In the headlights of a passing car, I see Kyle glare at me and cross his arms over his chest. His strong posture gives no indication that he’s buying my apology. Enraged, I spin on my heel and storm away, furious at the tears that press against my eyes. I will not cry. I will not. On one hand, I wish he wasn’t there at all; on the other, it’s reassuring that he is. His presence makes me feels safer. No way I’m going to admit that to him, though.
Kyle’s sneakers pad against the pavement a few steps behind my own.
I keep walking. I’ve come here for a reason, and I’m not going to give up just because of one crazy person.
After a while, Kyle jogs a little to catch up with me. Neither of us speak. When we get to the bridge, he follows, watching me approach the homeless people. Now he stays much closer to me. He clearly expects another attack, but he doesn’t know these people like I do.
Knowing I’m not in danger—not here—I look over the little crowd, my eyes seeking Carol’s familiar form, but I don’t see her anywhere. I know most of the people here and have slept under the bridge with a lot of them, and I feel no fear when I greet them. There’s a problem, though. Most of them don’t recognize me now that I’m all cleaned up, and I seem to make them nervous.
What a confusing life I lead. At home and school, I’m constantly being told to clean up and make myself presentable. But out here, I feel I almost have to apologize for having done that.
“I’m looking for Carol,” I say to one old man.
He curls in a corner, gripping a bottle. His yellow-rimmed eyes are dull and unaware. He doesn’t speak.
Okay. Maybe a different approach. I reach in my bag and pull out a donut. I hold it out and speak gently, trying to coax him toward me. “This is for you.”
The grimy fingers tremble, but they eventually find their way to the doughy treat. He doesn’t even look at me; he just stares at the donut, sniffs it, then bites it.
The scenario repeats itself as I ask around. I receive varying degrees of gratitude, verbal and otherwise. But no one knows where Carol is.
Finally, I see a man standing off on his own, leaning against a shopping cart. “Tito!” I say quietly, approaching the little man.
His shopping cart is about a quarter full of bottles and cans. He eyes me suspiciously when I come close.
“Do you remember me? I’m Carol’s friend. You remember Carol?”
“Carol’s not here,” he mutters.
“Where is she?”
“She’s gone.”
Fear coils in my belly. I remember that horrible night when poor Patch was attacked by that gang, their shadows jerking violently at the side of the bridge. I pray to God that nothing like that happened to Carol. No one would hurt her, would they?
“How long has she been gone?” Kyle asks.
I jump, as I didn’t expect him to speak.
Tito apparently didn’t either, because he shyly backs away, tugging the noisy cart with him.
“It’s okay, Tito,” Kyle says. “I won’t touch your cart. You know me from the soup kitchen. I bring you bread, remember?”
The suspicion in Tito’s despondent eyes never eases. Neither does the iron grip he has on the cart’s handle. However, something in his expression relaxes almost imperceptibly, making him appear just the slightest bit more trusting.
“How long, Tito? When did Carol go away?”
Tito’s gaze flickers to my face. “Since you left.”
I let out a long breath, trying to calm my panic. What could have happened? Where has Carol gone? Is she safe? “Okay, Tito.” I step closer. “Hey, you have a good collection of cans in there. I have something else I’d like to put in there, okay?” He watches warily as I set the BooBoo’s Bakery bag in the cart. It still contains a few treats. “For you, Tito. You can share if you want. I’m sorry I didn’t bring any cans,” I explain, wondering just how much he really understands.
He looks confused, but according to Carol, he was once very intelligent.
I reach into my purse and pull out a pen. Then I write my phone number on a torn-off piece of the paper bag. “Tito, this is my phone number. I need you to give it to Carol if you see her. Can you do that?”
He nods and holds out his hand.
As I hand the homeless man my phone number, I wonder briefly what I’m getting myself into. If I’m about to start receiving random phone calls from incoherent homeless people. When I think about Carol being out there, though, I know it’s worth the risk. “Thanks, Tito,” I say.
With a small nod, he turns and pushes his shopping car away.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
I’ve done all I can for the time being. Sure, I could trudge all the way to the soup kitchen, but it’s closed now. I also know Carol wouldn’t have gone to a shelter. She’s had bad experiences at those places.
Kyle looks around. “You actually slept here?” he asks, incredulous.
I nod and point at the area Carol and I had shared for the week.
“I can’t imagine that.”
“What, that I could handle something like that?” I can’t keep the bitterness from entering my voice.
He doesn’t seem to notice my tone. He’s still frowning, scanning the faces in the group. “Well, yeah, but that anyone could. I can’t imagine being homeless. Having nobody.”
“It’s not really like that. These people all have each other,” I tell him. “Carol took care of me.”
“Yeah, I know, but other than that . . . ” He starts walking away from the bridge, and I join him. No real choice but to call it a night. I had done what I could.
I shrug. “You adapt. You find a way to survive.”
“It must have been scary.”
Understatement of the year. I snort. “Yeah, especially the first day. I was homeless, but I think it was even worse because I had no idea what was going on. I was really lucky, though. Carol found me and helped me. I owe her a lot—everything, really.”
“Is that why you’re so determined to find her?”
