Chapter Fifteen

Meg and I step off the bus at the downtown station and walk across the street to the library. The place feels like home; I guess because it is. We settle into the teen section so I can watch West Side Story on the computer and Meg can curl up on the window seat with her books. I take notes on the movie and finish most of my English assignment while the afternoon drifts away.

Romeo and Juliet and West Side Story are so romantic, yet tragic, that I can’t help but think of Jack and me. Are we star-crossed lovers, meeting at the wrong time and under the wrong circumstances? Would there be hope for us if I lived in a house in the suburbs and Mom had a stable income? Could our relationship work if we were older and wiser and had our lives all figured out?

I tell myself Jack is just a friend, but no other boy had ever made me feel so warm and comfortable. None of those other boys made my heart beat faster or my palms go all damp and sweaty when I looked at them. Jack’s wide, quirky grin lights up my whole body, bringing a smile to my lips and softening my core to jelly. I shove his image into an imaginary closet in the back of my mind and slam the door. I can’t go there. Not now. Not yet.

As the day wears on, my mind spins in other circles. What if the Mission is full? Can we find a room in another shelter? Before I know it, my stomach is doing backflips, and my body feels like it’s dissolving into a puddle of useless skin and bone and flesh, and the inside of me—the real me—will blow apart in a million pieces.

I can’t sit still. At four, I say, “Let’s move to the children’s section, Meg.” Mom gets off work at five. She’ll have to pick up Ruby at the garage, so I don’t expect her before five thirty. The library closes at six—plenty of time for her to get here.

For the first hour, I don’t watch the clock, but by five, I find myself constantly glancing at it. What if Mom couldn’t get Ruby fixed and had to leave her in the shop? Can we get to the Mission on the bus? I know I’m being ridiculous, worrying about stuff that may never happen, but my mind churns out question after question no matter how hard I try to calm down.

Five thirty comes and goes, and I tell myself everything is fine. I check my phone. No texts. No missed calls. At a quarter to six, a man’s voice fills the library: “Please exit the main doors. The library will close in fifteen minutes.”

Meg’s head pops up from the book she’s reading, her eyes round and worried. I give her a tight smile. “Mom had to pick up Ruby at the garage.” I pull her to her feet. “We’ll wait by the door.”

We pack away our books, go to the bathroom, and walk to the front door. After a few minutes of waiting, we follow another family outside so it isn’t as obvious we’re alone. I send Mom a text, telling her we’re outside, but there’s no response.

By six, daylight is fading, which leaves the street a charcoal gray. Streetlights flick on, filtering white light through the Oregon mist and making the sidewalks shine as if they’ve been polished. Passing cars whiz by, splashing water over the curb.

I check my phone to make sure I haven’t missed anything. I could send another text, but what would I say? Using up phone minutes to rehash the exact same message would be a waste of money.

I guide Meg into the shadows against the library wall. We’re under an overhang, but it’s high above us and doesn’t keep the damp and mist from soaking into my sweatshirt.

Night sinks over the street. In the glare of streetlights and cars, water droplets sparkle like diamonds against the black velvet of night. The scene reminds me of the twinkling bracelets and necklaces under the department store glass, but I can’t enjoy the beauty of it. I’m too scared.

Patrons leaving the library hustle to cars or walk quickly down the street to catch the bus. Envy jabs at me. These people probably have a home, a house with a comfy chair to sit and read the books they haul away. They eat their meals at a table and sleep in a warm bed. In the mornings, they go into the bathroom to brush their teeth and take a shower, and their four walls and roof keep them warm, dry, safe, and happy. We wait and listen to the people chatter and laugh as they head out into the night.

A tall guy with dark curly hair and a black leather jacket exits the building. I can tell by his clothes he’s the pushy guy from the magazine section on Thursday. Two girls—a little younger than me, but dressed way older in short skirts and tight leggings—walk beside him. I shield Meg with my body, not wanting them to see us, and we shrink deeper into the dark of our corner.

The three of them turn toward us, heading down the sidewalk, away from the library. I duck my head and hide my face in the hood of my sweatshirt. Moving could call attention to our hiding spot, so I freeze in place and hope the guy doesn’t spot us. The three walk across the street. I relax and breathe, long and slow.

The last of the library users exit the building. The doors lock behind them and the lights blink out, one floor at a time. I call Mom instead of texting. No answer. The darkness deepens. We wait.

“Is Mommy okay?” Meg’s voice quivers.

“She probably had a flat tire, or Ruby took a little longer to get fixed. Don’t worry, Meg, everything will be okay.” I say the words as if I mean them, but fear twists at me until I ache to throw my head back and scream. Everything’s not all right. Mom would call or text. And even if she’s fine and drives up this very instant, we’re still living on the street, getting more and more bogged down by our problems.

I peer through the mist, staring at the traffic and hoping to see Ruby chugging toward us. I pull out my phone and dial the 7-Eleven. A guy answers.

“Is Rita Rollins still on duty?” I say.

“Nope,” says the guy. “Left when I came in.”

My stomach lurches. “How long ago was that?”

“Almost two hours, I guess.”

