Chapter Eleven

Mom drops me off at school. Fourth period has already started, which means Meg and I missed lunch. Guilt slaps me in the face. I should have thought of that. Should have made Meg a peanut butter sandwich in the car. I was so focused on all the schoolwork I was missing that I never gave food a thought.

I race down the deserted hallways and turn into my locker bay. A brown paper bag is taped to my locker door. I jerk to a stop.

Missed you is printed in bold black marker across the front of the bag. He didn’t sign it, but he didn’t have to.

I peel the bag off my locker, slide open the top, and peer at a giant chocolate chip cookie. Tears stab at the corners of my eyes. I lean my head against my locker, grit my teeth, and silently tell myself, DON’T CRY! I repeat the words over and over and over until my eyes feel normal and I can breathe again.

US History is in the social science wing, which is close. I grab a laptop off the cart near the door, slide into my desk, and flip up the screen. We’re researching the Civil War, and it takes me a minute to get my computer up and running. My teacher growls “Tardy,” and all I can do is nod. I should have gotten a pass. So what happens when you get a tardy anyway?

By the time class is over, I’ve settled into seminormalness. I slip the laptop back in the cart and head toward the door. Jack is leaning against the far wall. When he sees me come out of the classroom, his face lights up with such a burst of happiness that my knees turn to jelly. I’m so startled that I stop in the doorway. Students bump and push to get around me.

Why? Why does he like me? I’m homeless. He doesn’t know that, but I haven’t had a shower in days. My clothes are clean and I scrub my body as much as I can, but my hair is a mass of dirty black frizz.

A guy bumps into me and mutters, “Move it.”

Jack meets me halfway across the hall. He throws up his hand like he’s taking an oath and says, “Confession. I bribed a friend who works in the office to look up your schedule.” His mouth twists, forming wrinkles along the side of his face and across his forehead. “Too pushy? I don’t want to scare you away.”

I can’t keep looking at him. I can’t or I’ll sink deeper into that sweet, warm place—that place of comfort and peace that creeps up on me every time I’m around him.

I take a deep breath and blurt out, “Thanks for the cookie.” I don’t tell him that I didn’t get lunch or that I had to make myself save half of it for Meg.

Jack laughs. “You’re welcome, but is chocolate chip your favorite?” He peers into my face, “You don’t seem like an oatmeal raisin kind of girl, but I wondered about the snickerdoodle. All that cinnamon and spice.”

I stare into his face and know that if I let myself, I’d like him so much that maybe I could even love him. “It’s chocolate. Anything chocolate.”

“Except the pudding.”

“School pudding isn’t real chocolate.”

Another easy laugh. “You’re right. It’s more like pasty brown vanilla.”

Words flow right into my mouth. Not like when I talk to most other boys and struggle to think of something to say. The school hallways are too crowded to carry on a conversation, or I’d probably let loose with my whole life history. I stop at my next classroom and we stand there, looking at each other, while swarms of people flow past us.

Jack tilts his head to the side. “Will you be at your locker after school?”

I shake my head and say, “No.” Four days ago, I wouldn’t have thought of offering him an explanation. Now words dance on the tip of my tongue. I swallow them back.

Jack reaches into his pocket, pulls out a slip of paper, and holds it out to me. “My phone number.” His flirting is replaced by a calm stillness. “Call me. Anytime.”

I stare at the paper in his hand. It would be so easy to take it. So beautiful to sit in a quiet corner of the library and talk on the phone for hours. I keep my hands at my side, meet his gaze, and shake my head.

Jack looks at the paper, studying it, before shoving it back in his pocket. “And I suppose you won’t give me your number, either?”

I let his question hang there between us, unanswered. “Thanks again. The cookie was great.” I slip into my classroom and try to ignore the pounding in my heart.

