Dedication
For my perfect triangle
And in memory of my grandparents, who passed away
during the writing of this book
Epigraph
You must be a lotus, unfolding its petals when the sun rises in the sky, unaffected by the slush where it is born or even the water which sustains it!
—Sai Baba
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Epigraph
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Resources
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Books by Brenda Rufener
Back Ad
Copyright
About the Publisher
Chapter One
SOME SAY WE ARE ALL a single step away from homelessness. One bad choice. One wrong turn. One oversized setback.
I say, bullshit.
One step from taking a pregnancy test sophomore year? Possibly. Overdosing on energy drinks? Perhaps. Driving off a bluff? Conceivably. We’re all footsteps from death’s iced embrace. But homelessness? I’m one step ahead. Living by rules I designed will keep me there.
Rule #1: Prevent the in-class nap.
Because teachers sniff out sleepiness like a lit cigarette. And where smoke lingers, attention follows. It doesn’t matter if my night’s sleep is ninety minutes long, while I’m propped against the baseball dugout walls. It doesn’t matter if my mattress is dirt. When in class, I dig my fingernails into the tender side of my wrist and produce enough pain to keep my eyes wide, mind sharp. If I make it indoors, away from the weather and wind, and sleep a full night, the bruises on my arm fade from indigo to violet. Wide awake, all eyes and ears. That’s me. Linden Rose.
Rule #2: Never carry too many belongings.
Because as soon as my backpack tips and shit spills, like plastic bags of pink powdered soap and half-eaten dinner rolls, hawk eyes zoom in and accusations fly. Teachers might wonder why I lug around items in my backpack that belong in a dresser, refrigerator, or bathroom cabinet. I don’t need publicity, good or bad, from anyone, not even my friends.
Rule #3: Avoid looking the part.
Because in theory people shouldn’t figure out who I am by the way I dress, look, or smell. People know if I shower, wear the same shirt two days in a row, or drop another pound. There’s so much emphasis on details. The least important thing becomes the most important topic, which means I must fight to shirk the eyes of Hinderwood High School. Eyes that scrutinize, search for clues, and analyze.
If I want my life to matter, these eyes can’t see who I really am.
Who I’m striving hard not to be.
The homeless girl hiding in front of them.
I tap the door with my toe to crack it an inch, just enough to peek inside, make sure the toilet stalls are free of feet and showers are in the off position. The room is on mute, except for Coach Jenkins’s occasional whistle blows penetrating the vents. I toss my backpack at the wall and beeline for the sink. I dab my finger in the water and scrape the morning gunk from my teeth, my eyes. Something I should have done when I woke, but my sunrise routine was interrupted by football practice and early-morning cleat stomps. Players like to piss before they kick and tackle and throw. The luxury.
I am on day four of week two in my second year at this school. I have slept eight hours in three days, and that ramen dunked in tap water for breakfast was a shitty decision. My stomach burns, so do my eyes, and as soon as I lean against the gritty gray cement wall, my eyelids drop and my body folds into a collapsed letter U. Five minutes of sleep is what I need, even more than a soak in a bubbly tub. But ninety seconds deep in my slumber, someone hollers outside the door and I jump.
“Coach needs three towels.” I recognize the voice. Toby Patters. Barking orders. Probably pumping his muscles in some freshman’s face for intimidation purposes. With the initials T.P., one can only imagine what an asswipe he is.
I scramble for the nearest stall, latch the handle, and tuck my knees to my chest with feet flat on the supposed-to-be-white-now-yellow toilet seat. A bang hits the wall and I suck in air like I’m plunging underwater, headfirst.
There’s a grunt. Then a moan.
I shift to the side to see whose knuckles drag the floor but only catch a glimpse of his padded purple-and-gold jersey. Number 22. BONNER. Definitely a freshman because I’m unfamiliar with his name. If PATTERS or CLEMMINGS were on the uniform, I might care. A little. But right now it doesn’t matter who it is. What matters is my backpack, and where it sits matters more. Abandoned at the sink, unzipped, exposed. While my bag looks at home in a guys’ locker room, all greasy and gray and dusty with dirt from the dugout, it’s open, which means my shit’s on exhibit. And by shit, I mean my threadbare underwear and bra.
