Compromised

by Heidi Ayarbe

  “The theme of the day, then, is…” Nicole pauses. “Hmmmm. The theme is—”

  Nicole nudges me. “Hey. Are we going to talk about the theme or not?”

  “What is it?” I sigh.

  “You fell asleep.”

  “Oh. Sorry. So what’s the theme?” I ask again. I pull out a T-shirt and put it on top of my sweater. Another layer might help get rid of this cold.

  “Ahh, forget it.”

  I shake my head and rub my eyes. “So what do you think your dad’s like?” I finally ask.

  “Way better than my crackhead mom, that’s for sure.”

  “Oh,” I say.

  “Yeah. I think he was on some kind of undercover gig when he met her. I can’t imagine him actually falling for her. Maybe it was a one-nighter and I could get a T-shirt that says RESULT OF ONE NIGHT OF BAD JUDGMENT AND A WORSE CONDOM.”

  I laugh and say, “The odds of getting pregnant in a one-time encounter are about three to five percent. Just taking in a few variables, of course. So you’d be a pretty uncommonly cool T-shirt.”

  “I’m like the lottery.” She smiles. She looks pretty when she smiles.

  I shake my head. “Nah. You’re more likely to get hit by lightning than win the lottery. Either way, though, you’re a rare specimen.”

  She laughs. “That doesn’t make it sound so bad.”

  “It isn’t,” I say. “It’s procreation. Perpetuation of the species. Somebody’s sperm has to fertilize somebody’s egg. So why not create a you—a one-of-a-kind you with your very own genetic structure and all the doodads that go with it?”

  Nicole smiles. Science, when explained right, makes a lot of people smile. When science works, it’s magic.

  “That’s pretty nice,” Nicole says.

  “It’s doubly nice your dad sends you postcards.” I mean it. I wish I had something like that. Anything to show that somebody out there is…out there.

  Nicole blushes. “It is. So, um, what’s with the science stuff anyway? Your dad and mom into it or something?”

  My eyes and nose sting. I think hunger has made me more emotional. I don’t know where the science comes from. It’s not like Dad did anything very scientific in his life. I always feel like Dad and I just coexisted—nothing in common except for half his DNA. Mom might have been a science person. I’ve never thought about that before, and it makes me sad. Another missing piece to the puzzle. I think I just like science because I do.

  I don’t have to be anything like Mom or Dad.

  “We better get moving. While it’s still light,” Nicole says. “We can talk and walk.”

  I have a feeling Nicole can talk and do anything. The soles of my shoes slap the cracked road, kicking up pieces of loose gravel as we walk.

  Nicole inhales and smashes her cigarette butt on the sole of her shoe. “Fuck. It’s the last one. So,” she repeats, “what’s with the science stuff?”

  I bite my tongue and look at the shredded cigarette paper and ashes. I force a smile. “I guess the enchantment, you know?” I say.

  “I thought scientists didn’t believe in hat tricks and all that mumbo jumbo,” Nicole says.

  “That’s the thing. Science is magic.” I smile.

  “How so?” Nicole asks.

  “Who else can take mold and save someone’s life? Or take one cell and create a kidney?”

  Nicole shrugs.

  “A magician.”

  “I’ve never thought about it like that,” Nicole says. “That’s kinda cool.”

  “Kinda.”

  “Magic,” Nicole whispers.

  “Magic.” I nod.

  “Okay,” I say. “Your turn. Why the mob?”

  Nicole puffs on her hands. “The rules are clear, you know. Black and white. I kinda thought a scientist would get that.”

  “Try me,” I say.

  “They live by one law: loyalty. The whole idea is that if you’re in, you’re in. There’s no real gray area. Parents are supposed to be like that.”

  “Supposed is the operative word.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Yeah.” Plus it’s pretty impossible to parent from the can. Maybe that’s why he signed those papers.

  Nicole’s eyes light up. “Loyalty, though. Think Pablo Escobar. He ran a pretty tight business when he was in jail. Then they hunted him after he escaped and killed him on the roof of a house in Medellin, Colombia. He was shot in the chest, leg, and ear. The ear was the fatal shot, and some people think he did it himself. You know—killed himself to be free. He wasn’t gonna let them take him down.”

