Peas and Carrots

by Tanita S. Davis

  Stupid, Hope told herself, and shrugged tightly. If she hadn’t seen Dess pale and trembling only minutes before, she might have been convinced. She held up defensive hands. “All right. I was just trying to help.” And that’s the last time I’m going to, she thought firmly. Dess was Mom’s project. Hope was just the foster sister. Wasn’t it enough that she’d done what Mom had said? She’d taken Dess to the stupid coffee shop. She’d been patient. She’d been “nice.” And now she was done.

  She picked up her pace, and soon the church was in sight. Cutting past the flowering bushes planted along the sidewalk, she headed into the steeply sloped parking lot. The Y-shaped building enclosed a sunny cobblestone courtyard, and its brick planters would make a great place to soak in the sunshine while she waited for Mom and Austin.

  Hope made sure to keep an eye out for the van. Once she spotted it, she lifted an arm to point it out. “Van,” she announced, and continued toward the courtyard. The van was probably locked, but that wasn’t her problem. She’d done what Dess wanted.

  “Hey.”

  Hope rolled her eyes and kept walking. “Silver van, right there. Can’t miss it,” she said, pointing again in the vague direction.

  “Hey!”

  At Dess’s shout, Hope stopped, hands on her hips, eyes wide. “What?” she said through gritted teeth. In spite of her anger, she kept her voice down. Mom would have a fit if the church people got upset, and it would look horrible if anyone saw Hope shouting at a foster kid.

  Dess was leaning against the van, her arms crossed. The crumpled pastry bag was still clutched in her fist. “I want to talk to you.”

  “So talk.” Hope bit off the words. If Dess was just going to insult her some more, she was going to…“What?”

  “Are there a lot of gangs around here?”

  Hope blinked for a slow second. “Gangs? Seriously? That’s what you want to talk about? Gangs?”

  “Yes, seriously,” Dess snapped. “Gangs. Like, who’s in this area?”

  “Gangs,” Hope said flatly. “In Walnut Hills. No.” She turned on her heel and stared toward the church again. Whatever game Dess was playing, Hope wasn’t interested.

  Dess caught up. “Um, excuse me, but yes. There are gangs everywhere in California.”

  “In cities, yeah.” Hope shrugged. “Near big cities, like LA, yeah. But here? Dess, we’re two hours from decent shopping and high-rises.”

  Dess shot her a sidelong glance. “Motorcycle gangs are everywhere.”

  “Not in Walnut Hills,” Hope repeated. “In Walnut Hills, people drive fancy Japanese motorcycles to work, not chopped-out Harleys. In Walnut Hills, you might get run over by jogging strollers, not gangsters. Trust me, Dess.” Hope shook her head. “This is boring old suburbia. There aren’t gangs.”

  They had reached the courtyard. A few nicely dressed people stood in groups and chatted. Under an awning, an Asian woman was setting up plates of cookies and a coffee urn. An elderly man sat on the edge of a planter, his pale, wrinkled face tilted to the sun. Hope chose a spot close to the beginners’ room, where Austin was, and sat, carefully placing her cup of cider on a flat patch of dirt between flowering bushes. She rummaged in her bag and took a bite of a pierogi, glancing over as Dess sat beside her.

  Hope swallowed. “So what’s with the gang thing?”

  Dess leaned in, her voice low. “Did you see that guy at the coffee shop?”

  “Which guy?” Hope asked, checking her teeth for spinach. She took another bite, savoring the flavor.

  “The guy with the spider on his jacket and the tattoos all over his hands. He was right behind that guy with the stupid pants.”

  “Oh, him I saw. They were, like, red-and-black plaid? Fashion don’t. Anyway, I didn’t think he had any tattoos.”

  “No. I said, the guy behind him, stupid.” Dess sounded impatient. “You couldn’t miss him—he was huge.”

  Stupid? Hope felt a flare of hurt indignation. She gave Dess a cold look. “Sorry.”

  Dess made a sound of frustration and crumpled her bag. “I’m going to the van.”

  Hope closed her eyes and sighed. “Wait. Look, I’m not trying to be difficult, but you can’t keep calling me stupid, okay? What guy? He was huge…? Huge like fat? Huge like tall? Was he white? Black? Asian? Latino?”

