by Janel Kolby
I soap up my skin to get the blackberry stains off, and as I lean down to clean my feet, I notice a watery drop of blood on the inside of my leg. Brighter than the blood from King’s pants. I check for scratches but don’t see any. Another drop runs down the same route. And then I know.
It’s not something I would ever ask for—like dying or being born—but it’s here, and I’m here. I look around the room for something useful. I have a choice between a roll of tissue on the back of the toilet or rough paper towels from the dispenser. A metal container on the wall has two slots—one with a picture of a long, skinny thing and the other of the box like King once gave me. Each is twenty-five cents. Figures. That quarter King gave me is back in King’s tent.
I wring out my hair and step from the shower, then grab some paper towels and pat myself down.
“King?” I ask from the door.
“Yeah?” Loud and clear.
“Do you have a quarter?”
“What for?”
My face heats up. “I need a box. They have them in here, and I need one. Now.”
Silence.
A quarter slips under the door with the face of Washington, and he feels like a personal hero with that serious face. I insert it in the slot and turn the handle. The handle gets stuck, and I twist harder. I plead to Washington, and the box drops to the open drawer. I exhale. I don’t have to look at the paper inside. I already know the instructions.
When I come out of the bathroom in my jeans that aren’t so loose anymore and my flower shirt, I keep my eyes to the floor tiles. I don’t want to see how they might be looking at me. King’s shoes come into my floor space.
“I guess we need to go to the store?” he says.
“I guess.”
Jessiebel smiles. “Better late than never.”
“I’d settle for never.” I place my hand below my stomach.
“Do you want some chocolate?” Jessiebel asks. “I saw some in the vending machine. I heard it helps.”
I shrug my shoulders, but notice King going over that way and plunking in some money.
“It’s probably why you were dizzy earlier,” Jessiebel says.
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
King holds out a chocolate bar, which I take and put in my pocket.
“You should probably take some right now,” he says.
“I’m not sick, and it isn’t medicine.”
“Well, I dunno,” he says. “Do you want me to take you to a store?”
I nod. “Don’t look at me, though.”
“I’m not.”
“I am,” Jessiebel says, “and you don’t look any different.”
I hold my arms in front of me, and they’re the same as always. I peek at King. He’s turned away.
“You can look at me,” I say.
King turns to me and nods. “You look like you,” he says. Even if that’s true, he doesn’t look like himself. His face is as serious as Washington’s.
32
I HARDLY REMEMBER WHAT it was like to be in a store. To have options. I’m in the aisle where King pointed me. I’m glad we’re not in the larger grocery-store type. I’m not sure how I’d choose.
Jessiebel walks up the aisle. “You found the Bettys.”
“The what?”
“Pads.” He pulls out a box. “Here. This will work.”
“How would you know?” I ask.
“I have an older sister, and it’s not a big deal. Really. It doesn’t make you a freak. You’re Rain, and you’ll always be Rain. Okay?” His eyebrows rise. Waiting.
I smile. “Okay. Is there another box that’ll work? I want to choose.”
“Sure. You probably want regular.” He scans the shelves and pulls out a clear plastic bag with individual pink packages inside. “They’re practically the same. Choose.”
I choose the pink packages. “Have you talked to your sister? Since you left?”
“I have nothing to say to her.”
“How do you know?”
He puts the box back and flicks it with his fingers. “I know.”
“Hey!” King calls out from the other side of the store. “There’s some flip-flops over here. Do you want some?”
I go to the aisle where there’s a crate of different-colored shoes.
“Try them on,” King says.
I pick up some green ones and put them on, but they’re too small, then I try several more until I find some purple ones that fit fine. The thong part feels thick between my toes.
“I won’t be able to walk far in these,” I say.
“You don’t gotta,” he says. He shifts his feet and looks straight at me. “We don’t need to go.”
My arms prickle. “Why not? Aren’t they gonna tear it down?”
A fluorescent light flickers over his head, and light and dark pass over him quick. “We’ll see about that.” The fixture stabilizes, and he’s all light again.
I pick up another pair of thongs from the bin and pretend to examine them.
“I don’t want to keep to the tent,” I say.
“I’m not asking you to. I don’t want you to.”
“Then what are we going to do about—”
“We’ll figure it out,” he says.
And I believe him.
Jessiebel comes up behind him. “I found MoonPie. Want some?”
King and I answer at the same time. “Yes.”
King digs in his jeans. “Saw a phone in back. Why don’t you call Matisse while I ring up? Then we can go to the library.” He dumps a handful of quarters in my hand.
“Don’t leave without me,” I say.
“Course not.”
I find the phone. I put in two whole quarters and notice a word scrawled on the wall above the phone.
WINTERFOLK
I trace Winterfolk as the phone rings, and smile.
“Rain?” Matisse’s voice.
“Hi.”
“I need to see you,” she says. “Where can I meet you?”
“Oh. Well. Okay. Hank’s? Do you know Hank’s Hot Dogs & Chili?”
“Yes, I can be there in twenty minutes. Is King with you?”