Mom pulls me out of choir, and Mr. Z doesn’t even bother with the lecture. Just raises his eyebrows and presses his lips together while he hands me a pass. I keep putting off asking him for extra credit, partly because he’s always got a crowd around his desk. The other reason is that I’m afraid Mr. Z will have too many questions about why I leave so much, and I don’t want to answer them.

Mom waits by the office, slumped against the trophy case. It’s obvious by the way she stands that we don’t have a roof over our heads, but all the angry words I’ve thrown at her are gone, lost in our struggle to keep going. I follow Mom to the car, and we head downtown in silence.

I’ve only been homeless for four days, and yet camping out at the library seems totally normal, just part of our new after-school routine. Ebony said to hang out in different places instead of always parking in the children or teen sections, so we cruise through the upper two floors, looking for quiet spots to settle in and get comfortable.

Ragtag men slump in soft, cushy chairs, sleeping. They’re probably homeless too, just like Meg and me. Old people with gray hair and wrinkled skin sit at study carrels. People of all shapes and sizes cruise through the stacks.

Meg and I pick the magazines section because it is sunny and warm with big tables and plenty of space. Meg chooses some kid magazines to read, and I spread out my homework on the table. When Meg gets tired of the magazines, she digs out her crayons and coloring book.

We’ve been working at our table for an hour when a guy slides into the chair across from us. “Mind if I sit here?”

The guy is only a couple of years older than me and handsome, with curly dark hair, brown eyes, and the most beautiful long eyelashes I’ve ever seen on a guy. His face is thin with high cheekbones and smooth skin.

Before I can tell him to scram, Meg grins and says, “We don’t mind. The tables are really, really big.”

I count five other people in the magazine section and at least that many empty tables. Why does he feel the need to sit here?

The guy wears a blue plaid shirt under a black leather jacket that is soft from wear. He grins at Meg and lays his book on the table. “Thanks.” He turns to me. “Doing your homework?”

In a high school cafeteria I’d think he was a regular guy trying to pick me up, so why does his question feel different at the city library? “Yeah,” I say. I go back to the algebra problem I’m working on and ignore him.

“How about you little miss,” he says to Meg. “Do you go to school too?”

Meg puts her crayon down and gives him her full attention. “Yes, I do. I’m in first grade, and I can read already.”

The guy leans across the table and gives Meg a dazzling smile. “Really? Where do you go to school?”

Before Meg can answer, I slam my algebra book shut and reach for her crayons and coloring book. “We’ve got to go.”

Meg’s face wrinkles up in confusion. “But, Mattie, we—”

The guy sits back in his chair. “Hey, I’ve seen you around, and I thought I’d be friendly. You don’t have to get all huffy and run off.”

His words feel dirty and ugly, like a racial slur even though he may not have meant them that way. I stand up and jam my books and notebook back into my pack. “Let’s go, Meg. Now.”

Meg starts to protest, but I cram the last of her stuff in her backpack and help her put it on.

“Jeez,” says the guy. “What’s all the fuss?”

The more he opens his mouth, the more I know we need to leave. I sling my pack on my back and grab Meg’s hand. She twists around to look at the guy, but I yank her along. Without thinking, I head downstairs to the children’s section. The librarian may spot us, but my bet is Mr. Pushy won’t bother us there.

Meg and I find a corner where Meg can curl up and I can finish my homework. I sink onto the couch next to her but don’t even open my backpack.

Meg leaves hers on her lap with her arms wrapped around it and doesn’t open it either. “Why did we have to leave that boy, Mattie? He was just being nice.”

I put my arm around Meg’s shoulders and pull her close. “You’re right. He didn’t say or do anything wrong, so maybe he was just being friendly.”

How do I warn Meg about a guy’s bad intentions yet not scare her away from everybody who tries to be kind? “When he asked you where you went to elementary school, I knew we had to leave, because we never tell a stranger where we live or go to school.”

I stop, not sure how much more I should say. “But the most important reason to leave was that I got a bad feeling about him, and that’s all it was. Mom calls it the ‘creep factor’ and says we need to listen to it.”