  Dess hesitated, then settled again. “He was…white. Big. He had on a leather jacket. His jeans were all stained. He had tattoos on his hands, between his fingers.”

  “Huh.” Hope gnawed on her lip, trying to think back. “Between his fingers? A picture?”

  “A spiderweb between his first finger and his thumb,” Dess said in a low voice.

  Spider tattoos? Hope frowned. “Well, I did see a kind of scruffy guy with stubble and a leather jacket, but I didn’t look at his hands, really. I mean, I didn’t see tattoos.”

  “Well, he had one. It matched the spider on his jacket.”

  “So?” Hope raised her eyebrows encouragingly.

  “So he—he’s in a gang. And whatever you think you know about your little town here, you’re wrong. There are gangs here. There are gangs everywhere. Like I said.”

  Hope swallowed and wiped a smudge from the corner of her mouth. “Okay. So, is he from your old gang or something? Did you want to, um, contact him?”

  Hope cringed back as Dess’s face went from milky pale to blotchy red.

  “You are kidding me? I came from a group home, so now I’m in a gang?” Dess threw up her hands. “Why do I bother talking to your idiot self? I’m going to the van.” She stalked off, her passing noted by the people in the courtyard, who turned concerned looks on Hope. She bent her head over her cider with an embarrassed grimace.

  No matter what Mom expected, Hope apparently couldn’t do “kindness” with Dess, even when she tried her hardest. She couldn’t get the words right or the patient voice the way Mom did it. She couldn’t make Dess like her, no matter what.

  Nice job, Carter, Hope thought. You’re the best foster sister ever.

  “The library doesn’t hold police records.” The librarian looks across the counter at me, her gray eyes flicking up from the computer screen in front of her. “Are you looking for a specific crime or a specific criminal or—”

  “I…um…Just some information about gangs,” I say, and back up from the counter. This library has three of those self-check machines, so the librarians must get bored. This one’s way more interested than the one at Stanton High School.

  “I have plenty of nonfiction books on the topic,” the librarian says, moving from behind the counter. “If you’ll follow me to the 300s…”

  “That’s okay. I just…wanted to know something.”

  “Well, you’re in the right place, at least.” She smiles, and I look away. I don’t want her looking me in the face, trying to recognize me. She said hello to Hopeless when we came in, but she doesn’t know me. I’m surprised she didn’t say something about “appropriate” reading topics, like that social worker at the group home. Rena said information is free and knowledge makes you powerful. Everyone has the right to find out things.

  “There are plenty of books, statistical records, and that kind of thing on the shelves if you want to browse around by yourself,” the librarian says. “You can also find this on the Internet. Crime statistics are listed by cities. If you research ‘Walnut Hills city data,’ you’ll find police reports and the sorts of things they give to people who want to buy a house. There’s a lot of information—”

  “Thank you,” I interrupt. “I’ll look on the Internet.”

  I back away. The librarian’s eyes follow me. I think she wishes I would let her help, but I can’t. I don’t even know what I’m looking for.

  There’s one computer left, and I head for it at the same time some guy does. He looks at me like I’m going to back off, but he’s got another thought coming. Fortunately for him, a lady gets up from another computer and leaves. Good. I don’t have the time to beat down some loser who’s prob
ably going to try to look at naked pictures on the Internet.

  Using the search function, I leave the library system and find the Internet. If the Felon’s motorcycle gang is here in Walnut Hills, they’re selling drugs, probably. Maybe it will be in the local newspaper. That’s what they did before, I think—drink beer, sit around, and get money from all the people who came to the house late at night. It’s hard now to remember. When the Felon was there, he made Trish go out and get food, and he’d sit on our saggy couch—where was this?—and watch TV in the dark. Sometimes, Trish made food in a pan. Once there was a pan. And a kitchen. He hit her, and I remember a pan came off the stove and burned a black half circle on the rug. And I screamed. Then he hit me, and she screamed, “Don’t, Eddie! No!”

  I rub down the bumps on my arms. I hate thinking of this. I hate that, even locked up, he’s still got power. He’s like a big black spider, sitting in the middle of his web. I hate, hate, hate feeling that—

  I don’t care about Foster Lady or Hopeless or this stupid school. I only care about Baby. But I can’t just up and run out of here with him. I can’t take care of nobody who’s only four years old. I couldn’t take care of him when he was little enough to carry, and now I’d have to carry him and all his toys besides. And he’d holler. He thinks Foster Lady’s his mama now.

