I remember when we first spoke of marriage, after I met Kin. Willow trees that shook secrets from my mouth. Forgiveness that led to trust and now to… this. I touch my heart. This unproclaimed feeling I can identify, but can’t quite say. He’d said something like, Don’t look at me; I’m not marrying you either…
Hiro is quiet on the ride home. Rattled by the state of his friend and by his inability to help him. The solution to our problems could be simple but then, if Hiro were the kind of man to marry me purely for money, I wouldn’t want to marry him.
If the world could just operate on love alone, maybe we could make this work.
I wish love could be enough.
On the island of mermaids, fairies, and pirates, maybe it is.
A hand grips my arm and pulls me backward. “Nora!” a familiar voice shouts out, spinning me around. My eyes widen, moistening instantly at the sight of my father’s accountant. I step back. Hiro melts into the crowd like a drop of water to the sea. Staying close but not wanting to be seen with me. I feel his eyes on my back, watchful. I know he won’t leave me.
I tap my heart. “Mr. He… Hersch,” I stammer, struggling to find words. Scared of questions.
He narrows his eyes, focusing on a point or person over my shoulder. “Are you well? Your father said you’d been very unwell. And how’s little Frankie? I hope she’s doing better…”
People bump into my shoulders, the press of the crowd trying to swallow me. I wish it would swallow me. Open its jaws like a crocodile and take me whole. I don’t know what this man knows. I don’t know what he suspects. I do know he’s loyal to my father. He sits on the left-hand side of the ledger with all the others who watched and observed silently. Whose eyes skidded over my wounds like flat shoes over sleet in the street, and then simply turned away. I have faced more turned backs than I care to remember. There were very few strokes in the right-hand side.
Flustered, I quickly bow my head. “I’m sorry, Mr. Hersch, but I’m late for an appointment.” He tries to grab me, and I can see this situation tumbling down to a place of broken bricks and bruises. My hands shake, my palms sweat. My chest tightens. The dark of night needs to come faster. These easy shadows don’t hide enough. They’re playthings; naughty reflections that can be ripped from the wall.
Suddenly, Mr. Hersch is bumped from the side. He stumbles into a shop window, and he’s collected by a woman walking her dog. They tangle together, and Hiro’s voice whispers in my ear, “Run.”
My feet pick out spaces, my heart crams my chest full of fear. Fear of being followed, fear of being caught, fear of being thrown on the floor and kicked and kicked and kicked…
Hiro grips my arm, pulling me into the alley. We crouch, hiding behind a dumpster. I try to breathe, but it’s like I’m standing on top of a mountain. The air is thin and cold, and it hurts.
“Kite.” Don’t sigh my name. Speak it. I’m strong. I’m stronger than this. Taking my wrists in his hands, he keeps my eyes on his. “Kite.” Yes. “Breathe.”
I take a big breath, and my anger swells. “I am so tired of feeling this way.” This panic. This dragging my heels back. Back. Back. Into bad places.
“I know,” he says, his head dipping. “But we don’t have a choice.”
I pull my hands from his. “You’re wrong. There is at least one thing I can do.”
13
HIRO
I heard them. And when she doesn’t ask me to marry her, I feel a little disappointed. Which is stupid. I don’t want to marry her. I can’t… Not the way my life is right now. No. There’s a proper way to do things. And this isn’t it.
I lean against the wall, watching her sort through her things, placing them into two piles. “What are you doing?”
From her crouched position, she humphs and gives me a brief frown before returning to her sorting. She’s like an obsessive squirrel. It’s kind of cute, and it makes me smile. “I’m getting things together to sell.”
Frankie’s perched on the edge of the bed, watching her sister. Pointing at a long strand of pearls, she whines. “Not tat one, Nor-ah. Tats ma favorite,” she says, snatching them from her big sister’s fingers.
Kite sighs loudly and straightens, shuffling over to her sister on her knees. She cups the bouncing girl’s face, speaks to her clearly. Not talking down to her. “Frankie, we need cash. If you want to live with me, I need enough money to petition for your custody.”
Frankie tips her head, auburn hair flashing fire around her pale face. “What’s custardy?”
