Sleeping in My Jeans

by Connie King Leonard

  I’m terrified Meg will wake up, cry out, and give us away. Sweat breaks out on my forehead. I stand quiet and still, hoping to muffle any noise she makes against my body. Finally, the mob moves away, and the tension drains out of me, leaving my knees so weak I can barely stand.

  We can’t stay here. Even if we’re lucky enough to stay safe from people, the cold and rain could make us sick. Especially Meg. She’s too little to be out all night in her freezing wet jeans and thin little jacket.

  If we go to the police station, will the cops charge Mom with neglect? They could take us away from her, maybe split Meg and me up, and the three of us would never live together again. Meg would be alone with some strange family, and I wouldn’t be there to protect her. I couldn’t live with myself if something happened to my little sister when I was supposed to be taking care of her.

  My feet and legs ache, and shivers run through my body. We’ve got to move. We’ve got to find a place that’s warm and safe.

  I slide my phone out of my pocket. Nine nineteen. I look up and down the sidewalk, but no one is around. I shake Meg’s shoulder and whisper her name to wake her.

  She tightens her grip around my waist and presses her face deeper into my side. “Come on, Meg.” I take a step. Pain shoots down my legs. I ignore it and point down the street. “We’ve got to find a safer spot.”

  I’m so stiff I can barely walk. I check the street. A few cars drive by, but I can’t see anyone on foot. I tug Meg by the hand, getting her to move. She clings to me. “You can do it.” I wiggle her hand back and forth. “Stand up and walk. I know you can.”

  Meg’s fingers dig into my sides and her face presses against me. “I’m really, really, really scared, Mattie.” Her shoulders shake. “Really, really, really scared for Mommy.”

  “I know, Megsy.” My eyes dart from the buildings surrounding us to the street to the dark shadows of an alley. “But Mom wants us to take care of ourselves, and that means you’ve got to stand tall and walk.”

  I pull her along and head toward the bus station. Two late-night riders sit on benches near their pickup points, and a few more stand or pace along the walkway. Meg and I could sit on the benches and stay dry under the shelter, but we might as well stick a neon sign over our heads that reads, “Come and get us.” We’d be sitting right out in the open, and anybody walking around or driving a car could see us.

  A small grocery store sits on the corner. It’s closed and dark, like all the other buildings around. My instinct is to grab Meg and run to the safety of its dark walls. Instead, I force myself to keep a strong steady pace, even when we pass under the streetlight.

  We get to the shadows of the store. A big metal dumpster sits back from the street, halfway down the sidewall. Hiding behind a bin of garbage grosses me out, but we move toward it anyway. The space behind the dumpster is under the eaves, so Meg and I can get out of the rain and nobody’s likely to spot us. When we get close enough, I see it’s a recycling bin for cardboard. No garbage. No stink.

  “Mattie?” asks Meg. “Where are we going?”

  “Shhhh.” I glance around. No one is coming. I study the people waiting at the bus station. No one seems interested in the grocery store. I lift the lid to the dumpster and poke my head in. Cardboard. Piles and piles of flattened cardboard boxes. I prop the lid open, leaning it back against the wall.

  “Come on, Meg,” I whisper.

  Meg whimpers. “No, Mattie.”

  “It’s cardboard,” I whisper. “Just boxes piled up.”

  Meg grabs me around the middle and starts to sob. “I want Mommy.”

  “Meg.” Her name comes out too sharp, too harsh. I soften my voice. “We’ll find Mommy tomorrow, but tonight we’ve got to stay safe and warm.”

  I lift Meg high enough for her to scramble into the dumpster, then I grab the edges and pull myself in. I land in a heap beside her. She’s crying so loudly, I’m sure somebody will hear us.

  “Shhh,” I say.

  I push cardboard around until I get a flat space where we can stretch out. I pull Meg up beside me and cover us both with a couple of boxes. Before I close the lid, I pull my phone out of my pocket and text Mom to let her know where we are, just in case she comes looking for us. When I’m done, I zip my phone into the front pocket of my backpack to keep it safe. Losing it in a dumpster full of boxes would be nothing short of a disaster. I reach for the lid to the dumpster, grab it, and ease it down as quietly as I can. The metal still gives off a dull clang. Meg cries out at the sound. I lie on the boxes and pull her close.