  “And that’s admirable?”

  “Yeah. It’s like saying ‘Fuck you’ to the system.”

  “By killing himself?”

  “Yep. That takes balls. He went down free.”

  Death is freedom?

  Maybe for some.

  Nicole spits out the grass and says, “I hope I wasn’t chewing on jackrabbit piss. Wanna hitch?” She looks up at the sky. “It’s gonna be dark soon.”

  “Yeah. Let’s try to get to the next town, anyway. Maybe there’ll be a 7-Eleven where we can hang out until morning.”

  “I can get us some more Swiss Miss shit. And maybe a pack of cigarettes. Fuck, I need a smoke.”

  I rub my stomach. The human stomach can secrete up to three liters of gastric acid per day. I think mine has to be secreting double from the intense burning I feel. I can just imagine the acid working its way through my intestines and gastric walls. “That’d be nice, actually. The hot chocolate.” I decide not to ask her to lift the Pepto-Bismol.

  “What, you don’t have any special requests? Besides toilet paper, cough drops, and Pepto, of course.”

  My stomach spasms again. “Nope.”

  We put on on our packs and walk to the highway. A trucker for some fruit company gives us a ride to Carlin, Nevada.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  “You can’t be here. You gotta go. This is my spot. Go. Go. Go. Gooooooooooo!” He holds his hand out toward us, then jerks it back, retreating to a corner where he taps on the wall. He coughs four times and blows on his fingers.

  The boy wears a thin coat. The soles of his shoes are fastened by old pieces of tattered string. The left side of his face is totally scarred from a burn—the leathery skin drapes in brown folds, pulling his left eye taut. It’s a horrific contrast to the right side of his face. Through the filth, it’s easy to tell how beautiful he was. And his eyes—a winter green. Like pine.

  “Go!” He balls his fists. “Go. I don’t know you. Tallywhacker. Go go go go go. This is my spot.” He coughs four more times and blows on his fingers again.

  It’s taken us three days to get to Elko because we spent two days in Carlin shoveling snow for food. And then walked the whole way to Elko. Nobody would pick us up. Twenty-two miles doesn’t sound far. But it sure feels far when you’re walking in the snow and haven’t eaten much. My hands are covered in blisters. Once in Elko, we found an empty construction site near the airport. And now we’re stuck in here with a freaked-out kid.

  I’m tired.

  Real tired.

  Nicole moves toward the boy. I pull her back, but she shrugs me off and says, “Kid, we just want to sleep. We won’t do anything to hurt you, so relax already.”

  I wonder who he has run from. If it has anything to do with his face, he definitely did the right thing.

  I pull some jelly out of my pack. “Why don’t you eat this?” I offer.

  “I don’t,” he says, then freezes. I watch as tension builds up in his whole body. He trembles, then coughs and snatches it out of my hand. “Tallywhacker, asswipe,” he mutters, blowing on his fingers. He returns to the corner.

  “We’re just going to sleep over here.” Nicole motions to the other side of the room. She turns to me and mouths, “Nutcase.” She starts to talk. Big surprise. Blah blah blah…“We’ll only be here one night. No more, kid. So take it easy.” The endless stream of words seems to calm him down.


  Nicole and I back-walk and lie down, resting our heads on our packs. I turn on my side and face the boy. My eyelids feel like lead. I try to keep them open—to keep watch—but I can’t do anything except curl up into a ball and fall asleep.

  I shiver. No matter what I do, I can’t get warm. I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to cut off the cold; trying to stay in a world of dreams. Sometimes sleep is the only place that makes sense anymore. I perceive the change in light outside. Dawn’s lavender skies replace the inky night. I give in to the cold and morning, finally opening my eyes.

  “It’s colder than a well digger’s ass in the Klondike,” the boy says in a quiet voice. He’s lying down, his face just inches from mine—his green eyes luminous.

  I jump up. “God! What the—” I shout, moving back until I’m against the wall. Nicole startles awake. “What? What happened?”

  The boy sits up. He cocks his head to the side. “Tallywhacker, asswipe. It’s cold.” He tenses his jaw, coughs, and blows on his fingers, balling his hands up into fists when he stops blowing.

