My mouth falls open, and I touch the glass with my dirty fingers.
Krow got himself a job.
A cyclone of emotion swirls around me. I feel it try to press me down to the pavement and then lift me.
A man taps on the glass from inside in a warning way and I jolt backward, hurrying away from the store before Krow sees me.
The cyclone thins. Two emotions are teased out, battling with each other for dominance. Relief and jealousy. Relief that Krow did the right thing. That I didn’t catch him picking pockets. Seeing him standing there, hair smoothed back, an uncommon smile on his face did strange things to me. He looked so ordinary. Just like any other bag boy. Average. Normal. Unlikely to catch attention. Likely to get a pat on the back. A kind greeting. Maybe even a tip.
The relief rustles through me, and I breathe it out. The other feeling, though—the jealously—sits heavy in my stomach. Stony and permanent.
He has what I want. He has what I can’t have.
A job. A chance at a normal life.
Someone knocks my shoulder, and I make the mistake of looking up. When the man sees my face, his expression runs from shock to anger to pity. But mostly confusion. A kind of ‘figuring out’ that never goes anywhere. Mixed-race kids are like blue roses. Interesting. Nice to look at from a distance. But when people get close, they see unnaturalness. Something that’s not meant to exist. It unnerves them.
I can’t imagine I will ever get hired. And that stings like a hook to the heart.
I feel it hanging there, banging against my ribs as I walk away.
I pack it away with other scars and regrets.
Today is dumpster day. That’s my job.
9
KITE
I think we look like a family of three. I think we need to look less so, and I break away from Kelpie and Frankie. My leg is improving, and I put more weight on it while keeping a watchful eye.
Kelpie drags us up from the subway, then heads straight for an alley caught between a delicatessen and sporting goods store. Crossed tennis rackets and sets of golf clubs in the store display window make me giggle at how far away our life has shifted from that life. Unwanted images make appearances in my mind, smothering that giggle. My mother and father dressed in white, wooden racquets hanging at their sides as they lean in to kiss one another. Frankie and I applauding on the sidelines. Bruises stretching between my shoulder blades as I tried to play. He always turned it to the side. Made sure it did maximum damage with minimal evidence. We were the picture of a perfect family. Shining white and pure. Hiding black and blue.
Kelpie shoots past people. He doesn’t wait. Manners are a luxury street kids can’t afford. When he tugs Frankie headlong into a large trash can, I’m too far behind to stop him.
He emerges, smile long and toothy as a crocodile, waving a handful of socks in his tight fist happily.
I screw up my nose, knowing what those are. They’re the ‘try on’ socks.
Closing my eyes, I breathe in, though not too deeply. I don’t want to quash his triumph. Frankie waves a deflated beach ball at me, making crunchy noises by jumping up and down on packaging. I sigh with relief at the bin they’re in. It’s just packaging and broken and used goods from the sports store. Stinky socks are not nearly as intimidating as the smell from the opposite bin.
Kelpie tips out of the bin, then pulls my sister’s arms until she slides over the edge like a seal lion from a boardwalk. My sister. My sister. Picking through the contents of a dumpster.
If Father knew, he’d…
Armor crackles and builds over my skin. It starts at the base of my spine and claps up, tile by tile, scale by scale, over my ribs, up and down my arms. I am rigid and caught. Then she laughs. He laughs. They play in the alley, throwing smelly socks at each other. Wild and, most importantly, free.
Shivering at the briskness, I stare up at the sky, watching razorblade clouds dart over our heads.
Free.
Free.
I don’t need to worry about what Father would do. He is. He is. He is…
Irrelevant.
Armor retreats. But I keep it in a safe place. Not ready to release it just yet. The metal scales gather in my skirts and I collect them, feeling their cold edges. They flutter with movement like feathers in a robin’s breast, disturbed by the breeze.
Trickles of dirty water run under my feet. Blackened cobblestones dressed with slime make me pinch my toes in for balance. And I’m too distracted to stop Frankie from diving into the delicatessen dumpster. The moment her feet squelch into the bottom, the stink of cheese and rotten meat throws clouds no one would want to stand under or stare at into the sky.