Kite’s face scrunches as she tries to come up with a reasonable explanation. I kneel next to her. “Right now, you father has legal custody of you. So, if something happened to you, like, say you got sick and had to go to hospital, well, they would call your father and he would make all your medical decisions.”
Frankie nods solemnly. Her eyes webbed with an inherent fear. “But I’d want Nor-ah.”
“Well, if Kite, I mean, Nora, had legal custody of you, then that’s what would happen. She would be responsible for your welfare.”
She breathes out, all rattlingly. “Okay. You can hev the pearls.” She drops them in the pile.
Kite finds my eyes, determination painted across her crinkled forehead. “Do you think it’s enough?”
I doubt it, but I don’t dash her hopes just yet. “Only one way to find out.”
As we ride the train, Kite runs through a myriad of different emotions, each one thrown out like a useless playing card. But she clutches one to her chest, the one that reads worry. She holds the pole like it’s a tree branch, letting her weight drop her shoulders, her head kind of hanging. “She looks pale, don’t you think?”
I chuckle, which makes her grimace. “Well, compared to me, yes, she looks pale.”
Kite slaps my arm playfully, and a woman raises her eyebrows disapprovingly. I put distance between us. “I mean, she’s used to being outside regularly. She needs fresh air. Sunlight,” Kite whispers, her eyes sliding toward the lady, who has the decency to be embarrassed and stop staring.
“We just have to be real careful at the moment. If she’s recognized…” I mutter, aware of listening ears.
She sets her chin. A sweet but fierce expression on her face. Her lips poke out, the color of a pink rose petal and just as delicate. I swallow. These thoughts are going to get me in trouble. “Mr. Inkham will know what to do.” She crosses her arms over her chest, stumbling when the train comes to a stop.
I want to offer my arm. But we’re not supposed to be together. Be seen together. We’re two smashed paintings from different movements. Picasso and Monet. To their eyes, we don’t fit. We belong in different wings of the museum.
When we exit the train, she hooks her arm through mine anyway. She doesn’t seem to care that we draw attention everywhere we go. She thinks these two paintings may look funny together, but they’re beautiful all the same. Sighing, I shake my head. Maybe one day, I’ll come around to her way of thinking.
Sleazy Paul appears to subscribe to Kite’s view of the world, and he gives me a congratulatory nod when we walk in. He also runs his eyes up and down Kite in a way that makes me want to reach over the counter and grab him by the scruff of his neck. But the idea of touching his hairy, smelly skin is enough to hold me back. That and the fact that Kite is looking at him down the length of her nose while simultaneously trying not to inhale.
He should straighten in his chair but, of course, he slouches. Swiveling a quarter turn away from us to prod chains lined up under the glass mindlessly. I clear my throat. “Paul, this is my friend, Kite. She has a few things to show you.”
Kite clutches the bag, her fingers scratching at each other under the handle. I place my hand over hers to stop her, but she just does it more gently. Paul watches us, fascinated. “Kite,” he says in that weird upper class-sounding voice I’ve never gotten used to. Kite doesn’t cover her surprise very well either. “Kite is an unusual name.”
She straightens and leans on the
counter, her middle touching the glass. “It’s a family name,” she says straight-faced. And I wonder how truthful that really is. It fills me with pride and fear like a bird who’s just learning to fly. Feathers and air. Falling and freedom.
Paul shrugs, swiping a fat paw over his thinning hair. “What have you got for me, young lady?” I hate the way his eyes swim in her. I step forward, then lean over the counter with her. Kite shoots me a look.
“Maybe you should wait outside, Kettle?” She says my King name like a warning. I narrow my eyes at her, and she stares me down. “I’m quite capable of handling this myself.”
After she heaves the bag onto the counter, she undoes the clasp. “Paul, I think you’ll find I have much that might interest you in here.”
I step outside, the bell ringing. Again, that prideful feeling falls over my shoulders. She’s taking steps toward her independence; I can’t be unhappy about that. Besides, if he makes any untoward moves, I’ll be in there like a shot.
