Sleeping in My Jeans

by Connie King Leonard

  Jack falls in beside me in one long, easy stride. “You made that perfectly clear yesterday, Mattie Rollins.” He matches his pace to mine and peers down at me as we walk. “But again, it’s my time, and I’m determined to get to know you.”

  I’ve been mean, rude, and downright nasty, and none of that has discouraged Jack in the least. In fact, the more I push him away, the more interested he gets. I could tell him Mom got beat up by her boyfriend and we spent the last two nights sleeping in a rusty old station wagon. Would that make him uncomfortable enough to leave me alone?

  Jack has nice clothes and a fancy phone, plus he’s an athlete and obviously popular by the way a lot of guys give him a nod and girls watch him in hope of a tiny flicker of attention. So why is he interested in me—a nobody at this school? I bite the corner of my lip and keep walking.

  Jack doesn’t utter another word until I’m almost at my classroom door. “See you at lunch, Mattie.”

  Perfect. He warned me. I can skip lunch and study in the library. The problem with that is I’m starving. Breakfast was a little carton of milk and a couple of those itsy-bitsy doughnuts that sprinkle powdered sugar all over your clothes. Doughnuts that used to be a huge treat for Meg and me, but don’t have the same appeal after spending the night in the car. I drop into my desk, furious with myself for letting a guy dictate whether I eat or go hungry.

  My English teacher, Mr. Avila, displays a computer screen on the whiteboard. “Here’s the outline for your next project.”

  I’m in honors English, and it’s my favorite subject. The workload is more intense, and the books we read are a lot harder than in a regular class. I’ve always loved stories and I’m learning to like writing—or I at least feel I’m getting better at it.

  Mr. Avila points to the screen. “Your job is to write a comparison paper on Romeo and Juliet.”

  Getting used to the language of Shakespeare with all his flowery phrases was tough, but Mr. Avila had us reading it out loud and kind of acting it. It was fun and gave us all a real feeling for the story. Writing a paper on it will be a snap.

  “You will compare Shakespeare’s original play with the musical West Side Story and a modern film of your choice.” He turns to us, grins, and throws up his hands. “I know. I know. West Side Story is ancient history, but it’s a classic. One you should be familiar with. So rent it and compare it with the play.”

  My stomach flutters. The TV belonged to Darren. If Mom finds us an apartment, maybe we can go back and get our stuff, but I still won’t have a way to watch the movies. I try to calm my stomach, but it doesn’t listen and swirls into a tornado of acid.

  To stream the films on Mom’s computer, I’d need internet, plus Mom’s laptop is old and slow and threatens to crash with any extra load you put on it. If I had a decent phone or even enough data, I’d be okay, but not with the cheap plan Mom bought us.

  Mr. Avila goes on with his assignment. “The third piece of this project is a modern movie of your choice. Anything with star-crossed lovers will work, but I want details comparing the characters and setting of all three and how they relate to the theme.”

  I feel sick, like I could throw up milk and powdered sugar doughnuts all over the guy sitting in front of me. It’s not that I mind the work. In fact, I like it. It’s just that I want the space and time to do my best without life getting in the way and messing me up.

  Mr. Avila puts a diagram on the screen. “Pick up this comparison chart on your way out of class. Use it to outline your paper, and I want details, people. Details. This is a big part of your overall grade, and I expect this chart turned in next Tuesday.” He grins again. “That’s seven days. Seven short days for all you procrastinators.”

  The tornado in my gut spins around and around, throwing my body into more of a panic than it’s already in. Seven days wouldn’t be a problem if we still lived at Darren’s, but what about now?

  The morning slides by. I aced yesterday’s Spanish test, which pulls me out of my funk, but then Mrs. Ramon hands us a list of twenty more verbs we need to memorize. By the time I get to chemistry, I’ve got a plan. As soon as Mom gets an apartment, I’ll convince her to buy a cheap TV from the St. Vinnie’s store where she got her laptop. They have a ton of outdated technology that still works, and with her discount, I bet we can get something really cheap.

