by Marcy McKay
Stretching up to the Warrior Angel, I pat his feet goodbye and maybe for luck since Mr. Lincoln’s broken. My fingers glide over the grapes and vines chiseled around his pedestal.
Even now, he doesn’t give me a second look. I get that pretty much everywhere we go. My legs shake, still not sure about disobeying Mama, but a family of one isn’t much of a family. The sun stretches more color across the sky now, kicking the morning in the butt with pinks, purples and oranges. Mama loves days like this. I hate that we’re not watching it together.
Dang. O’Dell’s tires squeal against the pavement up ahead and his truck’s hauling this way. Here comes one of his drive-by ass chewings. He’s just fifteen, but works full time and hassles us double time. He usually drives a white Eternal Peace pickup, but that’s his truck since he’s just getting to work. It’s a total piece-of-crap and about the same color.
I stop in my tracks, remembering what O’Dell told Mama yesterday. “You two better leave today for good … or else.”
CHAPTER 2
Did O’Dell do or else to Mama? Did he turn her into the cops for trespassing? Did he kick her out himself? He’s speeding this way now. His uncle’s been the head groundskeeper here for years, so he thinks that gives him the right to make us keep off his grounds. I brace myself for him, hearing Mama whisper her #1 Rule above all others, “Don’t trust nobody but yourself.”
No problem with the Butt Munch.
He skids to a stop beside me and rolls down the window, his shaggy brown hair hanging in his pale blue eyes. He’s beanpole skinny and looks ridiculous in that green jumper, but the worst is his name patch on the left: Eugene O’Dell.
What kind of mama names her kid that?
He spits a brown glob of tobacco at my feet, but I’m so used to it I don’t budge. “Copper Daniels, where the hell’s your mom? I told you two to get gone, or else. In fact, you better not …”
I pounce on his arm and give it a good yank. “She’s gone! What’d you do with her?”
“Ow. Get off me.” He’s tugging on my hands, but I hang on tight.
“Did you really call the cops on her? If you did, I swear I’ll—”
He pries me off him. “What’s wrong with you? Of course she’s here somewhere. You two are home skillets like I’ve never seen. I can’t believe she even let you out of her sight for this long.”
“Don’t you see? That’s how I know something’s wrong. We’re always together. Yesterday, you said we’d better leave, or else.”
“And I see you didn’t listen.”
“I’ve looked everywhere for Mama. I think she’s, she’s …”
Disappeared.
Tears bulge in my throat, but I refuse to break down in front of him. I look across the sea of graves, picturing a headstone with Corrine Daniels on it. O’Dell doesn’t know what kind of day we had yesterday.
Another groundskeeper drives in through the main entrance, headed toward the warehouse. That gives me an idea. I shove my pride aside and say, “Drive me around to look for Mama.”
“Nope. I’ve got to get to work. I’m late as is.”
“Come on. If you help me find her, we’ll leave for good. I swear.”
“You’ll leave because I said so and that’s final. Besides, Uncle Butch says if I’m late again, I’ll get a pay cut. No dice. Your mom will turn up, she always does. She’s like a bad penny.”
He’s got no clue that’s what I’m holding in my fist. He keeps glaring at me, so I fling him one right back. “If anything happens to her, it’ll be all your fault.”
“If anything happens to her, it’ll be her own damn fault. I keep telling her the streets are no place for a single woman, much less a little girl.”
“I’m almost twelve.”
“Yeah, and I’m out of time. Seriously, don’t come back here, or I’m calling the cops for real.” He roars his engine, but doesn’t go. Grinning, he tugs on a strand of my hair. “I’d rather be dead and buried like a bump on a log, than red on the head like the dick on a dog.”
Gravel kicks up at me as he burns rubber and speeds away. He just moved up a notch on my Enemy List, even past Bird. He’s still watching me through his side mirror, so I flip him my O’Dell finger high in the air. The same one that made three cops leave their donuts and coffee to chase me thirteen blocks, then call in for backup, but still never catch me. This cemetery is my home, but the alleys are my backyard.