  The deep black of the dumpster feels like a tomb—like Meg and I are lying in a coffin, a place you never want to go if you have the rest of your life stretching out in front of you. My eyes finally adjust. Pinpricks of gray filter in through holes and cracks in the metal. Enough light to settle my breath and calm my racing heart.

  I hold Meg tight and try to relax. We’re dry, and our hiding place seems safer than standing in front of the library. Mentally, I cross off my worries until a new one pops into my head—rats lurking around garbage bins. Do recycling dumpsters have mice and rats nibbling at the cardboard? Sweat beads on my forehead and trickles down the side of my face.

  The dumpster is full of flattened boxes, so it’s pretty clean. Nothing a rat would waste his time on with all the great garbage on the city streets. Besides, I’ll take a rat before a creepy human. If a rat shows up, I’ll hear it scratch and claw, and I can beat it to death with my backpack. Even a whole pack of them won’t stand a chance.

  The dumpster and boxes are warmer than the street. I pull another piece of flattened cardboard over us like a blanket, settle in, and close my eyes. Am I crazy for thinking I can find Mom on my own? I should give up and go to the police, but I want to keep Meg and me out of the foster system if I can. The problem with my plan is I can’t know if I’m making a terrible mistake until it’s too late. I close my fist over Jack’s phone number, still scrawled on my hand, huddle into the boxes, and wait for morning.

  Chapter Sixteen

  I wake with a start. Tiny shafts of light peek through the rusty brown metal of the recycling dumpster. Tears spring to the corners of my eyes. I force them shut and fight back the sobs that rise into my throat. No Mom. No car. No home.

  I concentrate on the rusted metal and take a deep breath, letting it out slow and steady. Even now, it’s too dark to see how dirty the place is. It’s not like whoever owns dumpsters expects people to live in them, so I can’t imagine they scrub these things out, but it doesn’t stink.

  The gray of early dawn seeps through the holes and cracks in the metal. With one hand, I ease my phone out of the front pocket of my backpack and check the time. Seven thirteen. I stick my phone back in the pocket and zip it shut.

  I lie back and close my eyes. Jack’s face swims through my mind. It’s silly, but just having his phone number written across my palm makes me feel less alone. I tighten my arms around Meg. We’re safe. We made it through the night. Now all we have to do is find Mom.

  Mom didn’t call us because she can’t. She must be in a coma or so hurt she can’t use a phone. Shivers shoot through my body. I ignore the fear building in my head long enough to work on a plan. First, I need phone numbers for every hospital in the area, so I can call around and see if Mom was brought in as a patient. I won’t let myself think about anything worse.

  The creeps from the parking lot could have found her, beaten her, and done horrible things to her. My feet and hands turn numb. What if she’s somewhere alone, too hurt to cry for help? I wipe away that ugly thought; instead, I picture the cops showing up, giving her first aid, and taking her to the hospital.

  Meg needs sleep, but I can’t lie still. “Meg.” I shake her shoulder. “Wake up.”

  Meg groans and clutches me tighter.

  “Wake up,” I say. “We need to move before the grocery store opens and som
eone finds us.”

  I pry Meg’s hands away, sit up, and reach for the lid to the dumpster. The top seems farther away and heavier than it did last night. I pull myself to my knees and crouch under it, pressing up. The boxes wobble and threaten to slide out from under me. The metal grinds together, but I push harder until the lid gives way and I can peek out from under it.

  There’s enough early morning light to give me a view of the area. I can’t see anyone, but that doesn’t mean much. Somebody could be standing a couple of feet away and still be out of my line of sight. I glance at the library. No one is lurking behind the building. I turn and study the alley, but no one is hanging out in that direction either. I ease up the lid of the dumpster until I can flip it back against the wall.