Meg keeps leaning against me. She doesn’t say anything, but I can tell she’s thinking about what I said. She finally sighs and says, “Oh,” kicks off her tennis shoes, and pulls her legs up under her. She opens her pack to get out her school library book and starts to read.

I should finish my last few algebra problems, but my mind and body are too jittery. What did that guy want, anyway? Sex? He was handsome enough to get that some other place. Why approach a teenager and her little sister? Why ask where Meg went to school?

The more I think about him, the more scared I get. Was he trying to pick me up or does he go after little kids? That idea creeps me out so bad, I almost throw up. Meg and I have to be more careful than we’ve ever been. People that seem nice, like the guy upstairs, could be trying to take advantage of us; people like Ebony, who comes across gruff and mean, are really kind and helpful. The trick is to sort out the difference.

Meg puts her book down, lays her head on the arm of the couch, and falls asleep. I finally wade through the last of my algebra problems and move on to memorizing Spanish verbs. Just before Mom comes, I wake up Meg and we head to the bathroom. I watch the door, and when we’re alone we wash our faces with a wet paper towel.

Meg gives me a quirky little grin. “We should put our toothbrushes in our backpacks so we can get ready for bed.”

Not a bad idea, until a librarian walks into the bathroom and catches us. Would they care? Or would they report us?

Mom picks us up after work and drives north on Coburg Road, past Beltline, to a set of low office buildings. Even in the dark, I can see the businesses are neat, clean, and well cared for. Trees and shrubs and wide strips of grass separate them from the street and from each other. Two neighborhoods and a homeless camp have kicked us out. Will we have any better luck here?

Mom parks Ruby behind some shrubs so we’re not quite so noticeable from the street. She turns off the ignition, and we let the quiet settle down around us.

It’s our fifth night in the car, and we’ve already gotten into a predictable routine. Shove aside bags of clothes. Flip down the back seat. Roll out our blankets. Meg and I snuggle in our nest of quilts, dressed in the same clothes we wore all day. Meg drops right off, but I lay awake and stare into the night. Mom sits in the front seat reading her textbook with a flashlight. The sound of turning pages blends in with Meg’s soft breathing.

“Did you love Tucker, Mom?” Tucker is Meg’s father. A great dad to me, even after Meg was born.

Mom doesn’t answer right away. She’s thinking, though. I can tell because she quits turning the pages of her textbook and sits quiet and still.

“I loved him very, very much.”

“What happened?”

Mom switches off her light and leans her head back against the seat. The dark wraps around us like a warm, black blanket. “Do you remember when Tucker got thrown off that horse and ended up in the hospital?”

“I remember watching Tucker ride in all those rodeos.” I scoot up so I can get a better look at Mom’s pale face in the deep shadows of the car. “And traveling all the time with the camper and horse trailer,” I say, “and mostly being happy.”

“We were happy.” Mom sighs. “Until he broke his leg and hurt his back.”

I think that’s it. That’s all the info I’m going to get out of her, but it’s like I opened a door she slammed shut four years ago. She tells me how hard she worked to take care of us. How Tucker got hooked on drugs because of the pain, and when the doctors cut him off, he turned to alcohol and street drugs.

“He wouldn’t give up riding and wouldn’t quit using.” Mom’s voice chokes. “Not even for us.”

I know I’m out of line, but I keep pushing. “And Darren? Did you love him?”

Mom hesitates. “I liked him, and at first that was good enough.” She takes a deep breath and blows it out in a rush. “But when he started drinking, it all fell apart. I stayed with him because it was safe and easy, and I thought I could get him to quit.” She reaches her hand over the seat and strokes the top of my head. “Don’t ever do that, Mattie. Stand on your own. Don’t expect a man to fix your problems.”

I sink deeper into the quilts and close my eyes. How can I keep from having the same things happen to me that happened to Mom? What makes love turn sour and hurtful? My mind churns through question after question, but I have no answers. Maybe I never will.