Chapter Ten

Click.

My eyes fly open.

Click.

My every sense leaps into high alert.

Click. Click. Click.

I sit up slowly, my eyes flicking from window to window to window. I expect to see some low-life scumbag peering at me, tapping on the glass, grinning all wild and wicked. Nobody is there. I twist around and there’s Mom, crouched in the driver’s seat with one hand on the ignition and the other gripping the top of the steering wheel. Her ragged breaths make cloudy little puffs in the cold, damp air.

“Mom?” I whisper. The fuzzy gray of a new day presses tight against Ruby’s windows. I scoot up and lean over the front seat. “Are you okay, Mom?”

“Yeah, sweetie.” Her words are chopped off, like she has to think about each one before she says it.

“What’s wrong?”

She takes her time. “Ruby won’t start, baby.”

Ruby? Dead? Reality hits me with a thud right in the middle of my chest, crushing me with worry until the very tips of my toes and fingers turn numb and useless. Repairing Ruby costs money, too much money to spare, and what if she can’t be fixed? What do we do then?

I shove those fears and worries aside only to have others rush in and take their place. School. Can we walk? Meg will be worn out before we get halfway there. And what about Mom’s job? Her classes? Questions spin out of control. I force myself to keep my mind blank, to stop thinking, to concentrate on the little rivers of water sliding down the inside of Ruby’s windows.

Mom unlocks Ruby’s door, pulls her thin jacket tighter, and steps into the street. She raises the hood of the car. I scramble over the front seat and follow her. Together we peer at the greasy mass of the engine. Cables and hoses snake their way over masses of steel. Nothing in the jumble of parts looks broken, but then none of it makes any sense to me anyway. Riding in cars for sixteen years doesn’t give me the tiniest hint of how they work.

“I think it’s the battery.” Mom wiggles the connections to a dirty black block. “At least I hope that’s it.” She slides back into the front seat and tries the ignition. Nothing. By now, Meg is awake and asking Mom the same questions I did.

Mom comes back with the kitchen knife we use to spread peanut butter and a pair of pliers from the glove box. She struggles with the pliers and finally pulls off the connections to the battery. Mom scrapes crud off each part with the knife. She puts everything back together, slips into the car, and turns the ignition. Nothing.

Mom and I take turns scraping harder and deeper. Brown flakes drift over the black top of the battery. Mom turns the ignition again and gets nothing but the same dead click.

Meg’s voice drifts across the damp, gray air. “I have to go potty, Mommy.” She sounds so little and sad. Like being six years old and having to pee is a crime.

I glance around the neighborhood. The houses are small and poor—a totally different community than where we parked the last three nights. Some lawns are trimmed and others are scraggly and long. Any clumps of bushes are set back from the sidewalk and too exposed for a little girl to squat behind.

Panic sets in. Mom grabs her backpack, pulls out her college books, and tosses them on the car seat. I find Meg’s shoes and bundle her into her sweatshirt. Mom locks Ruby. She slings her pack over her shoulder but hesitates, glancing up and down the street like she’s not sure which way to go. She picks a direction, and we start walking.

Meg clutches Mom’s hand and hurries along beside her. “Where are we going, Mommy?”

“To find you a bathroom, baby.”

Meg won’t last long. I know that by the way she’s dancing next to Mom. A car passes. Two dogs bark from behind a chain link fence. A young woman in a baggy sweatshirt, pajama bottoms, and slippers wheels a garbage bin out of her garage. She parks it by the curb and turns back to her house. I want to ask if we could use her bathroom, but she doesn’t look at us. Besides, most people won’t let strangers in their house, even in an emergency.

Meg makes it five blocks before she breaks into tears. “I can’t wait, Mommy! I can’t wait!”

Mom spins around, looking for anything that will hide a little girl’s bottom. She picks the biggest clump of weeds she can find, and hurries Meg over to it. She’s too late. Before Meg even gets her pants unzipped, pee pours down her legs, soaking her panties, jeans, socks, and shoes. Meg throws her hands over her face and breaks into long, gasping sobs.

“But I’m a big girl, Mommy,” she wails. “I’m a really big girl.”

Mom kneels in the pee-soaked grass and wraps her arms around Meg. I rub my hand over Meg’s hair, aching for her. She lays against Mom’s body and cries and cries. Her sobs fill the street and float across the lawns and houses. Her cries finally slow, turning into choking gasps.

Mom struggles to her feet and picks Meg up. My wet, stinky little sister wraps her arms around Mom’s neck and her legs around Mom’s middle. Mom carries her out of the yard and down the sidewalk. She sets her mouth in a straight line and holds her head high. Pee soaks into her clothes, but none of that worries her.

Mom messed up her life. I’ve got issues with that. Like how her choices made life so hard for Meg and me. How we struggle just to put clothes on our backs and food in our mouths. But even with all that baggage, I love Mom so much my chest hurts.

We walk for a long time before we get to a main road and spot a string of businesses. I figure we’re home free, but there isn’t a gas station in sight. In the distance, we see the big yellow arches of McDonald’s. It’s a long, cold walk, but we finally get there. We head straight for the bathrooms, use the toilets, and clean up as best we can.

Mom herds us out of the restroom. I’m expecting to sneak out the side door without buying anything, but she steers us toward the front. A couple of guys stand in line by the counter. Mom stops, gives Meg a hug, and presses a kiss on the top of her head. “Let’s get breakfast, sweetie.”

Meg looks up at Mom with big, pleading eyes. “Can’t we go back to Ruby?” She glances at the two guys by the counter. “Please, Mommy?”

Mom gives Meg’s shoulders a squeeze. “You’ll feel better with some hot food.”

I whisper in Meg’s ear. “No one can tell your jeans are wet.” I give her a goofy grin, but Meg doesn’t smile back.