I’m not sure if I should say.
“Is he?” she asks.
“Yes.”
“Good,” she says. “I’ll see you.”
I hang up the phone and meet King and Jessiebel at the front door.
“What’d she say?” King asks.
“She wasn’t there. Let’s go to the library.”
Maybe it’s cuz of the changing. Or maybe the untruth. But my head buzzes. I couldn’t tell him. He wouldn’t trust her, and he wouldn’t stay.
We pass Hank’s Hot Dogs & Chili, and King asks if we’re hungry.
“Yes.” I try to keep my voice steady. “I’ll drop off the book at the library and meet you back here.”
King’s eyes sag. “We’re going with you.”
“I thought you said you wouldn’t keep me.”
“I’m not,” he says, “but you shouldn’t be alone. I don’t know where any of them are.”
“It’s right up the street. I’ll be fine.”
He looks up ahead to the library and then back at Hank’s. He looks to Jessiebel, who nods at him. “You don’t need to go in. Leave it in the drop box up front.”
“Thanks.” Maybe I should tell him about Matisse.
But Jessiebel winks at me as if I’ve won my independence and takes the laundry bag.
They watch as I head up the street, and my new shoes stumble me. When I get to the front of the library, I turn around to check if they’re still watching. They’re not.
I open the doors.
I didn’t intend to go in. But leaving this book in the drop box would be a coward thing to do. The front cover is dirty with a crease through the mermaid’s middle. The pages are warped and torn inside. Used to be strong as cloth. Not anymore. I take out the scrap of paper with the Sacramento phone number and put it in my pocket.
Th
e same boy-shaped librarian is at her desk next to a tall stack of glossy books. She lifts one from the top and leafs through it, then passes the front cover under a machine-type thing that beeps.
I walk to the desk without letting my eyes wander to any shelves that are none of my business.
She knows I’m not a ghost. She looks right at me.
I set the book on the counter, and her eyes shoot down.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I didn’t mean to get it damaged.”
She picks it up and leafs through it the same way she did with her stack of brand-new ones. “This isn’t checked out.” She looks back at me, daring me to say different.
She knows.
“Borrowed.”
She cocks her head.
“But you’re right. Not checked out. You can fine me. I’ll pay when I have money. How much do I owe?”
She pokes a frayed corner of the book into her chin. “I can’t fine you if it wasn’t checked out.”
I put both hands on the counter. “I’m responsible for it. Fine me.”
She taps the book against her chin. “Do you have your library card with you?”
“No.” My hands thump against the wood. “I don’t have one.”
She blinks.
“Do you live around here?”
I nod.
“Then let’s get you one.” She sets the book aside and pulls a form from a tray. “Here. You can fill this out.” She holds out a pencil.
I press my thumb into my knuckle to crack it. Pop.
“I can’t.”
“I know you can read,” she says. “Can you write?”
I crack my knuckles again.
A loose strand of bangs falls in her eyes, and she blows it away. She slides the form back to her and hunches over it. She writes. When she’s done, she pushes it my way again.
“Fill out the rest,” she says.
I look down. The middle of the form is filled out with an address and a phone number.
“That’s not where I live,” I say.
“I know. It’s where I live. Now fill out the rest.”
The words on the form blur, and my throat swells. I force my eyes to clear.
Name
I put the pencil in my fist, but nothing comes out.
Should be easy. I know my name. I know what it looks like.
Rain
But the pencil makes scratches that don’t look like anything.
“Close your eyes,” she says.
I look up at her, and she reminds me of King.
“Close your eyes and picture it.”
I do.
I close my eyes. And picture my name.
Rain
I trace the first letter in my head. The pencil scrapes soft on the paper. When I’m done with the R, I start on the next, and then on to a full word.
A name.
I open my eyes.
Rain
She doesn’t ask me for a last name.
She takes back the form and fills in the date—October 1. The day our home is to be demolished.
After she types into her computer, she hands me a plastic card. Hard, but flexible.
“What do I owe?” I ask.
“A dollar. After you pay, you can check out anything you’d like and take it home.”
I squeeze the card.
“Or,” she says, “you can read here. Anytime.”
I let myself look around at the books, and I know there’s more hidden behind those—one aisle ends where another begins. I don’t know if she’s serious.
The librarian smiles. “See you later, Rain.”
I put the card in the front pocket of my jeans.
My head is still back at the library when a cop car startles me. I freeze while it drives by and then enters the station. I count eight cars in front, and at least ten police talking to one another and into their radios.
My stomach cramps, and I look for Jessiebel and King.
They’re at a table in front of Hank’s, across the street from the station. King watches the police as he eats. He sees them. I know he does. He shouldn’t be sitting there. What is Matisse doing? Where is she? I shouldn’t’ve told her where we were. I should’ve told King. My legs want to run, but I keep them calm to not draw attention. Flip-flop, flip-flop. My stomach tightens as I pass the station. Flip-flop, flip-flop.
King and Jessiebel look up.
“Sit down,” King says. “Have some chili.”
