I climb into bed, staring through the blinds on my window.
My bedroom faces the back of the trailer park, away from the city lights. I can see a line of dark trees that move in the wind.
Then a flicker of something. A light. A fire?
My heart pounds harder. I can feel it thump in my chest. Darkness creeps up in my mind. What if Daddy’s out there? What if he couldn’t find his way home? He knows the way, but if he’s been drinking a lot he might have gotten lost.
He’s never been gone this long. That must be him.
I want it to be him.
I don’t know whether the ache in my heart is hope or fear. Both.
Mostly I know better than to go outside after dark. Even if someone bangs on the door, the lock stays turned. Unless it’s a policeman with a badge. But I’m too awake to fall asleep.
Then there’s another flash of something bright through the trees.
I open the door slow, as if something in the shadows might jump at me. There’s nothing, only the soft whisper of grass in the wind. No one mows around here. Weeds come up to my knees. Brambles poke the bottoms of my feet. I press through the trees, determined to find out what’s on the other side.
There’s a watering hole around here somewhere. I’ve never been there. Never wanted to. But I’ve heard some of the kids on the bus talk about fishing there, before they moved up to middle school. I don’t think they really meant fishing anyway, not with the sweet smoke floating through the brush.
The air sounds different as I reach the water. More of a gentle hum. Less rustling of leaves. I peek over a bush to see a wide black lake. It’s bigger than I would have thought. The moon draws a long oval across the surface.
Then I see him.
A man sitting on the ground, his elbows resting on his legs. He’s watching the water like it’s got the answers he’s looking for. Like there are mermaids inside.
Something stings my leg. An ant? I jump, bumping into the bush.
The sound breaks the silence.
He stands and faces me, moonlight across his face. He’s younger than I thought. Maybe in high school. I think through the families who live in the trailer park, but no one has a kid his age. And I would remember him if I had seen him. There’s something about the way he holds himself. Smooth and strong, so different from the hunched over way people move around here.
He’s got something in his hand. It glints in the dark. Some kind of weapon.
“Who’s there?” he says.
He doesn’t sound afraid. I don’t want to be afraid.
But I am. I take a step back, breaking a branch.
“Come out where I can see you! I have a gun. I’ll start shooting if I have to.”
Shooting? Part of me wants to run the other way, to keep running until I make it back to the trailer and lock the door. But what if he does start shooting? I take a step forward.
Then another.
I’m standing in front of the trees, trembling too hard to speak. He’s maybe a few yards away, but it might as well be a few inches. Too close for me to run.
“Where’s your daddy?” he says, like maybe he knows him.
I lift my shoulder. “Dunno.”
“You alone?”
That’s a scary question for a boy to ask a girl. “Are you?”
He lowers his weapon. “No one comes here. There’s nothing but bugs and dirt. And maybe wolves.”
Wolves? No one told me about wolves. “For real?”
“Haven’t seen one, but I have a knife. I can fight if I have to.”
“You don’t shoot them?”
He looks away, like he’s embarrassed. “That was a lie.”
I understand that. And it means he was scared, even if he didn’t sound like it. I understand that, too. I take a step closer to him, curious now. “Why are you here then? If there’s nothing but bugs and dirt?”
“Better than home. Why are you here?”
Because I’m hungry. Because I’m lonely and afraid. The lake glistens dark, looking more like ink than water. “You ever go swimming?”
“Sometimes.”
He’s probably not afraid of the water. “Are there sharks?”
“Sharks don’t live in lakes.”
Bending down I touch the surface and find it cold. “What’s here then?”
“Alligators, probably.”
I pull my hand back. “You fight those too?”
“Nah, they have to be pretty desperate to go after a person. Mostly they eat fish.”
Alligators don’t sound like fun, whether they’re desperate or not. Wiping my hand on my nightgown, I move away from the water. There’s a little space with no weeds coming up. Only dirt. A sleeping bag and some food. Clothes spread out like they’re drying. How long has he been here?