Cleats scratch at the floor as Number 22 passes, punching the locker doors with his hand, elbow, forehead. I smirk at the visual, but my leg twinges because I’ve contorted myself into such a gargoyle crouch on the toilet. Not a full-fledged cramp, but it’s headed that way. Water. A simple luxury. One I need more of in my life, my body. One I neglected when I couldn’t find the water bottle I’d been using the past month. It turns out a few slurps from the fountain aren’t enough to offset the fluid I lose when I sweat. At least not during warm end-of-summer days when I’m racing from security. Now’s not the time to dwell on thirst, though. More important things flood my mind. Like staying out of sight.
I peek through the stall door crack and fight for balance while knuckling at my thigh muscle, smoothing out the cramp. Number 22 lingers at the bench, fumbling folded towels with his gloved hand. He yells, “How many towels?” and I jump. No one else is in the room, dude. But he looks like he’s waiting, pausing for a response. So of course I take it upon myself to communicate with him telepathically. Three. Three towels, Boner. I mean Bonner.
Number 22 mumbles, “Did he say two? No. No. Three.” I’m surprised he can count that high, but more excited he will now scoot from my bathroom after finding what he came for.
His cleats scuff the cement. Then stop. I jiggle my leg and hold my breath, struggling for balance.
“What? The? Fuck?” he says.
I roll my eyes and stoop forward, confirming what I already know he found.
My bag.
None of these small-town football players are as clueless as I expect them to be. None as thickheaded as they act in groups.
I squint through the crack and watch Number 22 dig his hand deep into my bra, loop the strap around his wrist, swing it toward his flared nostrils, and sniff. Ew. He clomps toward the exit, shouting, “Who scored a piece of ass last night, and who forgot to share the wealth?”
Okay, forget that last statement regarding singular intelli
gence. Yeah, I retract it.
I drop my head back, stare at the ceiling, and fight against my next move. While I hold my breath, the cramp in my thigh stabs and jabs. My palms start to slide from sweat, and when I grapple at the toilet seat, my foot slips off, too soon. My leg reflexes forward and snaps against the stall door with a thud.
“Who’s there?” Number 22 whisper-yells.
I hold my breath.
“I said who’s there?”
I refuse to answer. That’s not me. That’s not Linden flying beneath the radar, hiding in plain sight. But when you own only two damn bras, and your favorite, least worn out one is wound around the fist of Edward Sausagehands, a decision must be made in the moment. No matter the cost.
I sigh extra loud, then flip the latch up like I’m flicking a tick off my arm and side-kick the door in true ninja form. It slams against the next stall and shakes the wall.
“Hey!” I shout with arm extended, fingers wiggling in the gimme position. “Hand it over. The bra. It belongs to me.”
“Uh . . . you . . . uh . . . guys’ . . . uh . . . locker room . . .”
I want to snap his dropped jaw back into place, but instead I snatch my bra from his wrist and fling it over my shoulder. Sure, I could stay and answer questions. I could even tell him the truth. Why I stash my belongings in the boys’ locker room instead of the girls’. But what fun is that? Besides, it’s all risk with little reward, other than selfish satisfaction. What would he do with the information, anyway? Share it? He’s already planning who to tell. It’s in his eyes, all blink, no bite. Maybe he won’t go through with it. One can only hope. It’s been a week filled with near misses and mess-ups. One more round of questioning in the principal’s office could set off alarms I don’t need.
I whip around and wiggle the cramp from my leg as I walk toward my bag. I listen for the cleats to twist and grind. He’ll leave once the shock wears off.
After five exaggerated seconds, the door bangs and Number 22 stomps out, shouting, “Coach? Co-oach?” Each vowel lifting higher in pitch.