  The metal clangs as it hits the concrete. I hold my breath and wait, but no one comes out of the store or from the back of the library. It’s the best time to leave the safety of the dumpster, before the city wakes up and we’re found.

  Meg sits beside me cross-legged on the pile of boxes. Her face wrinkles and her lips form a rumpled line. “Where’s Mommy?” Her words come out just short of a wail.

  I sit back down and gather her into my arms. “We’ll find her.” I breathe the words into Meg’s hair, kissing her head and hugging her close. “We’ll find her today.” Saying the words out loud gives them shape and form, strengthening my determination.

  I force myself to sit still. Meg needs my hug, but all of my nerve endings seem to twitch, anxious to launch us out of the dumpster and start our hunt for Mom. I can’t stay quiet for more than a few seconds before I shift my weight and the boxes slide. We’ve got to climb out before the store opens.

  “We need to start looking, Meg. Right now.” I pull away and struggle to my feet on the wobbling pile of boxes.

  I grab Meg’s hand, pulling her up. “You go first.”

  There aren’t any footholds inside the dumpster. I help her climb to the edge. Her legs have to get over the rim so she can balance there until I can get her turned around. That way, I can hold her hands so she can slip down the outside of the container.

  Meg starts to cry. “I’m scared, Mattie.”

  “I won’t let you fall.”

  It’s hard to turn Meg around to face me. Once I get her over the top, I hold tight to her hands so she can slide down the metal side. When she’s almost to the ground, I let her go. She lands on her feet, and I scramble out, dropping beside her.

  Meg holds up her hands, turning them back and forth so I can see them. “I’m all dirty.”

  I pull the sleeve of my sweatshirt down and try to scrub away the filth. “Me too, baby sister. Me too.”

  I close the lid of the dumpster, and we head out to the street. No rain, and luckily the pale-gray sky is clear with only a few thin clouds. It would be a perfect fall day if Mom were right here with us.

  Meg wraps her arms around herself and shivers. “I’m cold.”

  A ripple of cold hits me too. “It’s chilly, but once the sun gets higher, we’ll feel better.” I flip Meg’s hood up and zip her jacket to the top. “We’ll walk around to warm up.”

  Meg and I need a bathroom, but the library won’t be open for hours. The bus station isn’t open either, even though some buses are pulling in for their first Sunday runs. We start walking. Three blocks away from our dumpster, I spot a Porta-Potty outside a construction site.

  “Look,” I say. “A bathroom just for us.” I paste a cheesy grin on my face, hoping my goofy attitude will cheer up my little sister.

  Meg wrinkles her nose and looks at me with watery blue eyes.

  “We rate it one to ten, okay? Ten is as clean as Mom can scrub a bathroom”—I stick out my tongue and cross my eyes—“and one is the dirtiest, ickiest toilet we’ve ever been in. Got it?”

  Meg grips my hand a little tighter. “Got it.”

  We squeeze through a gap in the construction fence to get to the Porta-Potty. I pull open the door and gag at the smell.

  Meg holds her nose with her fingers. “One?”

  “Minus five,” I say. “Maybe even a minus ten.”

  The minute we close the door, the smell slides down five more notches into the negative stink scale. I help Meg get her pants down and hold her on the seat so she doesn’t have to let go of her nose. I try not to breathe, but when it’s my turn, I have to gasp for a quick breath. The smell chokes me and seeps into my clothes, my hair, my skin. I hurry and pull up my jeans, wishing the hand sanitizer dispenser wasn’t empty.

  We break into the fresh air and slam the door behind us. At another time, one when we weren’t living on the street and trying to find Mom, I might be able to laugh and giggle with Meg at how disgusting the place was. Now all I do is slip back through the fence, grateful we won’t pee our pants while we wait for the library to open.

  Walking the city streets tires Meg out, but it keeps us warm and feels better than waiting outside the library like we did last night. On a quiet side street, I find a bench in the sun where we can sit for a while. I dig in my pack, pull out my leftover peanut butter sandwich, and hand it to Meg.

  “Do you want some, Mattie?”