I glance at him. “You live here.”
He lifts his chin. “And you live in the trailer park.”
The way he talks to me, it’s like I’m his equal. A person.
Most people dismiss me as soon as they look at me. I know I’m small, maybe smaller than other girls my age. Even Mrs. Keller looks at me different, like I’m special.
This boy talks to me rough, like he knows I can take it. There are twigs on the ground. When I pick one up I realize it’s a reed from the water, dried out and snapped.
I press the sharp tip to the dirt and draw one side of a heart. Then the other.
“Go home,” he says.
When I’m alone it feels like I’m on the moon, far away from anyone who can help, from anyone who would want to. “Daddy didn’t come back. He went drinking.”
“Does he usually do that?”
All the time. “But I ran out of food.”
“I don’t have any food,” he says.
I shrug, because that’s not why I’m out here. Not now. Something worse than hunger has been hounding me since Daddy left. The fear that he won’t come back. Like Mama.
My stomach feels so high it’s almost in my throat.
“It’s okay,” I say, the same way I told the parole officer. The same way the boy told me he had a gun. It’s a lie we tell to make ourselves feel better.
He studies me, his dark eyes narrow. “What’s your name?”
“Penny. What’s yours?”
“Quarter,” he says, his face completely serious.
It’s such a grown-up joke. I make a face. “What do you eat then?”
“Fish, sometimes. If I can catch them.”
He’s living on fish? Then he’s probably hungrier than me. “Like the alligators?”
“Pretty much.”
It would be nice to catch fish, if I knew how. If I wasn’t so afraid of water. If I didn’t dream about slipping under. “Did your daddy teach you how to fish?”
“No. I don’t have a pole or anything.”
“Then how do you catch them?”
He doesn’t answer for a long time. I almost think he’s done talking to me. Then he says, “How long can you hold your breath?”
The question makes me shiver.
“Dunno.” I’ve never stayed in water long enough to find out.
“Most people can hold it for two minutes. Then carbon dioxide builds up in your blood. Your eyes get dark. And then you take in a breath full of water.”
My eyes widen. Black water. Sharp rocks. “You’re talking about drowning.”
“I don’t drown. Not for five minutes. Not for ten.”
I suck in a breath, part surprise and part awe. He’s like a wild animal. A tiger. Or maybe that black panther from the Jungle Book. Some people would think he’s strange, but it’s really normal people who are dangerous. With their needles and their movie star smiles.
He doesn’t seem to realize how special he is, though. He looks almost sad about it. “Fish don’t expect that, a person being so still. And when they’re going by me, I stab one with my knife.”
I can’t even imagine getting into the water, much less putting my head under. And s
taying there. He really isn’t afraid of anything. Not like me. “For real?”
He shrugs. “It’s weird.”
“I wish I could do that,” I say, my throat tight around the words.
“Well, sure,” he says, his voice sharp. “It’s on every little girl’s to-do list. Learn ballet. See the Eiffel tower. Stab a fish with a knife.”
“I wouldn’t have to wait for Daddy to come home for food.”
He looks away. “The whole camping outdoorsy trend isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. There aren’t any pillows, for one thing.”
That sleeping bag can’t be comfortable on dirt. Why does he live out here instead of in a trailer? Why would anyone choose rocks over carpet? “Your daddy never came back home, too?”
“Oh, he’s still there. That’s the problem.”
My heart squeezes. It’s bad to want your daddy to come home, worse to wish he wouldn’t. Whatever happened to this boy must be truly scary. “How long have you been here?”
“Maybe six months.”
Six months is a long time.
The solution seems simple. I’m afraid to be alone in the trailer without a grownup. He’s almost a grownup. “You can stay with me,” I tell him. “I’ve got a pillow.”
“No.”
It means he wants me to leave, how short and sharp he said it. Something keeps my feet stuck on the ground. The empty trailer doesn’t feel safe anymore.