Shoving my hands in my pockets, I turn to watch them through the window. Paul’s eyebrows rise with surprise as Kite talks. He’s thrown. That makes me chuckle. His pale, fat face, the color of lard, wobbles, and he looks irritated. Sharp winds poke cold fingers in my sides, and I shiver. The crackle of dried leaves brushing the sidewalk and the crunch of them under people’s feet is a cold caveat. I hate winter.
Looking up from my feet, I see Kite placing her hands on her hips and shaking her head. She quickly piles everything back in the bag before starting toward the door. I don’t rush in, curious to learn her angle. I’ve never seen Paul move faster than a snail over a lettuce leaf and I almost laugh out loud when he scrambles around his counter, his chair rolling across the floor and hitting his cash register with a metallic bang. He reaches out to grab Kite’s arm. She freezes, and I tense. I see the slip in her, the shake, as memories pass through her body like ghosts on their way down. But she bites her lip, clasps the bag tightly, and glares at where Paul’s sausage-like fingers squeeze her skin.
“Mr. Paul, kindly remove your hand from my arm.” Her voice is rickety with murder.
He releases her and steps back, and my eyes widen at his below-waist attire. He’s wearing pajama pants and slippers, and I wonder if he’s ever stepped out from behind the counter before.
A number is muttered that I can’t hear through the glass, and Kite shakes her head. Poor Paul looks defeated. Poor Paul looks like he’s been crushed. And it was my girl who crushed him.
Again, that icy wind shoves me in the side. My girl. My girl. I smile to myself, staring at the ground. Kettle, you need to get a grip, Kin would say. He’d also tell me to go for it. But that’s his dream, not mine. Marry the rich girl, live in a fancy brownstone. I don’t need any of that. But…
Sighing deeply, my eyes dart toward the sky. Simple. Dangerous.
That sums up my feelings for her. Simple and dangerous.
I’m startled from my thoughts by an elbow to the ribs. “Did you see that?” Kite’s grin is adorable and deserved.
I nod, and she holds up her empty bag. “You destroyed that man.” She suddenly looks concerned, and I laugh. “It’s a good thing. Trust me.”
Her smile gives me honey and gold. Shimmering stars that stab my heart. “I always do.”
14
KITE
Mr. Inkham’s office is neat and dark as hot chocolate, and rather modest. It’s not in the part of town I would have expected given my mother was his client, but then maybe that was the point.
The gold lettering on the glass is worn, the I in Inkham appearing lowercase. The bell sounds a little ill when we open the door.
A secretary sits at a heavy brown desk. The smell of fresh coffee hits my nose and my eyes flutter closed, dreaming of a full cooked breakfast and Marie serving us pancakes and whipped cream. But there’s always a punctured shadow over these desires. Making them fade. Making them less. Because being in that house was never worth the price.
The secretary stops tapping away at her typewriter, and glances up. “Can I help you?” she stares at Hiro, who shifts and shuffles backward, his head hitting a framed poster of the Canyonlands National Park. Sunrise at famed Mesa arches is written in bold lettering across the top. It looks beautiful and wild and beyond me. I reach out my hand to touch it.
The secretary clears her throat, and I break my dreaminess. “I’m here to see Mr. Inkham,” I say, trying to look poised. Trying to hide the grubby stains around the base of my skirt.
The secretary flips open a diary. “Name?”
I step closer to her desk. “Nora Deere.”
The book claps shut, and she suddenly stands. “I’ll tell Mr. Inkham you’re here.”
She hurries to the door, slipping through like a coin through a slot.
I turn to Hiro as if to say, that was odd. He nods in agreement, pointing to my hair. I pat it down. The frizz has escaped the ribbon.
The door opens, and the secretary takes her seat. Mr. Inkham stands in the entryway, smiling warily. He’s wearing the same creased brown suit as the day he came to visit me at the house. “Miss Deere. It’s good to see you again.” He opens his arms to welcome me inside.
I open my arms to Hiro. “This is my friend, Hiro.”
They shake hands awkwardly. Mr. Inkham no doubt sizing him up as a possible suitor. “Nice to meet you, er, Hiro… what is your last name?”