“Partly, yes.”
“What’s the other reason?”
“She’s very wise. And right now, I could use some of her advice.”
“About what?”
I look sideways at Kyle. His expression holds no threat, so I don’t think he’s asking just to make me feel bad or anything. It feels strange, opening up to him. But I need to speak with someone. Here is an unexpected pair of ears, and they actually want to hear what I am thinking. Everyone else seems to prefer staying the dark about what happened to me on the street. It’s comforting to know that someone is at least vaguely interested.
I sigh. “On what to do with my life.”
He barks out an unexpected laugh, completely shattering the moment. “Ha! What are you talking about? Your life is perfect. You can’t get much more perfect than the Holloway house.”
“Sure. You just go on thinking that,” I say, glaring at the passing cars. “But you don’t live there.”
“I’d love to live your life,” Kyle mutters.
“Oh really? What’s wrong with yours?”
“What, you mean being the BooBoo Bakery Boy?” His laugh is edged by a sarcastic bite this time. “Like that’s a cool thing? Sure, I got it good.”
“Why? What’s wrong with that?”
We shuffle along in silence for a while, not looking at each other.
“Nothing, I guess,” he finally says. “It’s just hard to compare it to yours. I guess if you look at it on its own, it’s not bad. Could be worse.”
“Your family owns the bakery, right?”
“Yeah, my dad started it up about twenty years ago.” He grins. “I was brought up on the smell of dough.”
“That’s not anything to be ashamed of,” I say with a smile. “Like you say, it could be worse. Do you have brothers or sisters?”
“Two of each. I’m the middle kid.”
I try to imagine what that would mean to me, but it’s difficult to fathom. “That’d be grea
t. I’m an only child. That gets pretty boring after a while.”
“Maybe that’s why your parents spoil you.”
“I’m not spoiled!” We exchange a look, one that includes Kyle’s skeptical raised eyebrow, then I let out a sigh. “Okay. I’m spoiled.”
“Well, I’ve never had a chance to be spoiled. Being in the middle means a lot of hand-me-downs and stuff. I have to admit, though, our parents do all they can for us. And we’re always happy together. They put the family first, which is pretty cool.”
We talk about school and about family as we walk but avoid the elephant in the room: my former personality problem. I’m glad about that because I’m afraid Kyle might get all puffed up again. I’m much happier when he’s talking to me like an actual friend.
By the time we return to the bakery, it’s ten o’clock. We stand outside the door, talking for a while.
I glance at my wristwatch. “I have to head home,” I say reluctantly.
“Let me drive you,” Kyle offers.
“You have a car?”
He offers a little shrug. “Not exactly. Wait here.” He disappears into the store, leaving me to wait on a bench outside. A few moments later, via a side alley, he returns astride a small, beat-up motorcycle. Exhaust rattles against the alley’s brick walls. Kyle grins at me and holds out a white helmet. “Climb on!” he shouts over the noise.
I look at the bike, hesitating.
Kyle laughs. “What? You’ll take on the psychos of LA at night, but you’re afraid of a little bike ride?”
Determined not to appear weak, I garner my courage and climb on behind him. He tugs his sweater over his head and hands it to me.
“It’ll be cool once we get going,” he warns. “You should wear this.”
“But what about you?”
He shrugs. “I’m used to it.”
There’s already a chill in the air, and I have no doubt the bike ride will be freezing. As much as I want to refuse, I decide the sweater is a necessity. “Okay. Thanks.” I pull his sweater on and can’t resist inhaling as it slides over my head. I think of Amber complaining about him, but again, my nose is graced with that doughy, cinnamony sweet smell, and I don’t see how she could insult him. I hug my soft, woolly arms around my body, feeling absurdly pleased. Being with Kyle is making me happy. I start to wonder if he feels the same way about being with me. Could he? After everything I’ve done in the past? Probably not. I mean, really, we have nothing in common. Until a few hours ago, he couldn’t stand me. There’s no point in getting interested in him that way.
“Do you know where I live?” I ask.
He rolls his eyes. “Everyone knows where you live, Sia. Helmet.”
I slide it over my head.
Kyle looks back. Once he sees that it’s on right, he gives me a thumbs up. “Hold on,” he suggests.
Battling an insane rush of shyness, I lean against him and wrap my arms around his waist. He’s lean, I discover, but not as skinny as I’d originally presumed. Muscular, not weak. When he pulls into the street, I squeeze my eyes shut, expecting a crash at every turn. But after a while, I relax and start to enjoy the ride. And though I know I have no right, I secretly relish the strong, solid feel of his body within my arms. By the time we get close to my house, I wish we could just keep on driving.
The sound of the bike idling in the driveway brings Dad out running. “Sia! Young lady, where have you been? You think you can just take off for hours and not tell anyone where you’re going? Especially after what happened to you before? And what’s this thing?” he asks, staring at the bike. “This doesn’t even look street legal.”
Kyle takes off his helmet and turns off the engine, but before he can respond, I climb off and remove my helmet.
“The bike’s fine, Dad. And so am I. I’m seventeen. I’m perfectly capable of going out on my own and coming home safely, you know.”