This wild boy could protect me, with his knife and his courage.
“Can I sleep here tonight? I won’t get in the way.”
He studies me for a long moment. “Get in the sleeping bag.”
Only then do I remember that some men do bad things to girls. “Why?”
“To sleep,” he says, his voice mean. “What would I want with a puny kid?”
That’s a good answer. I climb into the sleeping bag. It’s not as soft or as warm as my bed at home, but it feels so much better. Like I’m safe here, even if I don’t know his name.
Like I can breathe again, even though I’m so close to the water.
“I’ll see if I can catch something,” he says, “but the fish aren’t active at night. And it’s harder to see. Pitch black. I have to go by feel.”
He can do that? And it’s even more surprising that he would do that for me. It must be freezing in there. Why would he help me? No one else does.
I want to ask him why he talks to me like I’m somebody.
I want to ask him why he cares.
Instead I say, “Thank you.”
Only when he ducks his head under do I see the green corner peeking out from inside his backpack. Money. I know enough about gambling to know that Daddy will come back empty handed. That means there won’t be food, not for days. Or money for the gas bill. Or the lot rent.
And I know enough about gambling to know that I don’t have a choice. You have to play the cards you’re dealt. I reach out and grab it, crushing the soft bill in my hand. Then I turn toward the tree line and run.
Chapter Two
The ground is soft beneath my feet, like it’s made from Play-Doh instead of dirt. Rainwater pools beneath the seat of the swing, where years of feet have dug a hollow. Droplets cling to the steel bars, shaking from some unseen force.
Usually I’m on that swing, rain or shine. I kick my legs as hard as I can, until I’m flying. My hair covers my face. Tears sting my eyes. The playground becomes a blur.
When I get to the highest point, I think about letting go. Every time, back and forth. I imagine letting go of the squeaky chains that leave the smell of rust on my hands. In my head I don’t crash to the ground. I keep going up and up, into the clouds.
Not today.
I was almost afraid to look at the money once I made it to my trailer, my heart pounding against my ribs. Like it could bite me if I smoothed it out. And when I did look I gasped. A hundred dollars. Enough money to feed me for a month. Two months. Forever.
What is he doing living on the ground, fishing for food, if he has a hundred dollars? I thought it was a five-dollar bill. Maybe twenty at the most. He could have stayed at a motel in the west side for weeks with that money. Has he been gone from home longer than that?
It didn’t feel right leaving that much money in the trailer, so I kept it in my pocket.
Maybe it weighs a hundred pounds too, because I don’t feel like I can swing today.
Mrs. Keller has been acting strange since this morning. She keeps looking at the door, at the clock. When we go to recess she holds me back. “There’s someone coming to see you.”
All I can think about is the money in my pocket. He must have told someone. I’ll be in trouble. My throat feels so tight I can’t even speak. I stole something. I deserve to be punished.
“Don’t worry,” she says, smiling gently. “It’s not bad. I told the principal how good you are in math. How you really need more than we can offer you. She got in touch with someone who can help.”
So it’s not about the money.
That doesn’t really make me feel better.
I wander away from the swings and the slide. Away from the strange climbing gym that no one ever uses, its metal surfaces too hot or too cold. Patchy grass gives way to uneven dirt near the red brick wall. There’s a place tucked into the corner, hidden from the street and from the basketball court where the teacher stands. A hiding place, but one I mostly stay away from. It’s too easy to get trapped back here. Fifth grade boys are the worst. If they trapped me here, what would I do? Fight? Scream? I’m not even sure anyone would come.
I’m afraid to find out.
I hope the wild boy never trapped any girls here. Never pushed them. I don’t think he would do that. He tried to help me. And you stole his money.
It smells bad in the hiding place, like mold and pee and something kind of sweet.