I shove my bra into my bag and race for the door. I figure I have ten seconds before Coach arrives with the principal in tow. I glance both ways before darting across the hall. The last thing I need is Coach Jenkins catching me in the guys’ locker room. He wouldn’t listen, and as a result wouldn’t understand. It’s just easier, you know, using the guys’ locker room. Boys take less time in the bathroom than girls. They zip in, zip out. Lines to the girls’ restrooms are always longer than lines to the guys’. Shit’s fact.
I slip into the main corridor and hear more voices than usual for this time of day. Near the front doors a group of students forms, pushing and shoving their way to the steps. When I head-check to make sure Coach Jenkins and Number 22 are nowhere near, two hands clamp down on my shoulders and squeeze. I whip around, fists clenched, and sink my elbow deep into flesh.
“Jesus, Linden.” Ham coughs for effect.
“Jesus, Ham. You scared me.”
“Excitable, are we?” Ham smiles and massages my neck.
I shake my shoulders and his question aside. “What’s with the early release?” I motion toward the crowd, gathered fifteen minutes ahead of time.
“As usual, someone pranked Mr. Dique.”
“And he kicked everyone out of class?”
“Dude went on a rampage,” Ham says. “At least that’s what I heard. Said he wasn’t taking another year of our shit. Can you blame the poor bastard?”
Poor Mr. Dique. I mean his name is Dique, pronounced Dick, not something French or Spanish or anything extraordinary. Just plain old American-sounding Dick. And: he teaches high school biology.
“Watch it!” Ham shouts at a curly-haired guy shoving his way to the door.
The guy flips around, glares, and points at Ham. “You watch it, Pudge!”
Ham and I scrunch our noses, drop our jaws, and say, “Pudge?” in unison. Then we burst into laughter as best friends do. Ham loops his arm around mine and we walk out the front doors toward the steps to smell something other than inequality and BO.
“So what was this prank against Mr. Dique?” I ask.
“A drone,” Ham says. “Remote-control operated, of course. Buzzed into class covered in condoms.”
I shrug and smile. “Yeah. The usual.”
“I’m sure Mr. George will want us to investigate,” Ham says, emphasizing investigate with air quotes. “See if we can finally solve the mystery.”
The buzzer blasts and students mash back to the front of the school. We slide to the side and linger behind the crowd. We both know dealing with Mr. Dique is anything but exciting. Besides, breathing fresh mountain air in my best friend’s presence nearly wipes away the locker-room scare. I’m almost relaxed.
We stroll behind the crowd, shuffling our feet, and pass a couple of students dressed like cowboys and a guy who looks like he could use time in the sun, or quite possibly an hour on an IV. Cowboy dudes are authentic, even smell like hay when they stroll by wearing wide-brimmed hats and silver-tipped boots. Cliques in this one-horse central Oregon town don’t go beyond haves and have-nots. Cowboy dudes have each other. I have Ham.
I hold the door for my best friend and bow as he walks under the arched entryway sketched with wooden letters that read:
Hinderwood High—Where We Are Judged by Our Acts & Our Hearts
“Let’s stop by the newsroom,” Ham says. “I’ll grab the camera.”
“And take a picture of what, exactly? We’re school journalists, Ham, not paparazzi. Besides, if Mr. Dique is mad, snapping photos during class will only aggravate him more.”
Ham rolls his eyes and begins to protest. He’s interrupted when we turn the corner near the administrative offices. Principal Falsetto’s voice squawks, ear-ringing and mousy high. Her soprano-pitched tone rubber-stamps the nickname given to her by students years before my arrival at Hinderwood High. Principal Falls, her actual name, just doesn’t feel right to anyone anymore. Falsetto’s calling shots into the air and her cell phone. I crane my neck to see who is on the receiving end of her yells, but all I see is the back of someone short-haired, seated in a padded purple chair. I keep glancing back until I catch a profile shot of the girl mopping her face with her shirtsleeve. As expected, Bea.
Ham shouts, “Hey! It’s Bea!” I whack him on the back. Thank you, Captain Obvious.