Hitching up my skirt, I drag a crate over to climb more carefully into the dumpster. Frankie gurgles and gasps. She makes gagging noises and sick faces. But she is having the time of her life.
She waves her hand in front of her nose. “This stinks worse ‘n’ dat moldy blue cheese Deddy likes.” She points at me, the devil in her grin. “Or Nor-ah’s breath in da mornin’.”
I cover my mouth. “Frankie!” Holding a sack in one hand, I turn to Kelpie, who gives me a serious expression. Sadly, he’s the expert here, and I say as much, “Well, Kelpie, this is our first time. What are we looking for?”
Kelpie holds up a half-empty jar of pickles and shakes it. “Pickles n’ preserves are good. Even if they’ve been opened. Dented cans are good too.” He shakes his head. “But don’t go taking anything with milk in it. That’ll make you sick.” He clutches his stomach. Eyes dimming for a moment. “Eating stuff that ain’t pickled or cured can kill you. I know, okay?”
I nod my head. I believe him. And my heart breaks. Sharp pieces of glass lolling on the cobblestones. Death is everywhere for these kids. In the thrown-out food harboring bacteria, and the cold nights lashing out to freeze them. It is relentless.
I find a rolled-up piece of brown paper containing something squishy, grease stains coming through. Unwrapping it, I twist my face. “What about this?” It’s some sort of salami or sausage.
He leans over and sniffs it. “S’okay.”
I shrug, trusting his canine instincts, and place it in my bag.
We spend about half an hour rifling through the trash, but don’t have much to show for it.
Frankie found a jar of cocktail weenies, and she’s shaking it like a slippery maraca as we walk home. I feel the weight of provision pressing on my chest. It’s not enough.
We need money. I know how to get a lot, but…
It’s not going to be easy to convince Kettle.
Kelpie’s blond head bobs between dark skirts and suits. He and Frankie have taken an instant liking to each other, and they talk about horrible, tragic things in their childish voices. I bite my lip and look to the sky, hoping those razorblade clouds will cut through some of the pain.
“Where’s yer mommy?” Frankie asks, voice crackly. Her small mouth pinches, waiting for an answer.
Kelpie’s small shoulders pull up like clothes pegged on a line. “Dunno. Maybe she’s dead. Pops never did say what happened to her. All he said was she were no good.” I touch my heart, rolling my button between my fingers. A single worry bead.
Frankie’s eyes blink black and blue. She’s the bruise we can’t hide. “Like the milk.”
Kelpie nods. “Yeah. Like the milk.”
“Where’s yer deddy then?” They talk too loudly, and I worry people are starting to listen.
Kelpie stops, turns to me, his round eyes painted with the stroke of violence. I know it well. “He was good for a while but then he went sour, just like the milk.”
I lay a hand on his shoulder, some of the puff deflating from his chest. He is so little. His layers aren’t as thick as mine. His armor is only just starting to grow. And when his eyes connect with mine, he becomes younger. “He went bad,” I whisper. “But it wasn’t your fault, Kelpie.”
Kelpie nods, shutting down and out, then puts his tiny hands in his tiny pockets. “Yeah,
I know. He just went bad.”
He starts to whistle and Frankie is easily distracted, looking longingly at his pursed lips. “Teach me, teach me.”
We head toward the station, winter following us with cold bursts of ice on the wind. The cooler weather is coming. I shudder. The streets draped in snow will seem less magical and more dangerous now, given our living situation.
I wrap my arms around them both, bringing the children to my hips. Big decisions will need to be made. Wishes for romance and fancy will be buried like so much dirt and trash.
The Kings reunite at the end of the day. Little heads appear in the door, followed by feet with too small and too big shoes. Everyone dumps their findings on the card table. Krow is last. While Kettle’s back is to him, he scruffs his combed-back hair up and untucks his shirt. He’s carrying a clean paper bag, which he empties onto the table. Dented boxes of crackers and some cans of beans draw awestruck gasps from the others.
Kettle looks up. “Nice haul, Krow. Where’d you find it?”