  I’m so focused on my workload I totally forget about Jack. That’s a lie. I try to forget about Jack and tell myself he won’t show up anyway, so why starve myself. At noon, I stride into the cafeteria like I don’t care if he’s there or not, but my eyes shoot straight for my table. He’s there. Waiting for me. This time with a Subway bag.

  I could ditch. Take off and leave him sitting there. The smell of sizzling hot hamburgers and greasy french fries makes my knees wobble and my mouth twitch. Jack sees me and waves. He flashes that grin that’s too beautiful to look at and makes me forget everything I’m supposed to be doing. I sigh and get in line, knowing if I go hungry or sit at a different table, Jack will grab his Subway bag and follow me.

  My butt barely hits the bench before I lay out the rules. “I’m not talking to you. Understand?” I glare into Jack’s face. “I’ve got a ton of work to do, and I’m not wasting my lunch on some pointless conversation that will never go anywhere anyway.”

  Jack’s eyes sparkle back at me and the corner of his mouth pulls up. He holds up a physics book and says, “Agreed.”

  I pull my algebra book out of my backpack and slap it on the table. Between bites of my hamburger, I work a handful of problems. At first it’s hard to concentrate, but once Jack starts scribbling equations in his notebook, I let go of the tension in my shoulders and settle in.

  We work through lunch without saying a word. I’m concentrating on my last problem when a man-sized hand slides a giant chocolate chip cookie across the page of my notebook. I jerk my head up.

  “I owed you.” Jack’s face is quiet and serious. “For the pudding.”

  I look at the cookie. If I take it, am I hooked? Reeled in like some fat, old catfish dumb enough to take the bait? That kind of thinking is ridiculous. Paranoid. It’s only a cookie, and Meg would love it. I look back at Jack, but he’s busy putting his physics book in his backpack and gathering up his lunch bag.

  “Thanks.” I slide the cookie back into its paper bag and carefully tuck it into the front pocket of my backpack. “Thanks a lot.”

  Yesterday, I strode out of the cafeteria trying to ignore the fact that Jack was right behind me. Today, we walk out together. Not like a couple walking all close and snuggly, more like friends. Lilly sees us, makes her eyes extra big and round, and silently mouths the word, “Wow!” I twist up my face and shake my head, like Jack is nothing to me. Lilly grins and rolls her eyes.

  In the hall, Jack veers off with a “See you later, Mattie.” I head back to my locker and worry that I’m blind, dumb, and steering straight for a cliff.

  Chapter Six

  The intercom blurts out, “Mattie Rollins,” right in the middle of my favorite song. Half the choir stumbles to a jagged stop and the other half keeps singing. Mr. Z scowls and waves us to a halt. The message is exactly the same as yesterday. “Please report to the office to be checked out.”

  I slide out of my section and wait by Mr. Z’s desk while he writes my pass. “Your grade is based on participation, Mattie.” He hands me the slip. “You know that, don’t you?”

  I nod, grab my gear, and hurry out of the room. Great. My perfect GPA gets blown to bits with a B in choir. I remind myself to ask Mr. Z for extra credit. Tell him I’ll sing an hour every day in the shower—but of course, that’s assuming we get an apartment and it’s got a shower. How do I pull off extra choir credits in Ruby? Hum myself to sleep every night?

  I can tell by the slump of Mom’s shoulders we don’t have a home. I launch into her before I even sign out. “Choir is graded on participatio
n, Mom.” My words spew out in a snotty whine that I hate but fall into anyway. I sign my name on the checkout sheet and follow her out of the office. “I’ve missed two days in a row.” I trail behind her and glare at her back. “Every time I leave class, Mr. Z gives me this sad, pitiful look like I just flushed my grade down the toilet.”

  The minute we leave the building I let go, my voice shooting up at least ten decibels. “Can’t you find anything? Not even a room?” Mom’s shoulders hunch, but I don’t stop. “Do you realize how hard this is, Mom?”

  Mom keeps walking. I want to grab her, spin her around, and make her look me in the eyes. All she gives me to scream at is her back. “Don’t you see how tired and sad Meg is? She should be playing with other kids. Having fun.”