O’Dell sends his love right back out the window. I swear, that boy is like the itchy place under your armpit.
At the end of the cemetery in the Nobody Section, I peer through the black bars at traffic. Cars speed by from both directions with grumpy folks on their way to work. They’ll be just as cranky driving home this afternoon, though I don’t know what they’re like in between.
Rubbing my lucky penny, I can’t seem to make myself leave. A shiver zips up my spine thinking about all the badness out there. Mr. Lincoln stays in my left pocket and my right keeps everything else that’s mine: two dollars and seventy-three cents, plus a piece of chewed-up gum that used to taste like green apple.
I glance goodbye to all my buddies. Clara Elizabeth Moffitt was the first person ever buried here and one of the few standing graves in this part of the cemetery. She’s the short, skinny skyscraper over there. In 1888, her family was passing through town on their way to California for a better life, but she died of dehydration one week later instead. She’d just turned sixteen. That’s how old Mama was when she had me. She says the Moffitts were brave and courageous souls to go against society back East and to do their own thing here in Texas.
That’s us. We do our own thing, no matter who likes it. Folks wonder if we see ghosts out here, moaning and rattling around with chains.
Of course not. It’s as phony as a preacher’s lies. Besides, Mama says it’s not the dead you’ve got to be afraid of.
It’s the living.
She’s right. The trick to surviving is to fold yourself up and stick to the shadows.
As I slip through the fence, I say out loud in my best Mama voice, so all my body parts can hear, “You’re a brave and courageous soul, Copper Penny.”
It’s easy to be strong with her by my side. It’s trickier flying solo. There’s an extra bite in the air. My legs still wobble over leaving the known to the unknown, but I just keep my head down and march on towards the Burger Heaven.
Two blocks from the cemetery, I hurry along the street of a real neighborhood, even though they don’t have sidewalks. The houses are all one-story and peeling paint, with a few old mobile homes. There’s hardly any trees, but lots of cars propped up on bricks. The one place nice enough to have a chain-link fence, also has a yappy dog running around inside like a meth head.
Other than that, this block stays quiet. Mama says that Remington is smaller than Houston or San Antonio, but bigger than Austin or Fort Worth. I’ve never travelled anywhere, but she’s been to LA and even Vegas. She wore sparkly dresses and gave special dances.
I hustle by a little, white house with red shutters in the middle of the block. We pass by here all the time and definitely did last night. It’s seen better days for sure, but it’s still the nicest one on this street. A mommy, daddy and a baby boy live there, and their dog sleeping on the porch is Sugar. Mama says he’s an Irish setter. Me and him are both gingers, so we’re buddies. We play with him when no one’s around, but I don’t have time today. This is my favorite place I’ve never been. It’s where—
A white bus screeches at the corner, about one house away. It needs a bath worse than me. It stops behind traffic a sec, puffs smoke, then roars on down University like a mechanical monster.
I scream and chase after it ’cause of who’s sitting in the window seat now—long, black hair and a silver fur jacket.
Mama.
I watch the bus move on down the street, stealing Mama further away. There’s a picture of Mr. and Miz Jesus plastered on the side for their TV show, The Lord’s Power Hour. They
’re sort of local celebrities, but Mama can’t stand ’em. She’s sitting above his movie-star grin now and will flip when she realizes that.
She’s alive! She’s not a Disappeared. I zoom faster, hollering, “Mama!”
A tug-of-war fights inside me—so glad she’s okay, but so scared I’ll lose her again. Besides, we never ride the bus. It costs too much. We walk everywhere. I notice the number on back, #8089. The bus turns a corner, puffs some smoke, then it’s as gone as her.
“No!” I shriek, but keep trailing after it. Why is she leaving me all of a sudden? I wasn’t bad. Besides, it’s hard running on empty like this—lunch was forever ago.
By the time I reach the corner, all that’s left behind are bus fumes. My thoughts somehow tangle with my body, and before I know it, I’m stumbling and skidding across the road like a pebble. Skin rips from my cheek, palms and wrists in bloody slashes. I even tore a hole in these jeans. The burning stings like a bazillion bees, but that doesn’t hurt near as much as being left behind.
