Stay

by Bobbie Pyron

  Mr. Ryan shows us all these different rooms: a small library, a game room with stacked boxes of puzzles and tubs of Legos. “On Thursday mornings, they have story time in here,” Mr. Ryan says, “and Friday night is family film night.”

  He shows Mama and Daddy the Resource Room. It has all kinds of handouts on things like jobs and getting food and medical assistance. There’s even a few computers. “We also hold training classes in here on filling out job applications, making résumés, interviewing, that sort of thing.”

  “That’s wonderful, isn’t it?” Mama says, taking Daddy’s hand. Daddy nods.

  We walk back out to the lobby. “In the morning, from six until nine, there’s cereal, fruit, and juice. That’s the only meal that’s served here.”

  Darn. More squeaky green beans and goopy gravy.

  “Oh, and there’s no laundromat. You’ll still need to go down the street for that.” Mr. Ryan must notice the disappointment on Mama’s face because he says, “But once a week, you’ll get fresh towels and sheets.”

  I see kids all different ages hanging around the lobby with their moms. “So do we have to leave every day like at the other shelter?” I ask.

  Mr. Ryan shakes his head. “No, you don’t have to leave. But,” he says, looking at Mama and Daddy, “until you find employment, you are expected to help out here at the shelter five hours a week each. Mr. Windward—Byron—will give you a list of chores and a schedule.”

  “Sounds reasonable,” Mama says. Daddy nods again. Like I said, my dad’s a man of few words.

  Mr. Ryan jingles the keys in his pocket and glances out the window. It’s started to rain. “Go ahead and get settled in. We’ll meet next week.” He smiles at me and Dylan. “You two need to get registered for school so you can start making friends, right?”

  “Yes, sir,” I say. If it were up to me, I’d start school tomorrow.

  Dylan frowns. “I’m too little to go to school,” he says.

  “Not anymore, buddy,” Daddy says. He runs his hand over Dylan’s head. “Time to be a big boy.”

  Dylan starts to put his thumb in his mouth. He stops, looks at Daddy, and instead sticks his hand in his pocket.

  I guess not having a home to call our own is making us all grow up.

  After supper, after we take our turns in the bathroom, after Dylan and I crawl into bed and Mama gets in between us, after she reads Where the Wild Things Are twice, Mama says it’s time to do what we did at night back home: list three things from the day we are grateful for.

  “I’ll go first,” Mama says. “I’m grateful we are all together again. I’m grateful for kind people like Mr. Ryan and Mr. Windward. And,” she says, “I’m grateful to not sleep on the floor.”

  “How about you, Dyl?” Mama asks.

  Dylan blinks sleepily. “Grateful for a TV. Grateful for an elevator.” He closes his eyes and rubs his nose against the pillowcase. “Grateful for a nice-smelling pillow.”

  Mama smiles.

  “Gary, you’re up,” she says to Daddy. Daddy stretches his long legs out on his and Mama’s bed. He looks up at the ceiling. We all wait. Finally, he says, “I’m grateful for Piper, Dylan, and Meg.” Mama squeezes his leg and blinks hard.

  “How about you, Piper?” Mama says.

  I search my mind. Truth is, so many things about Hope House didn’t turn out like I’d hoped they would. I don’t have my own bed, much less my own room. We don’t have our own kitchen, and the TV barely works. I sigh.

  “Piper,” Mama says. “Are you looking at the doughnut or the hole?”

  Daddy chuckles. Dylan snores.

  I look around the room. Finally, I say, “I’m grateful for our own bathroom. I’m grateful I’ll get to start school soon.” I search my brain hard for a third thing. “I’m grateful Daddy’s here,” I say.

  “Amen, sugar,” Daddy says with a smile. “Amen to that.”

  21

  Ree

  Jewel is four days gone now and Ree worries.

  Ree worries and Linda and Duke worry and Jerry and Lucky worry. And Tommy and Buzz worry. Even Rick at the Sixth Street Community Kitchen worries.

  Ree has heard the word on the street that they took Jewel uptown to Saint Mark’s Hospital, where people with insurance go.

  Or maybe—more likely—they’ve taken Jewel downtown to Mercy Memorial, where people without insurance go.