Krow’s thin shoulders bunch and unwind, and he blows some hair from his eyes. “You know, around.”
Kettle smiles tightly and cracks his neck. I can tell he’s forcibly trying to make himself relax, but it’s not working. He’s a crushed coil desperate to spring. “Thanks.”
They hand out the various foodstuffs, and the Kings retreat to their corners to eat dinner. The whole space fills with the smell of salt and vinegar.
Frankie is eager to try her cocktail weenies, and I begrudgingly grab a stale roll to accompany them.
She sits cross-legged on the edge of the bed, her tongue half-hanging out as I try to open the jar. Teeth clenched, I make a weird grunting noise just as Kettle appears holding a can of tinned asparagus and two forks. “Do you need some help?” he asks, holding out his hand for the jar.
I do. But…
I strain and twist and breathe a curse word under my breath while Kettle watches me in amusement. “I need to do it,” I say, mostly to myself. I need to care for my sister. I need to be able to open a jar without someone else’s help. I slacken, arm and jar falling to my side.
Kettle smirks and taps the top. “See how the lid is drawn in? There’s too much pressure because it’s been sitting closed for so long.” I grimace. I’m trying not to think too hard about how old the jar is. “You’ll never open it that way. Wait…” He cups my face briefly and then jogs away, returning with a hammer and screwdriver.
He gives them to me. And although my first instinct is to give the tools right back and tell him to do it, I stop. I listen. I learn about what is needed to survive out here. Because even if I don’t intend for this to be permanent, it is all we have right now.
I puncture the lid with a sharp bang, hearing the hiss as trapped warm air escapes. Then the lid unscrews easily. I let out a sigh of relief, placing a slimy sausage on the roll for Frankie with trepidation.
Measuring my expression with scale-like precision, he places a warm hand on my arm. Strokes it once. “It’s safe.”
He goes to remove it, and I put mine over the top. I want to force myself to relax, too. But I’m held together by hard, unbending things. Years of learning. “Have you ever fallen ill after eating something bad?”
He nods. His mouth puckering at the memory. “A few times. But you soon get the hang of it.”
He squeezes my arm and then his hand leaves me, a tattoo of his fingers pulsing nicely over my skin.
Kettle opens the can of asparagus, and we share the mushy green stuff. We try to convince Frankie to have some, but she is vehemently opposed to the idea. I push the stodgy vegetable around in my mouth. Make myself swallow. I don’t really blame her.
Kettle gazes at me with blue eyes. Skies and waterfalls dance in those eyes. Splashes of color, tears, and tragedy.
His mouth twists into an undecided smile before falling to a frown. “Are you okay, Kettle?” I ask.
He stares at the floor. “I’m fine.” He jabs at the asparagus violently with a fork.
I tilt my head. His pages are written in a language I understand more of now. “No, you’re not; something’s bothering you. I can tell.”
He snorts. “You can tell, huh?”
“You can talk to me.” I lean forward, wishing I could just reach out and take his hand, bring it to my lips. And wishing he would do the same for me.
Frankie knocks me sharply with her elbow. “Can I go play with Kelpie? He’s gonna show me some baseball cards.” Her breath smells of hot dogs and pickle juice. I scowl.
“Sure.” I wave her away, but by the time I’ve looked back, Kettle has left and is busily collecting what’s left of the food to put in the store box.
I stand to help him. The other Kings are packing up and bringing out old papers, magazines, and cards to play with. As I collect the opened cans, scraped clean of their contents, a small chubby hand reaches out and places a single can of peaches on the table.
I look down at the owner—a young teenage boy. His head falls, avoiding eye contact. “Hi,” I say, offering a greeting. “Are you new?” Shaking his head, he pushes the peaches at me. His round face is painted with grime, but beneath it, proud copper skin glows and dark, almost black eyes shine with a kind intelligence.
Kettle chuckles. “That’s just Kamo; he’s not new. He’s just quiet like a mouse, aren’t you, big fella?” Kettle reaches out and almost musses the boy’s hair, but seems to think better of it and retreats. Kamo nods and steps backward.