We had a good day yesterday.
Sort of. I make myself get up, my sore legs hobbling.
A geezer in a bathrobe and one scruff of white hair sticking up shuffles out from his mobile home. He’s headed for his newspaper.
I rush to his gate and jangle it. “My mama is on that bus and I need to catch it.”
“What?”
“My mom was lost, but I’ve found her. I need a car to go get her.”
“Shoo!” He waves his paper at me.
“Help me.”
Nothing.
“Please?”
Next, I hear a slam, then stare at his front door. So much for being neighborly.
Forget him. Mama is alive, she’s not at home, so I keep going. There’s a bus stop by the Burger Heaven. Maybe she’s there waiting for me there.
Maybe.
As I limp on down the street, all my skid marks blister with pain. I’m overheated from running, but still covered in a cold sweat over Mama. She’s getting a serious talking to for wandering off alone. The Street Killer didn’t get her. She’s alive and that’s not just something.
It’s everything.
The Burger Heaven is shaped like a real burger and sits on the corner of University and Stratton, beside the stoplight at I-40, not far from downtown. It’s open twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, year round. Cars come off the highway nonstop to go between here, the gas station across the street and the 7-Eleven next door. It’s a great corner to work ’cause lots of tourists pass through the city, even though yesterday was a bust.
There, I see … no bus … no Mama.
I feel even sicker and tell myself it’s just ’cause I’m so hungry, but my gut knows I’m lying. Out of habit, I start to take out my sign for work, but there’s no time, so I head to the back to search for her and maybe scrounge up some breakfast, too. We split some french fries yesterday. When we have extra cash, but that’s not a lot, we love the Cloud 9 Special. It’s our favorite meal, but they don’t feel the same way about us. The sign in the restaurant window says so in big, black letters:
NO LOITERING
It sounds like littering, but Mama says it means no hanging out unless you’re buying. The gas station won’t let us use their bathrooms, either. Nobody wants Nobodies.
One time, this rich guy gave us a hundred-dollar bill, so Mama gave him her own sort of daily special. He let me play with his cell phone in the front seat, while she took care of business in the back. Did you know that 7-7-3-4 upside down spells HELL? Mama took me out for pizza that night to celebrate. She drank a pitcher of beer and we sang Karaoke together. We did a killer duet of “I’m All Out of Love” ’til Mama cried.
7-7-3-4: HELL. That’s what Paradise is and the last place I want to go, alone or not. Mama better show up before then. I peek behind a pile of empty crates by the Dumpster overflowing with trash. It reeks of rotten meat.
She’s not here.
I bite my lip and kick a cigarette butt aside. Poor Mama’s probably starving after hurling so much last night. I knock over a crate with my foot and step up for some Dumpster diving. We need food.
The restaurant’s back door flings open and I jump. The Burger Hanch stands there holding two, black trash bags. Her round body is packed into an ugly baby-blue uniform and matching hat, but the stringy black mop on top is all hers. She’s run me and Mama off more times than I’ve got fingers and toes. She’s definitely on my Enemy List. Bird’s first, then O’Dell, then the Burger Hanch.
My legs gear up to go.
“Stop right there,” she shouts. I do, then she adds, “You’re not supposed to be here anymore.”
“Make up your mind. Do you want me to stay or go?”
“Don’t you dare sass me, girl. You’re as bad as your mother.”
“I’m looking for her now. Have you seen her?”
“I am so sick of you street scabs making this your home. She was so rude last night—”
“Wait. We didn’t see you yesterday.”
“Your mom did.”
“When?”
She waddles by, then tosses the trash in the Dumpster. “I don’t know.”
“I’ll leave if you tell me.”
The Burger Hanch sighs. “I guess around twelve-thirty, because I came outside for a smoke.”
That adds to the pain ’cause she was supposed to be home asleep with me. “Did Mama say where she was headed? It’s extra important.”
“You’re not gone yet.”
“I swear, swear, swear I’ll leave if you tell me what Mama said.”
