Sleeping in My Jeans

by Connie King Leonard

  The guy’s got a calm, easy grace about him, like he’s totally comfortable in his skin. Jack leaves his hand hanging between us for way too long, as if he expects me to give in and shake it. I flick my eyes back to my math book. When he finally pulls it away, I can’t keep from glancing up. Jack’s face is so soft and open that my heart kind of cramps up before it gets back to a steady thump, thump, thumping.

  “Look,” I say, “I’ll be polite and nice and lay it out straight.” I zero in on him so he knows I’m not some sweet, wishy-washy chick who says one thing but means something totally different. “You’re wasting your time.”

  His eyebrows squeeze together so much they wrinkle up his forehead. “You’ve got a boyfriend?”

  I shake my head. “No. It’s not that.” I try to think of the right words, but my brain is too jumbled. I blurt out the truth. “I’ve got goals. So I’m not getting sidetracked by some super cute guy with shiny white teeth.”

  Jack bursts out laughing. He lets the sound flow up through his body and out into the universe, like he doesn’t care if the whole wide world knows he’s happy. I look around and see that half the cafeteria is watching us. Some of the guys smile, but a lot of the girls glare at me, like I just stepped on their toes or shoved them in the hallway.

  Jack keeps grinning while he unpacks his lunch. Two double Whoppers. A huge order of fries. A cup of soda so giant I’d need two hands to lift it. I nibble on my free mac and cheese while he mows through his first Whopper.

  He unwraps his second burger, takes a bite, and looks at me across the table. “Fair enough, Mattie Rollins.”

  He doesn’t say another word all the way through the Whopper, so I figure he got the hint and I’m done with him.

  “But it’s my time.” He takes a long slurp of his soda and pops a couple of fries into his mouth. “And I don’t think I’m wasting it.”

  What do I say? Get lost? I already said that, and he didn’t seem to get the hint. Before I get another word out of my mouth, Jack points at my lunch tray. “Are you going to eat that?”

  I glance at the brown glob of chocolate pudding piled in the corner of my tray and wrinkle my nose. “Seriously?”

  He gives me that Oscar-winning smile. “Seriously. I love that stuff.”

  I push my tray across the table. Jack picks up the plastic spork I used to eat the mac and cheese and digs in. He looks at me and my stomach feels just like the pudding—all soft and jiggly.

  Chapter Four

  “Mattie Rollins,” the intercom crackles over Mr. Zaponski’s desk. “Report to the office to be checked out.”

  Tension drops out of my shoulders, the muscles in my face relax, and relief rushes into my chest. Thank God, Allah, and Buddha too, because Mom must have found us an apartment. She’s calling me out of sixth period so Meg and I can get settled before she heads off to work. I slide between the girls in the alto section of the choir, step off the riser, and gather up my backpack. Mr. Z hands me a pass, and I practically skip to the office.

  Mom is waiting near the door. She’s standing in the shadow of a trophy case that doesn’t do anything to disguise the blue-and-purple bruises on her face. I scribble my name on the sign-out sheet and follow her out of the building.

  “Is the apartment close? Can Meg and I walk to school, or do we have to take the bus?”

  Mom takes off for the door without answering me. That’s how I know we’re still homeless and sleeping in a car. I don’t catch up with her until we’re outside tromping through the rain.

  “You tried, didn’t you?” My words come out loud and harsh, but I’m too cranked up to care. “You didn’t just go off to class and forget about us?”

  Mom should slap me for talking to her like that. She doesn’t deserve any of this—the bruises, split lip, or Darren’s bullying. But Mom never hits. No matter how sassy and snotty I get, or how tired and cranky she is, she never turns mean or abusive.

  Mom stops in the middle of the sidewalk. “I skipped classes, pounded on doors, and begged apartment managers to take us.” Mom holds her arms stiff by her sides, clenching her hands into fists.

  “Can’t we get a motel?” I say. “Just for the night?” I know I’m acting like a whiny brat, but once I get sassy it’s hard to rein myself in.