  “Ass where?” Nicole asks, rubbing her eyes.

  “It’s colder than a well digger’s ass in the Klondike,” I whisper, then smile. The boy smiles.

  “You’re okay,” he says, and taps his fingers on the ground. “Asswipe,” he says. “It’s cold.”

  “Dude, what’s with the language?” Nicole asks.

  He blushes and his whole body gets tense. Then it’s as if there is an explosion of movement: coughing, head jerking, and blowing on fingers followed by a string of obscenities. He comes up with some pretty original word combos.

  Nicole sits up. “Nice.” And we both giggle.

  The boy coughs. “Come on. I’ll show you something.” He motions for us to follow him and jerks his head to the side. He hop-skips through the room and out into a field. The sun has risen; rain drizzles down. Rays of sunshine break through clouds shining on drops of rain, creating a kaleidoscope of color.

  The boy coughs and jerks his head. “The Devil’s gettin’ married.”

  I look across the empty field toward the mountains, then back at the boy. His eyes radiate light. He turns to us. He taps his chest. “I’m Klondike.” Then he taps my shoulder four times and Nicole’s as well.

  Nicole motions to me. “She’s Jeopardy. And I’m Capone.” She owns that name. Chicago. Cosa Nostra. Weird Mafia facts. A dad on the run. She’s a definite Capone kind of girl.

  I pause. “Yeah. Jeopardy and Capone.”

  I don’t know how long we stand in that field, looking at the “Devil gettin’ married.” I just know I stop feeling the cold.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  We strap our packs on our backs. I look around for Klondike, but he has disappeared. I want to thank him for the morning and put two more jellies where he slept the night before. We walk until noon, when Nicole slips into a 7-Eleven to lift us something to eat. I think again about asking her to get me some Pepto-Bismol. Or even Tums. Anything to stop the burn. I don’t know if it’s from anxiety or hunger anymore.

  I wonder when I’ll stop feeling hungry. But I know that’s a dumb question. Biology makes sure the body never stops feeling hunger. Maybe I’ll get used to it.

  “Do you feel like we’re being followed?” Nicole asks.

  I turn around. The black asphalt shimmers in the afternoon sun. There’s nobody. “No.”

  “Why are you so quiet?”

  “I’m just thinking about food.” And what else would I be with Nicole talking all the time. But, I admit, I kind of like it. She has some pretty funky stories.

  Nicole gnaws on a piece of beef jerky. “Christ, this is spicy,” she says. “Makes me Goddamn thirsty.”

  “Well, you stole”—I look at the name—“colon cleaner jerky. What do you expect?” I tried one bite, but the burning was too intense. Plus it’s gotta be bad for my stomach. I wonder if she can steal tea bags. That’s not too much to ask. Hot water and a tea bag. I clear my throat.

  Nicole looks at her package and shrugs. “What’s the theme of the day?” she asks.

  “Your pick,” I say.

  “Okay,” she says. “How about the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen?”

  “Uff.”

  “Well?” she asks. She swallows and sticks her tongue out. “This stuff burns going down.” Nicole rubs her throat. “Can’t even fuckin’ eat it.”

  “Well, what did you expect? The wrapper has a guy farting fire.”

  Nicole studies the wrapper. “Pretty tacky.”

  “What? You now have scruples about colon cleaner jerky packaging?”

  Nicole looks at me. “Ha. Ha.” She leans against the speed-limit sign. We’ve been trying to get picked up for about an hour.

  “Next time steal something less, um, leathery,” I suggest.

  “Have you ever heard the expression ‘Beggars can’t be choosers’? Well, the same goes for shoplifting.”

  “Okay. Sorry.” I try one more bite of jerky. It tastes like the sole of a shoe that’s been dipped in Tabasco. My throat’s been bugging me enough as it is. Oh well. I tuck the jerky into my pocket for another day.

  “Well? The most beautiful thing?”

  “Give me a minute.”

  Nicole sighs.

  “Okay,” I say. “There are these things called diatoms—a type of phytoplankton. Anyway, I had a really amazing biology teacher when we lived in New Mexico. He took us to an exhibition of molecular photography. It was like looking at perfection. Nature is perfect—even in its tiniest, microscopic forms.”