  Looking at the sandwich makes my stomach cramp. I tell myself the pain is from worry, but I know hunger has plenty to do with the sharp spasm tightening my gut. Yesterday’s Big Mac was the last bit of food I’ve had, but if I remind Meg of that, she’ll give up the whole sandwich without taking a bite.

  “I’m not very hungry,” I say, combing the tangles out of Meg’s hair with my fingers. “You eat. I’ll get something later.” I don’t tell her that we only have one dollar and twenty cents left from the money Mom gave us, which isn’t enough for two bus fares, much less food.

  A few cars drive by, and a couple of early morning walkers stroll along the sidewalk like it’s a normal, sleepy Sunday morning. Their calmness chases away some of my fear. It’s daylight. Nothing bad happened last night, and nothing bad is going to happen now.

  To find Mom, I need to call the hospitals, which means getting their phone numbers. Our cell service plan is the cheapest one Mom could find, so every month we get a set amount of minutes for data, texts, and calls. I can buy more time, but I’ve never done it on my own.

  I pull my phone out of my backpack, scroll to the icon for my service plan, and check the call minutes I have left on my cell plan. Fifty-nine minutes for calls, thirty-seven for texting, and twenty-three for data. The numbers are so low I feel queasy with worry. If I wait to look up hospital phone numbers at the library, I could use their computers to save time on data usage.

  Meg nibbles on her sandwich and takes forever to finish. We’re not in a hurry to get back to the library, but I get nervous a cop or a nosy person might notice us and turn us in as runaways. The fact that Meg and I don’t look like sisters never worried me until Ebony said how much we stand out.

  I pull the hood up on my sweatshirt, trying to hide the color of my skin, but I don’t leave it up five minutes before I pull it right back off. I hate being paranoid, but Mom says hoods are scarier to some people than brown faces. Meg finally finishes the sandwich and hands over the plastic sandwich bag for me to tuck into my pack.

  “The library doesn’t open for a while, Meg.” I stand and motion for her to follow my lead. “Let’s walk around.”

  Meg plants her feet and won’t move. “Mommy will look for us at the library.”

  How do I tell her Mom isn’t coming? I smooth her hair and comb out a couple more tangles. “We’ll go to the library, and we’ll find Mom. Don’t worry.” My words sound flat and hollow, like deep, deep down I know I’m lying—not only to Meg, but to myself.

  I take Meg’s hand, and we continue walking down city blocks. We pass a church with a parking lot full of cars. People dressed in coats, dresses, and nice-looking clothes hurry toward the big double doors. Young parents carry babies and hold tod
dlers’ hands; older people chat with clusters of friends.

  Meg and I could go in, sit down, and listen to the service while we wait for the library to open. If it were raining or the weather were nasty, I wouldn’t worry that our hands are dirty or that we’re not wearing our best clothes. I wouldn’t feel self-conscious that Meg and I are alone when other kids have at least one parent with them. I’d waltz right in holding Meg by the hand like we came every Sunday. We’d sit in a pew where it was warm and dry and listen to the music, soak in the words, and be glad for the chance to rest. But today is dry, and we have too much work to do.

  Meg and I walk back toward the library. We cross the street and walk past the grocery store by the dumpster where we spent the night. The store is open now. Meg just ate, and I’m not ready to spend my last bit of cash on food, but the store might have a computer I could use to look up hospital numbers.

  I push open the door.

  Meg squeezes my hand. “Are we buying food?”

  “No,” I say, “but maybe I can get some phone numbers.”

  There are a couple of customers at the counter buying coffee and milk, so we have to wait our turn. The clerk is a young guy and wears a faded gray t-shirt that reads “Quack Attack” in big yellow letters. He finishes up with the person ahead of us and turns to Meg and me.

  “Can I help you?”

  I point at the laptop sitting on the counter. “Could you look up a couple of phone numbers for us?” I hold up my cell. “I could check, but my battery is getting low.” Not true, but I’m not about to tell him I can’t afford to use any more phone or data minutes.

  Grinning he says, “I know how that goes.” He leans on the counter with one elbow and flips open his laptop. “What do you need?”

  “The hospitals.”