  What am I supposed to do?

  Farris shouldn’t have let me anywhere near Baby.

  “Dess?”

  I blink. Hopeless standing that close to me means she’s said my name more than once. I didn’t even see her.

  “Dess?”

  “What?”

  She rocks back away from me like I knew she would. “Jeez, don’t bite my head off. Mom’s here.”

  Oh. I stomp out my frustration all the way through the library, stopping at the door to throw my postcard in the mail. I hope Rena appreciates hearing from me.

  Hopeless trails after me, looking worried. “If you weren’t ready to get off the computer, you can use the laptop at home. I just have reading to do, so I don’t need it.”

  I shrug. It doesn’t matter.

  “Look…don’t stress, okay? If you’re working on a project or something, we have the encyclopedia online at home, too.” She’s walking too close to me, her hands balled up in her sweatshirt. “And, Dess, I didn’t mean to— I didn’t say I thought you were in a gang. I just…I don’t know anything about gangs. I just…Did you think the guy in the coffee shop was someone who knows your, um”—her voice drops to a whisper—“your family?”

  My foot lands on the rug in front of the automatic doors, and they open with a swoosh. I wince at the too-bright sunlight, then glare at my annoying companion. “You don’t know shit about my family, Hopeless.”

  She recoils at the name, and her mouth twists like she’s bitten into an orange peel. “I know enough,” she mutters, and moves away from me.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask, but her fat butt has some hustle in it after all. Hopeless gets to the van first, and she takes shotgun, too.

  Heifer.

  “You girls have a good time?” Foster Lady asks as the van door slides open. From his seat by the window, Baby gives me a glassy-eyed look, half-asleep already.

  “Fabulous,” Hope says, yanking on her seat belt.

  “Yeah, it was great,” I say, climbing in to sit next to Baby. I touch his fat cheek without meaning to and pretend I don’t care that it feels like peach skin. “Hope’s helping me with a project.”

  “Oh, is she?” Foster Lady glances from me to Hope, her expression tentative. “That’s…great. If you two want to keep working, I’ll make lunch. Maybe we’ll do a nacho bar?”

  Hope gives me a slitty-eyed look. “We’re done with our project, Mom. We did everything at—”

  I interrupt, “You mean bar nachos? Like, with cheese sauce—like you get at the bowling alley?”

  “A nacho bar is like a salad bar,” Foster Lady says. “I make my own cheese sauce, and there are peppers and tomatoes and onions and olives and beans to put on top of the cheese and chips. It’s way better than bowling alley nachos.”

  My taste buds ache. Right now I could kill for some nachos.

  “You don’t have to make us anything,” Hope argues, but she sounds weak. “I’m not really hungry, and I’m done working with Dess.”

  “We’re not done yet,” I mutter, and Hope glares at me.

  “We’re done, I said.”

  Foster Lady keeps talking, navigating through the half-mile trip home like she doesn’t notice. “Well, the sauce is in the freezer, so I’ll just put it in the Crock-Pot.” She glances over her shoulder. “Since it looks like the boy’s having n-a-p time early today, your dad and I can manage the prep—you girls come make a plate when you’re ready.” Foster Lady pushes the button for the garage door. “If you’re inspired now, by all means, keep working.”

  Hopeless gets bogged down with her library books—she checked out a stack of steampunk novels—so I’m right behind her when she slams her bedroom door in my face. I feel a little guilty for leaving Foster Lady with Baby, but I’ve got things to do. I go straight to my room, into the bathroom, and throw open the door on the other side.

  “Now, where were we?” I ask as Hope freezes.

  “Stay out of my room,” Hope warned, backing away until her legs hit the bed behind her. Her heart was pounding, but she refused to panic. She was a talker, not a fighter, yeah, but she had rights, too. If Dess stepped one foot into her room, laid a hand on her, just one—

  “I’m not in your room. I’m in the bathroom.”

  Hope crossed her arms. In her baggy white sweats, she felt like a polar bear, but without the protection of vicious teeth and claws. “Well, close the door if you need the bathroom. I don’t have to talk to you.” You rat-faced stick chick.