  Or maybe she’s been discarded, or ignored, like some useless old shoe. No good to anyone except a little brown dog with a bit of a tail and a heart that loves her, a heart that is waiting, steadfast and true.

  Ree picks up Baby and folds him into her coat and holds him close, next to her heart, just the way Jewel did.

  Ree hates the cold. She hates the snow and the cold winds that blow across the wide, wide valley from the mountains. Usually by this time, Ree and Ajax are long gone to sunnier, warmer places. Places where she can sleep out under a blanket of stars. Places easier on an old dog’s bones.

  Ree sighs. Baby licks her chin.

  “I will stay with you,” Ree says to the little dog, her friend’s anchor. “I will find her.”

  Ajax rubs his age-silvered face against Ree’s leg. She pulls a blanket from her pack and drapes it across the dog’s scarred shoulders.

  Ree kneels down and presses her forehead against his. “Who would know the real word on the street?” she whispers into ears torn and scarred from his life before Ree.

  Ajax wags his tail and shuffles an old-dog dance.

  Ree grins. “You’re right. You’re always right.”

  22

  Serendipity

  “No, Gary,” I hear Mama hiss from their bed. “I am sick to death of moving. We haven’t stayed in one place for more than two weeks in the last four months.”

  I crack open one eye. It’s still dark in our room. But even though I can’t see them, I can feel the anger between Mama and Daddy.

  I thought when we moved to the family shelter and we could all be together, everything would be better. But Mama and Daddy have started having these whisper fights almost from the first night. They think we can’t hear but we can. At least I can.

  Daddy grunts something.

  Mama explodes. “What do you think has changed there? We have no home, no jobs, nothing to go back to.”

  I think about my friends and my school and my Firefly troop back home. I have lots to go back to. But nobody asked me what I thought.

  “No,” Mama says in that voice that says her mind is made up, “we’re staying right here. The kids start school on Monday. We’re going to try to make a go of it.”

  I put the pillow over my head. I don’t want to hear any more.

  When we wake up, Daddy’s already gone. Mama looks frazzled.

  And Dylan has wet the bed. What almost-six-year-old wets the bed?

  And guess who has to strip the bed of smelly-pee sheets?

  “Why do I have to take his smelly sheets off the bed?” I ask.

  Dylan stands in the bathroom doorway, crying.

  “Because, young lady, I have to clean up your little brother, and because I asked you to.”

  I can feel anger I’ve been holding back for months building up inside me. I ball up my fists. Even my hair feels angry.

  “He’s acting like a stupid little baby!” I yank one corner of the sheet off the mattress. I hear a little ripping sound.

  “I’m not a baby!” Dylan wails.

  “Watch your mouth, Piper,” Mama warns.

  I yank the whole sheet off the mattress and throw it onto the floor.

  “I’ve been watching my mouth forever, Mama.” My heart is hammering in my ears. “I never asked to leave Cyprus Point! I never asked to be living in this stupid, stupid shelter with all of us crammed into this little room and standing in line to eat.”

  I can’t stop what comes barreling out of my mouth next. “It’s all yours and Daddy’s fault!”

  The looks on both Mama’s and Dylan’s faces make me feel about
as low as a piece of lint.

  Mama bursts into tears. She takes Dylan into the bathroom. When they come out, he’s all cleaned up and her tears are gone.

  “Take your brother down to the playroom for a while, Piper,” Mama says.

  “But we haven’t had breakfast yet,” I point out.

  Mama closes her eyes. I can almost hear her counting to ten in her head. “Get some breakfast and then go to the playroom.”

  “Can I have three doughnuts, Mama?” Dylan asks, clasping his hands in front of his chest.

  I expect Mama to say no, but she doesn’t. I think she’s all argued out.

  I watch Dylan and another little boy build a tower out of Jenga blocks. Then, carefully, they start sliding pieces out and placing them on top. The tower sways. I hold my breath, waiting for that one piece taken away to bring it all crashing down, just like when:

  Mama’s hours got cut at the nursing home.

  The rent went up on our house.

  We had to take Dylan to the emergency room when he had an asthma attack.

  We helped Grandma Bess with her medical bills.