He is furious. “After everything—”
“Sia? Sia! Oh, my baby!” My mother stumbles out the door and staggers toward us, followed by Beatriz. “I didn’t know where you were! I called the police and the hospitals and your friends. Don’t you ever do that again, baby! We love you so much. Oh, I thought you were dead! How could I live without you, Sia?” With that, she slumps to the grass and vomits.
I glance at Kyle, whose face is twisted with disgust. I die inside, absolutely mortified. I step away from my family as Beatriz and my father drag Mom back inside.
“You’d better be inside this house in one minute, young lady,” Dad shoots over his shoulder.
The front door slams, and I stand in silence beside Kyle, once again feeling very alone. Except this time, Kyle is there. And whether he means for it to be or not, that is a comfort. “Still think my life is perfect?” I ask quietly.
He doesn’t answer. He seems to be taking everything in.
Better to end our night right here, before anything else happens. So I throw him a pathetic, “Thanks. See you at school,” then head inside to my so-called perfect life.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
“Here, Mrs. Holloway. A little coffee, sì?”
My mother moans and waves Beatriz away.
My father pays no attention to either of them. He paces the great room, hands deep in his front pockets. “Not even one day!” he rages. “You can’t even stay sober for one day, Janet—not even for the sake of our child!” He stops in front of my mom and brings his face to hers, then shakes his head with disgust. “You know what’s going on,” he says through clenched teeth. “You know Sia doesn’t need any more stress! Do you think you could possibly—for once—think of someone besides yourself?” He looks defeated.
Beatriz told me that my mother’s drinking has been going on for a while. I can only imagine what Dad has gone through, trying to help her quit. I also have a feeling I wasn’t much help with any of it. So he escapes from his helplessness in his work. Only that’s not working out, either. He must feel as if his family has abandoned him. Poor Dad
My mother cowers in a tall, plush armchair, looking more pale with every word he speaks. She resembles a little kid, with makeup smeared all over her face. She’s not crying, but she stares up at him with wide, frightened eyes. Her body kind of weaves from one side to the other.
How can she do this to herself?
I stand off to the side, watching both of them, feeling powerless. Then I remember the promise I’d made to myself hours before about changing my ways. I figure I can stand here and watch the heartache continue, or I can do something about it. My mother is drinking constantly, and my father is wearing himself out trying to keep the family together. I understand that now. I also understand they’re stuck. Maybe it’s up to me to fix things as well as I can.
“Dad.” I walk toward the armchair and set one hand on his arm. “Stop. Calm down.” My voice is gentle. “Please don’t worry about whether this affects me. I may be a little clued out at the moment, but I can handle this. It’s not creating stress for me.” I glance at my mother, whose dazed expression seems ready to collapse at any moment. “Yelling at Mom is not helping her. She has a disease, Dad. She needs professional help if she’s going to beat this thing. She needs our support. Not our anger.”
My father stares at me, his mouth hanging slightly open. “I . . . uh . . .” He blinks a few times. “You’re right, honey. I know. I’ve tried to get her to rehab—”
“No rehab,” Mom moans.
Dad’s temper flares again “I have had it, Janet. I you don’t seek treatment soon . . . I’ll proceed with the divorce papers.”
My head snaps in his direction, as does Mom’s.
“You wouldn’t dare!” she gasps.
“But I would. You have left me no choice,” he tells her, tight-jawed and trembling. There is no doubting his words. “I need the woman I married. Not the drunk who is bent on destroying everything we built together.”
She is livid. “Leave then! Sia and I don’t need you.”
“Our daughter will
come with me. You’re not fit to take care of her.”
This quiets her in a hurry. A petrified panic settles across her face. “Are you going to leave me too, baby?” she asks me, choking on a sob. “Would you really leave me all alone?” Her eyes are liquid with vulnerability, and I feel her pain resonate through my whole body. I want to deny what my father said, tell her I’ll always be by her side, no matter what. But I can’t. It’s not what she needs. She needs to wake up and see what her future holds if she continues drinking.
I walk over to Dad and pull him into a tight hug.
“Give us a little time, Dad?” I whisper into his ear. “Maybe I can reach her.”
He leans back and looks at his wife, eyes filled with pain. “I’d appreciate anything you can do. I’ll be in my office.” With that, he kisses my forehead and leaves.
I watch him go, and I nod at Beatriz when she lifts her brow in question. Then it’s just me and Mom, alone.
She slouches in the armchair with one elbow braced on the arm, her cheek resting on one fist. She looks dangerously close to falling asleep.
I pull another chair closer and lean forward. “Mom? You okay?”
She gives me a vague smile. “Mm-hmm.”
“Can we talk about what’s going on?”
She wrinkles her nose, and her eyes twinkle. “Silly girl! There’s nothing going on. I just had a couple of drinks to relax. Your father always makes such a big deal about it. Can’t a person relax once in a while?”
“Of course, Mom. But I think we all know that you’re having more than a couple of drinks a day.”
She rolls her eyes to the side to escape the accusation.
I suck in a breath. “And Mom, I want you to know that it really matters to me that you’re drinking so much. I’m worried about you.”
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