  I wave my hand at Ruby to make my point. Meg sits in the backseat, looking through the window with big, saucerlike eyes. Mom doesn’t slow down or even give Ruby a glance.

  “Do you even care?”

  Mom spins around and yells at me through gritted teeth. “Of course I care!”

  I know I should stop, get control of myself, but I can’t let go of my anger. “I’m sick of this, Mom. You’ve got to do something.”

  Mom slaps her hand against Ruby’s roof and yanks open the car door. “What do you want me to do, Mattie? Quit school? Go back to Darren? What if knocking me around or pushing you and Meg isn’t enough? How much of a beating do we take before it’s too much?” She slides into the car and turns on the ignition.

  I throw myself into the front seat and slam my door. “I didn’t say I wanted you to go back to Darren.”

  Mom turns to me, her hands gripping the steering wheel. “Then knock it off. I’m doing the best I can.”

  Meg clamps her hands over her ears and scrunches up her eyes. “Stop, Mommy. Mattie. Stop.” Her words leave Mom and me locked in a stony silence.

  Mom drives toward the library while I lean my head against the cold, damp window and stare at the houses sliding by. The good girl side of me lectures in my ear. You snotty little jerk. Mom is stressed beyond reason. Apologize. Be decent. I keep my mouth shut. It’s not an apology, but it’s all I can manage.

  Mom hands us our peanut butter sandwiches and drops us off at the library. Meg and I head back to our corner of the children’s section like it’s our own living room. Meg spreads out her homework on the little round table, bends her head over it, and grips a stubby little pencil in her hand. Soon a row of perfectly formed Gs marches across her lined paper with “Go dog, go,” carefully printed along the last two lines.

  I sink into the couch. My algebra teacher assigned a ton of homework. I push the fears and worries grinding at me into the deepest, darkest corner of my brain and slam the door on them. I’ve almost finished my algebra problems when a cute little kid of about six or seven shows up. He’s got curly black hair, bright blue eyes, and a mischievous grin. Meg likes him right away. I don’t blame her, but he’s full of energy and spewing reams of chatter.

  He slides into the chair beside Meg and says in a voice way too loud for a library, “Whatcha doin’?”

  Meg smiles. “My homework.”

  I want to tell the kid to scram, but he’s not doing anything wrong. He babbles on, asking countless questions and giggling at nothing in particular. Meg shows him her worksheets and the book she’s learning to read.

  He grabs the book out of her hand. “I can read this!” He starts reading like he’s standing in front of a gym full of kids and doesn’t want anyone to miss a single word.

  “Shhhh.” I put my finger to my lips and whisper, “You’re in the library.”

  The little rascal tones down a bit, but his voice still echoes across the room.

  I want to clamp my hand over his mouth. Instead, I give him a sweet smile and put one finger back up to my lips. “Whisper.”

  He stops midsentence. “Why?” His eyes are round with this questioning look that in any other situation would make me want to tousle his hair and chuckle at the sweetness of his face. “I can read real good,” he says.

  I explain about the library being a quiet place where people come to read, be still, and do their homework. I’ve almost convinced the kid when I see a librarian coming toward us. My words wad up in the back of my throat and sputter to a stop.

  The librarian is short and round, with light brown hair wisping around his head. I want to jump up and snatch Meg away, but that would make us look guilty. Instead, I take the book out of the boy’s hand, tuck it into Meg’s backpack, and try to ignore the fact we’re homeless squatters camping out in the only warm, dry place we can find.

  The librarian stops in front of our table. He places his hands on his pudgy, round hips as a soft smile spreads across his face. “Where are your parents, young man?”

  I have to hand it to the little fellow. He looks up at the librarian and gives him a smile that would melt a polar ice cap. “Mommy’s at work.”

  The librarian tips his head to the side and raises his eyebrows to make his point. “Then where is your father?”

  It’s lucky he isn’t asking us that question. Meg’s dad is getting busted up somewhere on the rodeo circuit, and mine doesn’t even know I exist.

  “He’s using the computer over there.” The boy points to the other side of the library. “But I can read real good all by myself.”