No one’s in the hiding place today. That shouldn’t make me nervous. Someone doesn’t get beaten bloody every single day. Only most. A knot tightens in my stomach. I can’t stand being out in the playground today, being around running and laughter.
A shadow appears over mine, longer and wider.
I turn around fast, but the sun blinds my eyes. There’s someone standing there, way too close. How did he get here without me hearing him? I know it isn’t Mrs. Keller. He doesn’t have her curly hair or her dress. It’s not Mr. Willis with his tennis shoes and track pants. This man’s wearing dress shoes. An overcoat. And the way he stands, so tall and proud. So still. I know I would remember it if I’d seen him before, even without seeing his face. He looks strangely familiar. Like I know him from a dream.
“Hello, little girl,” he says, his voice smooth like paint, spilling over my hands and turning them every color, mixing together until they’re only black.
Is he here about Daddy?
I know my eyes are wide, hands tucked behind my back. “Hello.”
“What’s your name?”
The way he asks, I can tell he already knows. “Penny.”
“Do you know my name?”
My stomach turns over. I shake my head, lips pressed together.
“I’m Jonathan Scott. Have you heard of me?” He doesn’t wait to hear the answer. He probably knows that everyone’s heard of him, even me. Almost everyone in the city owes him something. “Mrs. Keller says you like numbers.”
I don’t like numbers. Not any more than I like breathing or sleeping. It’s something I can do without thinking. It just happens. “I guess.”
“She said you can do all kinds of tricks. Do you want to show me?”
Tricks. Like I’m a dog. And I never want to show anyone.
I don’t want to show him in particular.
I have the sudden flash of Lisa Blake from two trailers down. Her family had less than us, which was saying something. They got in deep with Jonathan Scott. Then one day her momma got her a bunch of makeup from the drugstore. A new dress. She looked like some kind of beauty queen that afternoon. It was summer. And that was
the last day I ever saw her.
The cops came around, asking questions, but everyone knew not to say anything. She just disappeared. No one mentioned the makeup. The dress.
Even the kids understood—we didn’t want to end up like Lisa Blake.
“Okay,” I say, my mind racing. I can’t let him think I’m special. “I’m real smart,” I add, with a touch of boasting, because I’d never really say that. It’s pretend.
I don’t want to be noticed by him, not for my brain and not for my body.
“Are you?” He sounds like I said a joke. “What’s twenty-seven times forty-three?”
I pretend to think about it. “One thousand one hundred and sixty-one.”
“That’s right, Penny. And what about…” Now he’s the one pretending to think. “What’s sixty-nine times four hundred and twenty-eight?” After a moment he adds, “Point two.”
I don’t want to know the answer. I try to forget, but the number 29545.8 hovers in my mind. It’s like he asked me my own name. I can’t forget it if I try. “Can you say it again?”
He repeats himself, slow and patient.
I bite my lip, trying to look worried. “We haven’t done points yet.”
“Without it, then.”
I worry the hem of my dress between my fingers, wondering where Mrs. Keller is. Why doesn’t she come and help me? I know the answer. She sent him here. That’s how he knew I liked numbers. This is who she was waiting for all morning. I was afraid of a group of small boys, when instead I only needed to worry about one big one.
“Twenty-nine thousand,” I say, before taking a breath. “Two hundred and twelve?”
My failure hangs in the air, as thick as the leftover rain. I don’t want to play it dumb completely. He would wonder why Mrs. Keller called him at all. It might get her in trouble. And worse than that, he might know I’m pretending.
“Or maybe twenty-nine hundred, five hundred…and forty-five.”
“Correct,” he says softly, but he isn’t impressed. Not now that I’ve gotten it wrong.
I don’t want to put red lipstick on. I don’t want to wear a new dress. I don’t want to be interesting to a man like this. He might want me for a different purpose than Lisa, but I’m safer if he doesn’t want me at all. “Do you want to try fractions?” I offer him. “We started those.”
Mafia Romance Page 23