I hold up the tin. “Thank you for the peaches, Kamo,” I say, searching for him. My hand drops, and I tap my chin. “Where did he go?”
Kettle rattles the box of cans. “That’s Kamo for you. He’s good at disappearing.”
I hear a small laugh, and see dark eyes peering out from behind a pile of crates. I touch my heart. Feeling spaces being made for these children. “Ah, Kamo as in camouflage?” Kettle nods. “Clever.” I smile at him and wave. He blinks, melting into the background. “What a funny kid,” I say with a small joy in a bubble-type laugh.
Kettle smiles proudly. “Yeah, he’s a good kid. Doesn’t talk at all, but I get it.” He scans the room and points at the curtain, striding over and pulling it back, saying, “Huh,” when Kamo isn’t there. Shrugging, he returns to me. “He likes to be left alone. Sometimes that can seem like a luxury in this place.”
“And the talking?” I ask.
His eyes strike pain and lightning over water. “Well… when life seems completely out of your control, sometimes you take what little you can. You try to control just one thing. For Kamo, it’s talking.”
I nod, letting Kamo be alone. “For me, it was throwing Mother’s things out the window.”
Kettle stops. His mouth spreading a thin line. Then he looks up, muttering, “I’ll be forever grateful that’s what you chose to do.” My heart. It’s wishing. Wishing. Wishing. It’s reaching for him.
I whisper the words, “Me too,” as he shuffles awkwardly and reaches for a cap that’s no longer on his head. He chuckles quietly, nervously, and I grace him with a reprieve. “What do you do want to do with the trash?”
He holds up a bag. Krow throws something in, and Kettle’s demeanor shifts. He’s burrowing into his own thoughts. His own self-punishment by the looks of it. And I want to get to him. My heart nudges me forward. I want to ease the pain on his face. But I don’t know how.
“Kettle…” I start, but his eyes ask me to wait. They ask me to give him a moment. “Let me do that. I’ll take it to the bin for you.” I take the bag from him and collect the rest of the trash, making sure I check every corner of the tunnel. I pick up small gum wrappers that have blown to the corners. After I use my hands to sweep balls of hair and fluff out from between boxes and crates, I talk to every King to make sure I have everything.
Holding two bags, I approach Kettle, who’s trying to help a young King, Kane, to sound out words from an old newspaper. “I’m going to take these out.”
He stands. “Let
me. I mean, I don’t think you can…”
I humph, shaking the bags. “Kettle, I’m not completely useless. I’m sure I can find a trash can on my own.”
He pauses. Considers it and relents. “You’re right. It’s time you were treated like all the other Kings.”
I nod definitively. “Yes, it is.”
To further his point, he adds, “Lights out at ten. If you get back after that, be careful not to step on anyone’s bed.”
I march to the door. “I will.”
To Frankie, I shout, “Brush your teeth.” And then I’m out, wiggling my way down the narrow walkway and trying hard not to bang cans and bottles against the wall.
I can do this.
10
KITE
True to his word, when I return from my non-eventful trash drop, the lights are out. I pick my way carefully through the tunnel, my hands getting sandpapered by the rough stone wall. When I reach my room, I hear Frankie whispering to Kelpie. Sitting on the bed, I remove my shoes. Kelpie’s head knocks against my hip. He’s curled up like a dog at Frankie’s feet.
I run a hand over his head. “Frankie,” I whisper. “Can you…”
She cuts me off. “You should go an sleep in Kettle’s bed like before,” she says in a matter-of-fact tone. “He’s got more room fer ya.”
I growl low and lie down next to her, pushing her over so I can have a small corner of the pillow. “Move over.”
She shuffles over a little, but I sense her irritation.
Closing my eyes, I pull my knees to my chest, letting the long length of the day drape over me like a silk scarf. There are so many things I need to work out. Problems that need to be solved. Frankie needs to go back to school. Kelpie should be in school, too, but that’s another more complicated problem. They all need help, and I feel like my hands are empty. I open my palms to the ceiling. My hands are empty, and my mind is full of just five words: I’m not… I need… Sorry.
Hiro Loves Kite Page 4