  Daddy lost his job.

  Another asthma attack.

  Mama’s hours got cut again.

  Our landlord died, the bank took back the house we rented from him, and

  we get kicked out.

  Crash!

  And here we are. Nowhere to call home.

  Tears sting my eyes. I get up and walk across the room so Dylan doesn’t see how upset I am.

  I study the shelves crowded with board games—Monopoly, Scrabble (I’m good at that), Risk, Candy Land (Dylan’s favorite), Battleship, chess (Mama’s favorite).

  I look up at the row of paperbacks on the top shelf, and there, pinned to the bulletin board, is a flyer for a Firefly Girls troop meeting.

  Firefly Girls Troop 423 Meets This Saturday Morning, 9:00 AM, in Conference Room 4-B. All Hope House Girls and Their Parents Welcome!

  My heart leaps. A Firefly troop here? I can’t hardly believe it. And they’re meeting tomorrow morning!

  I read the flyer over and over until I have it memorized.

  I snap my fingers. Wait, did it say they’re Troop 423? That same troop I saw on the telephone pole flyer that reminded me of good things on that cold, wet day?

  Chill bumps run up my arms; my scalp prickles. I remember a vocabulary word Mrs. Monroe taught us the day before I left Cyprus Point forever: serendipity. I can hear Mrs. Monroe say, “It means the unexpected coming together of different things in a lucky way.” The flyer on the pole. Moving to Hope House. Having to babysit Dylan in the playroom instead of going with Mama. Finding a Firefly Girls Troop here, in a shelter. Serendipity!

  Saturday morning. I’m so jittery with excitement I feel like I’ve eaten two whole bowls of Sugar Zoom! cereal.

  I don’t care though. In fifteen minutes and thirty-nine seconds, we’re going to my first meeting of Firefly Girls Troop 423. And Mama’s going too!

  On the elevator ride down to the lobby, Mama hugs me to her and says for the fourth time, “Just like old times, right, Peeper?” Peeper is what Dylan used to call me when he was little and couldn’t say “Piper.”

  I hug her back. “Sure is.”

  “Morning, Piper. Morning, Mrs. Trudeau.” Byron is working the front desk today. I’m always glad when he’s working.

  Mama chirps, “We’re going to the Firefly Girls meeting this morning!”

  Byron smiles. “Awesome! I love Firefly brownies.”

  When we get to the room, we stop in the doorway. Mama straightens my Firefly sash. It feels so, so good to wear it again.

  We peer in. The room’s almost empty.

  “Is there a meeting here this morning?” Mama asks.

  A round woman with a big smile waves us in. “Sure is. You’re just a little early. Most of the folks here always run a little late.”

  Mama frowns. She has a thing about punctuality.

  The woman sticks out her hand. “I’m Shirin Bailey, proud troop leader of Firefly Girls Troop 423.”

  Mama smiles. “I’m Meg Trudeau and this is my daughter, Piper.”

  “Come on in and let’s get your vest and packet, Piper,” Mrs. Bailey says. “I see you already have a sash with lots of badges and pins. Good for you!”

  I try on several vests while Mama and Mrs. Bailey talk about this and that.

  “We got here to the city almost two weeks ago, and every day has been a challenge.”

  Mrs. Bailey shakes her head. “I hear you, there’s nothing easy about it.”

  “I just never thought we’d be in this kind of situation,” Mama says.

  I don’t want to hear them talk about how hard life in a shelter is, so I stop listening. I run my hand over and over the bright-blue vest. I put it on, then carefully drape my sash across my chest. I hear a whole bunch of voices laughing and calling back and forth.

  “Sounds like they’re coming,” Mrs. Bailey says.

  Ten girls come shuffling, bouncing, skipping into the room. There’s a couple of other white girls like me, but most of them are black and Latina. Back home in Cyprus Point, there were lots of black and Latino folks—Vietnamese too. My best friend, Robin, was from El Salvador. She taught me lots of Spanish. I miss her.

  But the biggest surprise that just about makes my eyes pop out of my head is the sight of a dad bringing his daughter into the room. Wait’ll I tell Daddy! Except for Byron, we haven’t seen many men even though this is a family shelter. Seems like it’s mostly single moms and their kids.