  Nicole nods. “But nature made humans.”

  I think about that. “Really, how we work is perfection. How we grow and are born. It’s just everything gets messed up afterward.”

  “Wonder why.”

  “I think free will.”

  “Free will?” Nicole asks.

  “Well, instinct doesn’t have malice, you know. It just is. Humans, though—” I pause.

  “Are shit.”

  I shrug. “That’s one way of putting it.”

  Nicole says. “Anyway, molecular photography. Never heard of it.”

  I stretch. “And you? What’s the most beautiful thing you ever saw?”

  “The Devil gettin’ married,” Nicole shades her eyes. “Do you see that?”

  I look down the road. I don’t know how we haven’t noticed him. Klondike approaches us with his strange hop-skip.

  “I knew we were being followed.”

  Klondike coughs, balls his fists, and jerks his head. “I want to come with you. Tallywhacker, asswipe.” He taps my shoulder. “Okay?”

  I shake my head at Nicole. Two is hard enough as is. With three, nobody’ll ever pick us up. And we’ll be stuck walking the rest of the way to Boise. My feet are already feeling pretty raw.

  This is not part of the procedure. I’ve already changed the constants to include Nicole, but not Klondike. In science, you can’t just keep adding facts to fit the existing experiment. And I don’t want a new experiment. I don’t want to start over.

  I look back toward the city that has faded in the distance. It’s there. At least that’s what the billboard for the Bob & Tom Show on Coyote FM 94.5 says. On the other side of the road there’s a billboard about erectile dysfunction. We’ve walked over an hour, and I realize I forgot to look for the library in Elko.

  I take little consolation in the fact that forgetting helps the brain conserve energy while improving short-term memory and recall of details like…like what? What could be more important than finding a phone number for Aunt Sarah? It’s not like I misplaced my keys. I forgot a critical step in the procedure. It’s like I blew off the entire procedure altogether.

  It must be the hunger.

  Klondike crosses his arms and says, “I’m coming.”

  Nicole stares down at her shoes. She doesn’t say anything. I look Klondike in the eyes. “You’re too young to come with us. Go back to Elko.”

  “I’m twelve.”

&n
bsp; I scowl.

  “Eleven.”

  I raise my eyebrows.

  “Ten. Old enough. Tallywhacker, asswipe. I’m old enough on my own, I’m old enough with you.” His voice changes whenever he says “tallywhacker” and “asswipe” to a gruff sound; then he goes back to talking like normal.

  “No, Klondike.” I look to Nicole for support, but she still just stares at her feet. “Sorry. We can’t take you.”

  “So I’ll follow. I’m not with you, just on the same road as you. Tally—” He coughs and balls up his fists again. Klondike taps Nicole on the shoulder.

  I get up and walk down the road. Too many changing variables. Nicole catches up to me, with Klondike following at a short distance.

  “What do we do?” I ask.

  “He’s ten,” she says.

  “Why do you always want to look out for the younger kids?” I ask. And if something happened to one of them at Kids Place, it always got fixed. I always figured Nicole was behind it. Especially with how they all hugged her when she got back from the hospital.

  “You did. Billy. The new boy at Kids Place. You stopped the Triad from hazing him. Even I couldn’t have stopped it. Not like that. How is that different from what I did?”

  “Because I did it for me. Not for him.” I hate to admit that. It sounds selfish, but it’s true. He was just a positive result.

  “Well for whatever reason, you stood up for somebody. And Klondike needs us. He shouldn’t be on his own. God knows how he’s survived this long,”

  “How long is this long?” I ask. “Maybe people are looking for him.”

  “Did you get a look at his clothes? Hair?”

  I nod.

  “Long.”

  “Yeah. Okay. But he’s not our responsibility.”

  Nicole squints in the sun. She lowers her voice. “He kinda is. I mean he’s in this same mess. We’re all in it together.”

  “So now anybody who lives on the streets is part of us—some kind of wacko version of the mob?” I shove my hands in my pockets. This is not procedure. It can’t be, because then we’ll never make it. I’ll never make it. I’ve got to go back to my original, basic purpose.