We order our food. Hunger gnaws at my stomach, but I think of the money it’s costing and don’t order as much as I want. We sit in a booth by the window and unwrap our breakfast. I bite into my Egg McMuffin, with its soft melted cheese, real meat and eggs, and warm English muffin, and know for a fact I will never forget the taste no matter how old and snobbish I get. It is the best food I have ever eaten, and I don’t mean the best McDonald’s—I mean the best food ever.

The last bite of my Egg McMuffin sits in my mouth until every bit of flavor is gone. I finally swallow, knowing I could wolf down two more, drink a giant glass of orange juice, and still be hungry.

I roll up my wrapper, set it on the tray, and glance at the clock on my phone. School has started. Did Jack wait by my locker? Is he sitting in class now, wondering where I am and why I didn’t show up? Or am I dreaming? Hoping for this perfect romance that I built up in my head like Meg imagines our sweet little room with all our very own things?

Meg sees me staring at my phone and turns to Mom, her eyes round and full of worry. “Did we miss school? Did it start without me?”

My sadness deepens until it swells up in my chest and forces the air right out of my lungs. I can keep functioning as long as I don’t think about anything but the very moment we’re living. The minute I look at Meg’s stricken face or worry about missing classes, assignments, and all the stuff teachers toss out that you don’t pick up if you’re not there, my anxiety level cranks up so high I can hardly sit still.

Mom runs her hand over Meg’s head, smoothing her long, straight hair. “You’ll miss part of it, honey.”

Why am I sitting here? I could catch a bus and get to school before I miss any more. I could keep up with my work and meet Jack for lunch. I could even take Meg with me, drop her off, and race to the high school. Mom can deal with the car battery and whatever’s wrong with Ruby. She doesn’t need me. I ache to go. I itch to take off at a dead run. But I take one look at the bruises on Mom’s face, the sorrow in her eyes, and know I can’t leave her.

We walk to Walmart and head for the automotive section. Mom and I lift a new car battery into the shopping cart. I’m ready to pay for it and start the long trek back, but Mom veers off to the children’s department. I don’t get what she’s doing and am too nervous about school to care.

“You’ll have to walk to the car, Meg,” Mom says. “Mattie and I can’t carry you because we’ll have the battery.” Mom stops in front of a table full of little girls’ jeans. “I’ll get you some dry clothes so you won’t get cold.”

The jeans are on sale, but the underwear and socks come in packages of three, so Mom has to buy more than Meg needs. The money adds up.

At the last minute, Mom swings by the cosmetics department and walks the aisle until she finds a hairbrush just like my old one. It’s a gift, a present I should feel grateful for. Instead, I see dollar signs going up and up and up and our apartment sliding quietly away. In the Walmart bathroom, Mom helps Meg clean up while I brush my hair for the first time in days.

Meg’s cheeks glisten with tears. “I’m sorry, Mommy.”

“It’s not your fault, baby.” Mom pulls a comb out of her backpack and runs it through Meg’s hair. “If we had a house, none of this would have happened.”

The walk back is long and slow. Gray clouds cover the sky. A breeze kicks up brown leaves, but luckily, there is no rain. Meg walks behind in her new clothes while Mom and I carry the double plastic bag with the battery.

“I can get a job, Mom.” I struggle down the street, trying hard to walk without banging into the battery between us. The rhythm of our strides has to be precise, or the bag bumps against our legs and makes us stumble. “I could babysit some kid after school at the kid’s house and bring Meg along. She’d have fun, and we’d have extra money to put toward an apartment.”

Our arms ache and our backs bend at a painful angle, but if we stand up straight, Mom and I are too close and the battery bangs into our shins.

“No, Mattie.” Mom shakes her head. “Taking care of Meg is a big enough help.”

“I’m sixteen, Mom. It’s time I help with money.”

Mom sighs. “When we get settled, we can talk about it.”

The plastic bags give out and the battery lands with a thud on the sidewalk. The rest of the way back to the car, Mom and I take turns cradling the heavy black block in front of us. The closer we get, the shorter the turns, until we are staggering no more than a block or two before we have to turn it over.

Ruby’s dents and rusted paint are such a beautiful sight we burst out cheering when we see her. Mom staggers on until she plunks the battery on Ruby’s hood. She lets out a sigh of relief and leans back to rest.

“Get out!” A tall, gray-haired man dressed in baggy brown slacks and a heavy gray sweater stands on the doorstep of the nearest house. He thrusts out his arm and points down the street like he’s telling a dog to go home. “Go away.” The old man throws his anger at us in a thin raspy voice. “Don’t you be parking here.”

I stand next to Ruby and stare at the old man. He points at us like we’re not human. Like we’re animals who don’t deserve anything but a doghouse or a barn.

Mom quickly sets the new battery on the ground, unlocks Ruby, and tosses in her pack. If that old geezer really wants us to leave, he should come out and help or at least lend us some better tools. Instead, he stands at the door and yells, “This is a nice neighborhood with good people.”

The bolts on the old battery are rusted, and the pliers aren’t very strong. Mom pushes and tugs and pulls, trying to get the battery loose.

What does he mean by “good people”? Are Mom, Meg, and I bad now that we live in our car? Or does he think I am a bad person because my skin isn’t as white as his?

The old man gets cold standing on his front porch. He steps back inside his warm house and stands in front of his giant living room window, glaring out at us. Mom gets the old battery unhooked, and I help her lift it out. We heft the new one in, settling it in place. Mom screws the bolts as best she can.

We climb in, and Mom sits in the driver’s seat with her hand on the ignition for several seconds before she works up the courage to turn the key. Dear, sweet Ruby rumbles back to life. Mom lays her head on the steering wheel and cries.