  A small girl with a big smile struts over. “Look at you in that vest,” she says, grinning. “I bet in no time, your sash will be looking amazing like mine.” Her sash is, in fact, pretty awesome. She has all kinds of badges and pins, more than I do.

  A tall, serious-looking girl comes over and smiles a slow, quiet smile. “Hey,” she says. “Glad you came.” She touches a pin on my sash. “Looks like you’ve been busy.” She puts out her hand. “I’m Karina Bailey.”

  Soon all the other girls, big and little, are crowded around me, introducing themselves. They’re chattering a mile a minute. I don’t think I’ll ever catch all their names. One tiny girl who doesn’t look much older than Dylan takes my hand and smiles shyly up at me. “I’m Chloe,” she whispers. “Karina’s my big sister. She’s the real troop leader, not our mom.” She looks at her big sister with pride.

  “Okay, everybody,” Karina calls from the front of the room. “Roll call.”

  In my old troop, roll call took forever because everybody was busy talking and cutting up. Plus, it was at least twice this size.

  But not Troop 423. Everybody hurries to one of the chairs Mama and Mrs. Bailey set up. There’s no giggling or whispering. All the girls sit up straight and proud, eyes fixed on Karina.

  One by one, Karina calls their names—Angel, Alexa, Carmen, Daria, Desiree, Chloe (Chloe lets go of my hand, shoots her arm up into the air), Jessica, Luz, Phoenix, Sapphire (“You know I’m here!”), and Trina—and each one raises their hand and says, “Here!” All except Trina.

  Karina frowns. “Anybody seen Trina?”

  Heads shake. Shoulders shrug.

  “Well,” Karina says, putting down her roll-call list, “we have someone new joining our troop today.”

  Karina motions me to stand up. Her mother says, “Tell us a little bit about yourself, baby.”

  “And don’t leave nothing out,” Sapphire commands. Everyone laughs.

  I stand up. My stomach slides down to my toes. What all do I say? Do I tell about my life before and why we’re here?

  I look at the roomful of girls all looking back at me with expectant eyes. In their bright-blue vests and sashes, they look like any other Firefly troop. But they’re not. They’ll understand my story, even without all the details.

  I take a deep breath. “My name is Piper Trudeau. I’m eleven—almost twelve—and in fifth grade. I was born and raised in Louisiana but came here from Texas.” />
  “Whew,” Sapphire says. “That’s a long ways away, Louisiana.”

  “Sure is,” several of the girls agree.

  “I belonged to Firefly Girls Troop Sixty-Three back home in Cyprus Point.” I start to sit down, but then I add, “And I’ve never seen snow before or mountains.”

  “We got a lot of both,” Carmen says.

  “Thanks, Piper,” Karina says. I sit back down.

  “Let’s stand and recite the Firefly Girls Pledge,” Karina says.

  We all stand. I look around for the poster with the Firefly Pledge printed in big bold letters. That’s what my old troop used to recite from. There’s not one here.

  I gulp. It’s been so long, I don’t think I remember all the words.

  And then, as if a choir conductor had raised his baton, everyone places their hands over their hearts, voices strong and confident:

  I promise to do my best every day

  to make the world a better place,

  to demonstrate kindness, compassion,

  fairness, and strength,

  and to shine my light as a beacon of hope.

  I promise to respect my family, myself, and

  all living things.

  Together, we are brighter.

  Together, we are stronger.

  Together we can make a difference.

  Whew! I remembered!

  For the first time in months, I feel like I’m on solid ground.

  Karina taps her pencil on a piece of paper. “First item on the agenda,” she says, “is new badges and pins.”

  My mouth drops open. Not because there are new badges and pins, but because there is an agenda. These girls are serious!

  Karina’s mom, Mrs. Bailey, explains all about the eleven new badges that can be earned for really cool stuff like building robots and designing computer apps and websites.

  “I’m going to build a robot to do my homework,” Sapphire announces.

  Daria raises her hand and says, “I’m going to design a computer program to help people without a home find one.”

  I wonder if any of the girls in my Cyprus Point troop would have thought of something like that. Probably not. They would never be able to understand how people, and even families, can end up like this.