Acid rises in the back of my throat. “Thanks.” I swallow, hit the end button, and take a ragged breath to settle my nerves.

Meg clutches my hand. “Is Mommy coming?”

“She’s getting Ruby fixed.” I rub Meg’s back. “Don’t worry, Meg. She’ll come.”

My explanation is meant to make Meg feel better, but it sounds hollow, especially to me. Mom isn’t like some parents, leaving their kids to wonder where they are or what they’re doing. When Mom’s late, she calls or sends a text and expects us to do the same. She gives us last-minute instructions and tells us to sit tight until she gets to us, but she never leaves us wondering. Mom takes care of us.

Something’s wrong.

Meg and I sink against the wall of the library. The jerks that attacked us last night would know Ruby on sight; Mom could be on the side of a deserted road right now, fighting them off. My hands shake. I rest my lips against Meg’s head and breathe in the scent of her hair.

The people that drift by terrify me. What if some psycho or grungy old drunk or spaced-out druggie comes after us? Where do we run—the bus station? It’s down the street. Could we run fast enough? I keep Meg as deep into the shadows as I can.

Meg squeezes my arm. “Why doesn’t Mommy call us?”

I lean over and lay my head on top of hers. “Maybe her phone is dead.”

“She could borrow the garage man’s.”

I’ve always been able to make Meg feel better, to ease her worries and wash away her fears. Not this time. Anything I say would be phony, even to a kid her age. Plus, my throat is too dry to speak.

Meg doesn’t complain, cry, or do what any normal six-year-old would do when they’re tired, hungry, and totally scared. Instead, she presses against my side, wraps both arms around my waist, and buries her face against my soggy sweatshirt.

A car pulls up to the curb. I can’t see damage to the front end, but that doesn’t mean the creeps from last night aren’t out looking for us. They could be using another guy’s car, or this car could have a whole new creep in it, just waiting for his opportunity. I beat back my anxiety, tightening my grip to keep Meg from moving. The car idles at the edge of the street. No one gets out, no one hurries toward it. It just sits. I wait and watch. The car finally pulls away. My knees wobble, but I close my eyes and force myself to be strong.

I slide my hand into my pocket and pull out my phone. Seven forty-nine. I could send another text, but I’m worried about the minutes. Fewer and fewer people walk by. That means there aren’t as many possible weirdos who could spot us, but there are also fewer people around who could help if we get attacked. We wait.

“I’m hungry.” Meg mumbles the words against my sweatshirt like she doesn’t want to lay another burden on my shoulders.

I slide my backpack off my shoulder. “Supper coming right up,” I whisper. I unzip my pack and pull out the peanut butter sandwiches we were going to eat for lunch. I hand one to Meg and take another for myself. Meg plows right into hers. I take a bite and try to chew. The wad of dough just sits there. I force my mouth to move. Make my teeth press up and down. Push the food down my throat. I slide the rest of the sandwich back in the baggie and stuff it into my pack.

Meg hands me her empty bag. “I’m glad your boyfriend bought us lunch, Mattie.”

Boyfriend? My mouth opens in protest, but I snap it shut and swallow the words. Would Jack be my boyfriend if I let him? Can I be that close to him and not end up ruining my plans for a better life? Would I end up a single parent like Mom, struggling to keep a roof over my head?

Meg wraps her arms around me and lays her head against my side. We lean against the wall and wait. I should tell her a story, one where her job is to assign names to all the characters and animals I make up—she loves that. But I can’t do it; I’m too numb. Besides, our voices would draw attention from anybody wandering along the street, and I don’t want to risk it.

Meg grows tired and slumps against me. Her small body gets heavier as she falls into a troubled sleep. I will my muscles and bones to stand strong and still, telling myself time goes slowly when you wait and what feels like days or even weeks is only minutes.

The reason Mom hasn’t picked us up isn’t because she got tired of raising two kids on her own and decided to ditch us. I know that as sure as I know the fear that grips my heart. Mom would come if she could. Sobs well up in my throat, threatening to explode into the quiet of the night. I press them deep into the pit of my gut.

If Meg and I don’t have Mom, where will we go? We don’t have family. Every time I ask about relatives she says we’re better off alone. All those grandparents and aunts and uncles and cousins that other kids have for backup don’t exist for us.

Jack gave me his phone number. I could call him, but then what? He rides in on a white horse and carries Meg and me off to his house? I’ve only known the guy a few days. He seems kind and thoughtful and said he would do anything to help me, but Mom has met lots of charming guys that turned out to be jerks. Jack hasn’t shared where he lives or anything about his parents. I don’t know if I can trust him yet.

Loud, rowdy voices mix with the buzz of cars splashing through puddles. A group of teenagers storm down the sidewalk, acting crazy and wild. Ugly words fly back and forth, like spewing out bad language is some kind of sick contest they all want to win. The group laughs at their own stupid antics and push each other around. I barely breathe. These teens are my age, but they’re acting feral.

They don’t move on like everyone else has. The library is dark, but they hang out by the front windows playing king of the hill on the bench near the door. The boys knock each other off, pushing and shoving. The girls pass a bottle back and forth. One of them lights up a cigarette, and the rest howl, demanding cigarettes too.

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.