  “You do unless you want me to tell Foster Lady you’re talking trash about my mother—”

  “She wouldn’t believe you.” Hope lifted her chin. She hoped this was true.

  “Think she won’t?” Dess gave her an evil smile. “Your mom’s dumb as a big fat box of bricks. She’s dumb as you. All I have to do is tell her you aren’t being kind—”

  “Don’t you talk about my mother, you, you—” Hope’s fury ignited. Her brain felt packed with angry words, each jostling for their turn in her mouth. “You won’t ever be half the person she is. My mother is good, and smart—a lot smarter than you,” she managed. You vicious yellow-haired harpy.

  Dess gave another smile that was mostly a sneer with uptilted lips. “Oh, sure, Foster Lady’s totally onto me. That’s why she’s making me nachos.”

  Hope ignored this, fists clenched. She had to stop this now. She should just…walk away. Take a deep breath and walk away. That was unrealistic, though, with Dess standing there, sneering at her—

  Hope sucked in a breath and tried for calm. “What’s really wrong, Dess?” She moved aside her books and perched on the end of her bed, careful not to cross her arms. She tried a small smile, which she felt wavering. She dug her fingers into the bedpost. “Let’s get this all out in the open. What do you want?”

  “Nothing you’ve got, Hopeless,” Dess said. “You run your big mouth, but you don’t really know nothing about my family, do you?”

  Hope threw up her hands as heat roared into her chest. “I know your mom’s in jail, Dess. But you know what? I don’t care. Seriously, I don’t give a rat’s ass. I’ve been nice to you, nice like you don’t deserve, and all you can do is call me stupid, and talk crap to me about my mom? I’m done. I. Am. Done.” Skinny little gutter-mouthed troglodyte.

  Dess recoiled, hands raised in mock terror. “Ooh, Nice Girl’s done. I’m scared.”

  Hope talked louder. “The thing is, you’re completely stupid. At first I thought, ‘Okay, she’s had a bad life, give her a break, so what if she doesn’t want to hang with you? Maybe she has issues with black people. Maybe she might not want someone black to buy her coffee, which is dumb, b
ecause coffee’s coffee, but what ever.’ But then, Dess, you leave the coffee shop and freak out, and I didn’t laugh at you. I just tried to be nice, and I’ve kept trying to be nice, and all you can say is—”

  Dess interrupted, practically breathing fire, “My life is fine. And I’m not racist, so shut up! Just because I don’t want to hang with some stupid heifer who—”

  “Stop calling me heifer, you skinny stick!” Hope shrieked.

  “Well, stop being such a stupid dumbass!” Dess roared back. “Why you trying to call me a racist? I don’t have a problem with my own blood!”

  Hope flung out her arms. “Oh, dear Lord. Did I call you a racist? Nooo! I said you might have issues with black people! What I’m calling you, Dess, is evil. You are rude and evil and mean. You’re stupid and fake, and vicious and ungrateful and evil.” Hope’s voice grew more shrill with each repetition.

  “Oh, so I’m mean, boo-hoo-hoo. It’s better than being a big, fat, ugly, stupid princess. You’re such a princess, you don’t even know!” Dess snarled.

  “Princess?” Hope stared, disgusted. “You’re crazy—you know that? Who’s the one acting all high and mighty?” she sputtered. “You’re such a fake, you don’t even know what’s real. How am I a princess? The only one acting like a royal B around here is you!”

  Dess shrugged jerkily, then focused on picking at her nail polish, her jaw tight. “I know what’s real, Hopeless,” she managed. “You’re stupid. You don’t know anything.”

  “Don’t you ‘Hopeless’ me, Odessa Dessturbed! Odessa Desspicable!” It was a lame comeback, but Hope hated being called Hopeless. “If I have to be stuck with you till your crazy mom decides she wants you, you better stop calling me—”

  “Shut up! You don’t know shit about Trish, so just stop talking!”

  “Stop talking? You’re the one who came into my room! You started it!”

  “Well, it’s finished now!” Dess bellowed, slamming the bathroom door.

  Hope screamed at the closed door and kicked it several times. That troll-faced, raccoon-eyed, tone-deaf, gutter-mouthed, faking little freak! Hope stomped around the room, breathing heavily, kicking the wastepaper basket, the wall, and the bathroom door again. She wished it was Dess’s head she was kicking. That girl totally had it coming. Totally.