apple.
He reaches for the book again.
Heat rises up in me. Heat and hate. And something else:
Fight.
I swivel and throw my fisted apple in the rat’s direction.
The rat takes the cue.
Its long tail drags behind, but it charges. And it knows me. I see that. It charges at the man, and the man’s stubby fingers let me go.
I run as that man’s eyes change to none too nice, and the rat scales up his leg. That man shouts all kinds of words. At me. At the rat. We’re the same to him.
My heart thunders with my run, and all I hear is breath and heart, and heart and breath.
I run into the biggest open spaces with more and more people, who don’t know they’re helping. They only need to be here to keep that man away from me.
My feet transition from concrete to soft wood.
And I stop.
Look up.
With the ocean in front of me. And this time, it doesn’t frighten. It’s big, and I know how cold it is from how dark it is, but it’s not endless. Across the way, in all directions, are islands covered in Evergreens. You would have to swim around them to get lost in the water.
If I follow the edge to the spot King left me, he could be waiting. He could.
A breeze covers me in salt and earth.
The smell of warm, fried food drifts to me, and my stomach barks back. Nothing likes to be teased.
It’s fried food, I tell it. Junk.
But it forces my eyes to the restaurants on the pier with outside tables and chairs and people eating all kinds of things, and it doesn’t look like junk at all.
One table has three chairs with two blond boys and a mom.
“Mermaid! Mom, look! It’s the mermaid!”
Stupid fairy tale.
15
DON’T TURN. KEEP WALKING.
“She’s not a mermaid,” the older boy says. Carter. That’s his name.
I’m not a mermaid.
The small one’s shoes are too fast. The medium one’s too greedy. The mama one . . . the mama one . . .
I hug my book. None of them are just right. Keep walking.