“No, she didn’t say and I didn’t care. I just wanted her to get the hell out, like I do you now.”
“Whoa. So ugly.”
“Ugly is all you people understand. It doesn’t matter. I’ve already called the police.”
“Nuh-uh.”
She grins. “After last night, I told my staff if I’m ever gone longer than one minute to call 9-1-1. That’s them now.”
Sirens scream in the distance, with their whooping sound. Who knows who they’re out to hassle, but my mind sees those red-and-blue cop lights flashing down the highway for me. The silvery shine of the cuffs as he slaps ’em on my wrists. Inside, I snap to high alert, terrified it’s him. I don’t stick around in case it is No-Brains. My legs do what Mama taught me.
Run.
CHAPTER 3
My lungs and sides pinch from that marathon I just ran from the cops. Plus, I’m still starving. I could’ve eaten a whole Dumpster full of burgers. Panic gears up inside me again, but I remind myself I spotted Mama just this morning. The Burger Hanch talked to her, too. She’s around here somewhere, just beyond my reach. That’s why I need to keep looking. The library was our second stop yesterday, so this seems like my best bet.
The library was some snob’s home years ago that she gave to the city after she went to Adios Park forever. Mama calls it a Victorian ’cause it’s triple-deckered, with all those pointy roofs and swirly doo-dahs around the windows. It could be a mausoleum if it was made of stone. I don’t know what’s so special about Victoria to name a whole house after her, but that’s how Somebodies are. They’re always trying to outdo each other. I just want a little, white house with red shutters and a dog named Sugar.
The parking lot sits half empty and the flagpole clangs in the wind. My headache bangs worse over Mama. I pull my hoodie down, then tuck my sign behind the wooden bench by the entrance. We come here to get out of the hot or cold, depending on the weather and for Story Time. The library wants to keep us Nobodies in our place so much that they painted their rules on the glass door to remind us. I’ve got it memorized:
No bedrolls, blankets, duffel bags,
suitcases, or large plastic bags of
any kind in the building.
I start to tiptoe inside, then relax. Lizard Lady’s not at the front desk. My penny’s getting lucky again. As I glide my hand across the long counter with the book drop built in it, I think how Mama
may not give me a reading lesson today. I know my ABCs forwards-and-backwards, but adding ’em together into real words is way harder. We’re working on it though.
We usually hang out upstairs in the kid section, but I’ll check the main floor first. I love the warmth inside here and the booky smell—leather mixed with paper. It’s my favorite place I’ve actually been. Mama thinks cemeteries and libraries are different since one holds stiffers and the other holds books, but she’s wrong. They both carry stories, just one’s above the ground and the other is below.
Story time at the library is the best. I’ve been to a chocolate factory run by Oompa Loompas, I’ve battled that rat bastard Voldemort with Harry Potter and I know how to trick a person into white-washing a fence and thinking it’s fun. Whether you’re a Somebody or a Nobody, stories make us all the same.
I walk down every aisle of the main room, then check all the desks and private cubbyholes where folks study or read. I let myself soak in more smartness. It’s working, too. Last month, I didn’t know how to spell M-i-s-s-i-s-s-i-p-p-i, but now I do. Next, I search the computer room on the left and the movie section over on the right.
No Mama.
My insides hiccup at that, but I keep going. An old man with a full head of gray hair dressed in khaki pants and a nice shirt snoozes in a stuffed chair, with Time magazine on his chest. He naps under the sign on the wall that’s easy to read:
NO SLEEPING
Lizard Lady would’ve already given him the boot if he was homeless. The law is many things, but not equal. I heard that one time on Law and Order (our room at the Shangri-La has forty-two free TV channels).
Back in the lobby, I start to take the steps up to the second floor, but someone yanks me back by the sleeve. I see Lizard Lady and her scaly skin. The head librarian is the shortest person around who acts like a giant. That includes her brown hair piled up ten inches taller than the rest of her. She’s wearing a yellow dress and always smells soapy clean. Her blue-green eyes glare behind catty-eyed glasses. She’s one notch behind the Burger Hanch on my Enemy List.