  “No.” Mom takes off across the parking lot. “We need first and last month’s rent, plus a cleaning deposit. A motel is too expensive.”

  I’m so focused on Mom finding us a room with a door and bathroom that I walk right through a rain puddle and don’t even feel it until my tennis shoes squish out the other side. “What about your friends, Carly or Jen? Did you ask them? One of them could let us crash on their couch for a couple of days, just till we found something.”

  Mom shakes her head. “Carly’s brother and two kids just moved in. That’s seven in a tiny two-bedroom apartment.”

  She stops next to Ruby and opens the driver’s side door. “And Jen’s husband beats her up all the time. She’s finally taking the kids and moving to Portland to live with her mother.”

  We stare at each other across Ruby’s roof. “I’ll make more calls, but I can’t promise anything. Not for tonight anyway.”

  Meg hops up and down in the back seat. “We’re going to the library, Mattie, and we can read books and do our homework and it will be really, really fun!”

  I paste a smile across my face and bat away the worry ripping holes in my gut. We made it through one night on the street, but can we be safe for two? Or is that tempting fate and dropping our odds of survival?

  Mom slides into the driver’s seat, clutching the steering wheel so hard her hands look like claws. “The library was the only place I could think of where you would be safe.” She tilts her head toward a plastic bag on the console between us. “I made sandwiches.”

  I pick up the bag. Two peanut butter sandwiches along with a baggie of those little carrots. I hand a sandwich back to Meg, pull out one for myself, and take a bite.

  Ruby splashes through puddles, her windshield wipers whipping back and forth to clear away the drizzle. Rain is part of living in Oregon, at least in the winter. Some people hate the damp and cold, but I love hearing that soft patter of raindrops on the roof or feeling them plop on my head when I walk outside.

  It was easy to love rain when I lived in a warm apartment where I could make a cup of hot chocolate, curl up with a good book, and spend a lazy evening all cozy and dry. Rain takes on a whole new dimension when my home is a car and my tennis shoes are so wet my feet and toes feel like ice cubes.

  I force myself to chew the glob of peanut butter in my mouth. We need an apartment. Now. Even a room works as long as we can get to a bathroom. Scrubbing my armpits with a soggy paper towel worked for one day, but we can’t keep it up. I choke down another bite of sandwich.

  Mom stops in front of the library. I slide out with my backpack clutched in one hand, a peanut butter sandwich in the other. Meg crawls out of her booster seat and stands beside me on the sidewalk.

  “I’ll meet you in the children’s section as soon as I get off work.” Mom leans toward us. “And don’t let anyone know you’re here alone.”

  Mom searches my face for a sliver of forgiveness. I should give it to her, but I don’t. Instead, I turn away and guide Meg to the door of the city library with hours and hours of time to kill. Just like all the other homeless people.

  The downtown library is the nicest place we ever go. It’s beautiful—three stories high with lots of tall windows and bright open spaces. A glassed-in coffee bar with tables and chairs forms the entryway. The checkout desk is inside by the front door, and across the entry is a wooden staircase that curves around the center, winding up to the two upper floors. All the wood is a natural color that makes the place warm and inviting.

  We treat the children’s section like a second home. When Darren and his buddies were watching
football on his big-screen TV, Mom drove us here to read books and pass the time. We came at other times too, because it’s such a great place to relax and hang out. Once in a while, if Mom has enough money to splurge, she buys us a cup of hot chocolate or a cold drink at the coffee bar.

  Today, I don’t scan the low stacks of picture books, hunting for ones about princesses or animals on exciting adventures. Instead, I glance around the room, searching for a place where we can spend hours of time and not be noticed. I hold Meg’s hand, guiding her past small tables scattered near the librarian’s desk. In the back corner, I find a couch, a couple of chairs, and a little round table. If we stay quiet and mind our own business, no one will notice we’re here without Mom.

  Our first two hours whiz by, but as time ticks off the big clock over the librarian’s desk, the minutes slow to a crawl. We do our homework, and I read Meg stories. We take trips to the bathroom, get drinks at the water fountain, and look for new books to read. As the evening drags on, we get tired and hungry.