  “You’re being too loud, young man.” The librarian doesn’t quit with the reprimand and keeps right on hammering. “How old are you?”

  I put my arm across Meg’s shoulders and squat beside her. A cloud of fear mushrooms in my head. This cute kid could land us in the street. Then what? We stand in the cold and dark, waiting for the next five hours until Mom comes back to rescue us?

  The boy puffs up his chest and lifts his chin. “I’m seven.”

  “Well, you’re not quite old enough to be in here on your own.” The librarian tilts his head to the other side, and stretches his smile so much it turns hard and plastic on his face. “You march right over to your dad now, and I don’t want you in here again unless one of your parents is with you.”

  My stomach ties itself into a knot. The little guy slowly pushes his chair back and stands up. His smile fades. “Bye,” he says to Meg with a little wave of his hand.

  “Bye,” says Meg. “You do read real good for seven.”

  My mind gallops. Kids have to be a certain age to be here without their parents? Does a big sister count?

  The librarian turns his pasted-on smile to me. “Didn’t I see you in here yesterday?”

  I take a breath to steady my nerves. “Yes, sir. We come to the library a lot.”

  Then the guy turns to Meg. “How old are you, young lady?”

  I clutch Meg’s shoulder and blurt out, “Eight. She just turned eight.” He said seven was “almost” old enough didn’t he? Meg is six and small for her age. It will be tough enough to make him believe she’s eight, but if I push it to nine or ten, he’ll know I’m lying.

  The librarian zeros in on me and raises his eyebrows until they disappear into his wispy brown hair. “I asked her, not you.”

  Meg’s voice quivers, barely above a whisper. “Eight?”

  “And what grade are you in?”

  The guy smiles and acts like he’s making conversation, but it comes across like an FBI interrogation. After his last crack, I don’t dare answer for Meg, so I squeeze her shoulder three times, hoping she gets the hint.

  Meg looks up at him out of the tops of her eyes, her voice stronger this time. “Three? I’m in grade three at Oregon Trail Elementary School?”

  My urge is to smile and yell, “Way to go, baby sister,” but I keep my face looking like it doesn’t matter how old we are, whether we have a bed to sleep in, or a place to take a shower.

  “You enjoy the library, girls, but please keep your voices down.” The librarian turns and walks back to
his desk.

  I want to yell at him. “Are you happy? You scared the pants off two little kids and one almost-grown teenager.” But I don’t. Instead, I lay my head on Meg’s shoulder and wait for my stomach to stop churning.

  “I lied,” Meg whispers in a voice so quiet only I can hear. “Two times.”

  “You did great. Really great.”

  “But Mommy says we’re not supposed to lie.”

  “I know, Meg. I know.”

  Chapter Seven

  “Police! Wake up!”

  I jerk awake, pulling the blankets away from Meg and banging my head on Ruby’s roof. Cold November fog wraps us together in a drippy white cocoon. Meg whimpers. I fall back and tuck the quilts around her to keep out the blast of icy air.

  The dark shape of a man forms by Mom’s window. “Wake up.” He raps on the roof. “We’ve got complaints, people.”

  Mom shoves aside blankets, books, and white plastic garbage bags. She cracks the window open enough to see the badge on the patrolman’s dark blocky chest.

  “Police.” He holds his identification for Mom to see. “Officer Rodriguez, Ma’am.”

  Mom slowly rolls down the window. I shiver and tuck the blankets tighter around Meg.

  “Your driver’s license please?”

  Mom fumbles in her backpack until she finds her wallet and pulls out the license. She gives it to the officer without a word.

  He studies it and hands it back. “You folks spend the night here?”

  Mom takes her license and says, “Yes. Yes, we did.”

  “We got complaints you’ve been camping out in the neighborhood.”

  Mom clamps her arms tight across her chest. “We’ve moved the car every night.”

  “Not far enough, Ms. Rollins.” Officer Rodriguez leans his hand against Ruby’s roof and bends until his face is even with Mom’s. Deep creases run down the sides of his dark cheeks, making him look old even though his hair is blacker than mine.