“Don’t you think,” I say, “maybe we shouldn’t eat here?”
“Why not? Sit down.”
I take the cup from him and pull off the lid.
He continues to stare at the police, and I don’t know what he’s thinking.
I try to drink the chili, but my body doesn’t cooperate. The chili sits still in my mouth with no taste. From the corners of my eyes, I see another car arrive at the station.
“We should go home,” Jessiebel says.
I nod my head and put the lid back on my chili.
“No,” King says. He pushes the bag away from him and rests his head down in his clasped hands. “I’m gonna tell them.”
A hole opens in my chest. “You can’t do that. They’ll take you. You didn’t do it.”
“I’m not sure. You didn’t hear Matisse on the phone when she accused me. If I did it, then they should take me away. And I’ll explain to them about you. I’ll admit to it. I will. If they let you . . . and let the Winterfolk be.”
The hole in my chest widens.
“King,” Jessiebel says. “Don’t.”
“I’ll tell them about Cook and Lance and everything,” he says.
My fist hits the table. “No. That wasn’t your fault. Why are you really doing this?”
He stands. “I couldn’t keep you from getting hurt before, but maybe now I can.”
“No.” I shake my head. “You can’t do this.”
He steps back, and I stand up. “If you do this,” I say, “I’m going to follow you in there. I’m gonna tell them how you watched over me. You’ve given me more than anyone else, and I won’t let them think bad of you.”
“You know I love you,” he says. “Jessiebel, hold her.”
Jessiebel stands and hugs me tight, his eyes squeezed shut.
“No!” I fight against him.
King backs away, and if my eyes are strong enough, they’ll hold him here. I don’t want him to leave. He can’t leave. He’ll take it all—my heart and breath.
“I wish!” I cry out. I scream. “King! I wish!”
He stops.
Across the street, a couple police turn their heads to us.
And then someone else hugs me, tight and feminine. Her hair, pulled in a ponytail, with purple tips.
Jessiebel’s grip loosens.
“You’re here,” she says. “I’m so glad you’re here.”
Then she’s hugging King. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”
My eyes let King go, and he backs out of her arms. Confused.
She breathes hard. Out of breath. “It wasn’t you,” she tells him. “It wasn’t.”
“What?” He shakes his head.
She pulls him over to us and hugs me again. Tighter. “I’m so sorry,” she whispers.
My body shakes, and I push her away from me. She’s in black pants and shirt, with matching black smudges around her violet eyes.
“What’s going on?” I say.
“I had to show you in person.” She pulls her large bag off her shoulder and hands it to me. “You have to see.”
I don’t want to open the bag. “What is it?”
“Winterfolk,” she says. “It’s all over the place. I started to write it, and I told some of my friends. And, Rain. It’s everywhere. And everyone wants to know.”
“Everywhere?” King asks. Skeptical.
Matisse’s face becomes serious. “Well, there’s more.”
Jessiebel puts his hand on my shoulder. “What’s in the bag?”
She l
ooks to King and then to me. “Open it.”
The bag blurs, and I sit on the bench. I open and reach inside.
Beads.
Many, many circles of beads.
I pull one out of the bag.
A gold, beaded bracelet.
I rub my thumb over the fine-painted letters on the beads.
WINTERFOLK
I open the bag as wide as it will go.
Must be near a hundred.
“Where did you get this?” I ask.
She crouches next to me. “You recognize it, don’t you?” she says. “So, he is telling the truth. He’s your dad.”
Then she looks up at King. “You didn’t do it,” she says. “The police confirmed that Cook was hit by a pipe. He died of a contusion.” She looks at me. “Your dad—he turned himself in.”
I squeeze the bag. “What?”
“Rain.” She grabs my knees. “Cook went to your tent that night you called me. He was looking for you, and that’s when it happened. With your dad. It’s been all over the news. Your dad—he’s been making these bracelets for you. He had a stack of notices and talked about the demolition. How the city wants to get rid of the Winterfolk.” She shakes my knees. “People do not like it. That’s why people are writing it. Winterfolk.”
“He didn’t leave me,” I say.
King puts his hand on my shoulder.
Two police cars with red-and-blue lights turn on their sirens and speed out of the station.
“You’ve got to come with me,” she says. “To the news station. They want to know who you are.”
I shake my head. “You can tell them.”
She laughs. “They want to see you.”
The sun shines on the golden beads, and I squint up at it. That’s when I find my star. The sun. It’s big and strong enough to carry my wishes. To carry all of ours.
Star medicine.
Makes you remember. Makes you forget.
The beads sparkle, and I put the bracelet on my wrist.
A rustle sounds behind me, and I look.
A lady in a red dress.
Searching through Hank’s dumpster.
Matisse shakes my knees again, and I turn to her. “I can’t tell your story,” she says. “It’s yours.”
I look back at the dumpster, but nothing is there.
“Will you come?” she says. “They’ll have to let your dad go, right? Once you tell your story.”
I look up at Jessiebel and King. “Can they come with us?”