  Meg nestles against me on the couch. “Will Mommy get us a house?”

  “I hope so,” I whisper. “I sure hope so.”

  “I miss my dollhouse, Mattie.” Meg speaks so quietly I can barely hear her. “Darren better not sell it or give it away or smash it before we get a house, or I’ll be really, really mad.”

  The muscles in my chest constrict, making it hard for me to breathe. Meg’s dollhouse, my books, and all the other things we owned are probably gone forever. Do I tell her that or let her go on hoping she’ll get everything back from Darren?

  Before I can think of what to say, Meg falls asleep with her head on my lap. I gaze at her and stroke the side of her face. My sister is sweet, young, and innocent, but she’s strong too. She got tossed into the street and lost most of her toys, and she’s still tough enough to stay cheerful and kind.

  I ache for Meg, for me, for Mom. Our life wasn’t great with Darren, but at least we had a roof and a bathroom. Now all we’ve got is Ruby.

  Mom hurries into the library at five minutes to nine. By then, Meg and I have gone back to the bathroom, gotten drinks, and are standing near the door. I don’t need to ask her if we have a warm, safe place to sleep. The dark circles under her eyes and set of her mouth tells me all I need to know.

  We park in the same neighborhood we stayed last night. I snuggle deep into our pile of quilts, curl myself around Meg, and hold her tight against me. Reason tells me we aren’t the only kids who’ve spent a couple of nights in a car. It probably happens a lot more than I think, but knowing other kids survive doesn’t take away the fear of predators prowling dark, lonely streets.

  My mind spins through every horrible thing that could happen to us. The more I try not to think—try to get control of myself—the worse the scenes are that run through my head.

  To stop the fear chewing at whatever pitiful bit of courage I own, I say, “Mom?”

  Mom sits in the front seat, reading a textbook by flashlight. “Yeah, honey?”

  “Do you wish you were rich?” My question sounds all wrong, like I’m some airhead that just wants the latest clothes or fanciest phone. “I mean, what would you do if you had more money? How would you live? What would you do with it?”

  Mom clicks off her flashlight, sitting so quietly that all I can hear is her breathing. “I’d get us a house, of course. That would be number one. Not big. Not fancy. Just comfortable, with clean, sturdy furniture, and in a nice neighborhood near good schools.”

  I’m thinking she’s done, that’s the end of her dreams, when she says, “And then I’d finish college, so I could get a good job and take better care of you and Meg.” She hesitates again and adds, “But that’s not the only reason I want to go to school. I hate being ignorant, Mattie. I’m embarrassed that I don’t know the meanings of words or the history of our government. People talk about the news, and I don’t recognize the countries or their leaders. I want to know things, Mattie. Be educated.”

  The fierceness she throws into her words startles me. We sit wrapped together in the dark, protected by Ruby’s rusty shell.

  “What about you, Mattie?” Mom’s voice settles back to calm and quiet. “What would you do if we had the money?”

  I hesitate too, as if this is the most important question I’ll ever answer. “I want the house, the education, the security, but I want to see things too. Paris. London. New York City.” I breathe in the cool night air. “I want to hike in the mountains. Swim in a warm ocean. See a ballet. Go to an opera. So much, Mom. I want to do so much.”

  My mind whirls with possibilities, listing them in no order. Mom and I sit in silence, lost in our own dreams.

  “Don’t give up those goals.” Mom’s voice is so soft I can barely hear her. “Hang tight to them, no matter what happens.” She leaves the flashlight off, but I don’t hear her put away her textbook or pull the quilts up around her shoulders.

  I study the rivers of rain gliding down Ruby’s windows, tighten my arms, and pull Meg closer. My eyes get heavy and I drift into that in-between space where I’m not asleep, but I’m not awake either. My breathing slows. I sink deeper and deeper into sleep.

  Crunch.

  My eyes pop open. I peer into the dark.

  Crunch.

  My breath softens to barely a whisper.

  Crunch.