Bea whips her head in our direction and shoots me with eye darts. The kind designed to shut organs down, starting with the heart. She blows them into every weak point of my body as I stare into her mesmerizing eyes, painted with pain and a topcoat of judgment.
I jerk my head in the opposite direction. Breaking Bea’s spell and showing I couldn’t care less if she’s crying, hurting. I’m showing her I don’t give a damn. At least that’s what I try to convince myself of. But pain and misery boomerang, and when you dish out hurt, it whips around and slaps you in the face. I tell myself that Bea is immune to victimization because of the form-fitted jacket of judgment she wears. It makes dealing with her much easier. It lifts the burden from my back, at least for a brief moment.
“Hey. Hey. Hey. What are you kids doing out of class?”
Fuck, Coach Jenkins. I mean, Fuck Coach Jenkins.
“Should you be in class?” Coach Jenkins asks, his whistle aimed and ready, finger already cocked.
“Of course we should,” Ham mumbles beneath his breath.
We scoot sideways toward the newsroom, and I crane my head back toward Bea for one last look. Despite what I tell myself, I care. How can I not? Her pain hits close to home. Too close. I watch as Principal Falsetto circles Bea like a mother hen, arms flapping and tail in full flutter. Bea rolls a tissue into a ball and stuffs it into one nostril.
“Bea was crying,” Ham says an inch from my ear. “Did you see her? Did you see that? And did you see her new haircut? Not many girls pull off hair that short. I would venture to say Bea is the only—”
I cut Ham off with a snappy,
“So.”
“So?” Ham scrunches his face. “Her nose was bleeding,” he says. “Did you catch that, Linden? Her lip, too.”
I shake my head. “No. Ham. I didn’t see shit.”
It’s been a while since I had to face someone else’s blood, let alone care about it. Memories jab and poke like that leg cramp in the locker room every time I think about Bea, or her beat-up face. But tears won’t get rid of the pain this time. All the waves in the ocean wouldn’t wash those thoughts away.
“Well, I saw shit,” Ham says, “and I might finally ask her about it. I mean, somebody should do something. Don’t you think?”
I answer Ham in my head: Yes. And as I’m ready to quiz Ham on how Bea will respond when he asks her why she stands still while a guy pounds the gristle out of her, Coach Jenkins toots his whistle long and hard and shouts, “Onward! Onward! Get to class, idlers!”
“I really do detest that man,” Ham says, loud enough for Coach to hear.
Chapter Two
WHEN WE REACH THE NEWSROOM, Mr. George is absent. His briefcase is gone, his slippers are missing from beneath his desk, and the computer screen is black. Ham rummages through a closet for the camera, and I check the storyboard for messages. The cork is blank, except for two neon-orange Post-it notes scribbled with Mr. George’s handwriting, instructing us to interview Mr. Dique because he’s pissed after being pranked. Mr. George’s words, not mine.
“You were right!” I shout at Ham.
“As always!” Ham shouts back. “About what?”
“Mr. George wants us to interview the Dique.”
“Already on it, boss.” Ham loops the camera strap around his neck.
I read Mr. George’s note aloud. “‘See Mr. Dique ASAP. Drone covered in condoms buzzed into his classroom. No controller found. Driver is MIA. As always, he’s pissed. Tread lightly—appease Old Man Dique.’”
Ham smiles. “The condoms really are an appropriate touch.”
We walk the hall, which will fill in ten minutes. Long enough to interview Mr. Dique and for Ham to snap photos for the news blog. Then, if all goes as planned, we can kill time by hanging with Mr. George and learning journalism’s best, or worst, practices. I half expect Mr. Dique to cooperate. I mean it’s only the second week of school and he hasn’t hit burnout status. He also reconciled with his wife over the summer, and they didn’t lose their house despite the mountain of bills he’s always complaining about in class. Let’s just say Mr. Dique’s mood should be as elevated as his . . . ahem . . . drone.
Where I Live Page 1