“Jackson,” Hiro offers, and it sounds true.
“Jackson.” His eyebrows rise further. “Right, well…” He smooths his shirt and says, “Please, please, come in.”
We file in under watchful eyes. Mr. Inkham fusses about arranging two chairs in front of his desk. Finally, we sit. Wood creaking. Thoughts tumbling. Curiosity growing.
He clasps his hands on his desk over scattered papers. Scribbled notes. “Are you well?” he asks, his small face narrowing further as he runs his eyes over me, searching for injuries. I tuck my injured leg under my chair. Even though it feels better, it is scabby and scarred, and it is visible through my stockings.
“Very well, thank you,” I answer, a slight wobble to my voice.
Mr. Inkham’s eyes lift to the art on the wall. More travel posters. Campgrounds and canyons. Places where the earth opens to reveal its magic. “Miss Deere, you can tell me the truth. Anything you say will be held in the strictest of confidence. I’m bound by law.”
I take a deep breath in, Hiro a solid reassurance at my side. “I believe my sister and I are in eminent danger. We have decided we can no longer live under the same roof as my father.”
“Where are you staying?” He leans over the desk. He reminds me of a toy soldier. Arms at right angles. Face smooth and stalwart. A deep sense of morality painted onto his expression.
Hiro speaks. “A safe place.”
“A safe place,” I repeat. “I want to talk to you about petitioning for full custody of Frankie. I mean, Frances.” I pull out the money. “I have money.”
He writes something on a piece of paper. “You don’t need to pay me, Miss Deere.” He eyes Hiro suspiciously. “Are you sure you are well? Don’t you think it would be better for your friend to wait outside?”
Hiro begins to stand. “Certainly not. Hiro is here because I asked him to be.” I need him to be.
“Very well, very well,” he says, unconvinced as he taps his pen on the page.
I brace myself for a fall. I can see it in his eyes. There’s a vacuum in there. Space and brittle stars, breaking apart. “What do I need to do to get Frankie?” I ask. “I mean legally.”
He must know that we’ve run away. That we’re in hiding. Although my father’s efforts need to protect his own reputation cannot be underestimated. He may have remained silent about our disappearance.
“Do you have a safe and permanent residence?” Questions planted on the knuckles of a fist. They hit me hard. They splinter what little hope I had threaded between my ribs. “A dependable income? Someone to care for Frances when you’re not availabl
e?”
My structure is disintegrating. My body feels pulpy and soft. Just like it always did after a beating. I don’t need to answer. He can see it in my expression. “My apartment is small, but if you need a place to stay until you can make other arrangements…”
I shake my head. “It’s too obvious. He’d find us. He’d hurt you.”
I can’t have that on my conscience.
Mr. Inkham looks genuinely upset and sorry for me. “I wish there was more I could do, but legally, unless you can prove you can care for your sister independently, the courts will not recognize you as her guardian.”
I am crushed. I don’t know what I thought would happen, but I’d hoped maybe there would be more he could do. But I have a list. A list that seems impossible. A steady income. A residence. How can I do either of these things without him finding me? Sabotaging me.
I feel squashed by the weight of it and I stand shakily, extending a hand to Mr. Inkham. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Inkham.”
He takes it delicately. Barely holding. “I wish it were possible, but you simply cannot hide from him forever.”
Hiro’s voice is warm and sure. “We know, and we won’t.”
15
HIRO
We leave Mr. Inkham’s office disappointed, but we’re not even close to giving up. Kite clutches my arm as cold air shoots down the street like it’s searching for winter. “Do you prefer people call you Hiro or Kettle? I should like to know how to introduce you,” she asks, avoiding all the upsetting topics we probably should be talking about. But I get that she needs time to sift through her feelings.
I frown down at our arms. Brown and white. Both freckled, but mine are like ink spots and hers are caramel-colored sun kisses. “Kettle, I think.” I shrug. But I really like it when she calls me Hiro. This is where I’d usually swallow my thoughts. Dig them deep rather than sharing them, but I tell her. Leaning my head on hers, I whisper, “But I really like it when you call me Hiro.”
Hiro Loves Kite Page 6