  Steps? Someone walking? Rain patters on the roof and muffles sound. I don’t move my head but push the quilts aside far enough to peer over the edge. All I see are dark streaks of rain on the window.

  I breathe out, slow and steady. I tell myself not to be paranoid. Not everyone is a rapist, murderer, or sex offender. Maybe somebody is walking their dog, or coming home late, or taking an evening stroll. The steps come close, so close they are right next to the car. I don’t move, don’t breathe, don’t even blink.

  The steps stop. Is someone bent over Ruby, peering in her windows? Do they see us? I can’t see them, but I don’t move.

  A scream rises in my throat. I press my lips together and lay as still and rigid as stone. Meg sleeps in my arms, but Mom is still awake. I can tell because she is not making the slightest bit of noise, either. We wait, covered in a blanket of darkness.

  The person moves on, the crunch of their steps falling away into the rain. I let out my breath. “Mom?” I whisper.

  A soft hiss of air escapes from her lips. “Yeah.”

  “I’m scared.” The dark hides my fear and lets me speak words I wouldn’t admit in the daylight. “I’m so scared.”

  “Me too, honey. Me too.” I hear tears in her voice, feel them sinking into her sweatshirt, taste them on my own lips. My dreams are gone, lost in the reality of Ruby, parked alone and vulnerable on a dark, lonely city street.

  My mind spins for hours or maybe just minutes, conjuring up more disasters. I lay in the damp of the night—scared and worried—until I finally fall asleep.

  Chapter Five

  My life has always been two separate worlds; it’s my method of coping. Like Mom and Meg and whatever living situation we are in is one world, and my school and friends are totally separate. Maybe I keep them apart because I move so much, or maybe it’s self-preservation. If people don’t know anything about you, they don’t have ammunition to use against you.

  I walk past the office and head toward junior hall. Racially, Columbia High is pretty much white. Most of the diversity is Hispanic students, but there are a handful of us that are black or Asian. High school is better than the lower grades, though. In some of my elementary schools, I was the only mixed-race kid in the school, and even though I always had friends, I noticed I was different.

  I round the corner to my locker bay, and there’s Jack, playing games on his phone and leaning on my locker like he belongs there. His buddy isn’t around. That means Jack is waiting for me. If I’m honest with myself, I can’t say I haven’t thought abou
t him in the last twenty-four hours, but I haven’t dwelt on him either. Maybe that’s because I’m newly homeless, but I don’t think so. He’s a guy. Just a guy. And I won’t let myself get interested.

  Jack’s busy playing his game, so he doesn’t see me. He’s got one of those smartphones that can do everything from take professional pictures to offer the latest movies to do half your homework. A phone I ache to own. Mine is a cheap pay-as-you-go model that I’m embarrassed to pull out of my backpack.

  For some reason, Jack’s phone bugs me more than his being here. It’s not that I expect to have the latest technology or envy every new outfit someone wears; it’s just the economic spread between the rich and the poor that cuts so deep.

  He glances up and spots me standing there looking at him. His face lights up with such joy and excitement that my knees would turn to rubber if I gave him half a chance. Will he stay glued to my locker door, forcing me to beg him to get out of the way? That thought makes me so irritated I’m not prepared when he jumps aside.

  “Hey,” he says.

  I step forward and busy myself with my combination, doing my best to ignore him when all I can think about is my dirty hair and smelly body. I scrubbed my armpits in the gas station sink and lathered on the deodorant, but none of that takes the place of a decent shower.

  Worrying about how I smell makes me totally disgusted with myself. If I’m not interested in him, then why am I stressing about whether I stink or not? I keep my arms close to my sides, though, just in case.

  “I came by after school,” he says, “but you were gone.”

  I pull out my English book, slam my locker door, and sling my backpack over my shoulder. To look at him, I have to tilt my head up even though I’m pretty average in height. “You’re wasting your time. You really are.”

  With that, I head off to class and mentally tell myself to keep my English book in my backpack so tomorrow I can go right to first period and avoid him. That way, Jack will get tired of hanging around and move on to some other girl who will at least be civil.