by Marcy McKay
Lizard Lady lets go of my coat, but holds onto my arm like I’ll bail if she doesn’t (she’s right). She says, “Miss Daniels, please remember I will not tolerate—goodness. What happened to your cheek?” She stares at all my bus scrapes.
“Long story.”
Her face softens. “Are you all right?”
I pull away, but stand my ground. “Yeah. Why?”
“Because I’ve never seen you here without your mother. Where is she?”
My heart melts a little since she’s the first person to understand our togetherness. I may even take her off my Enemy List, or at least bump her down a few notches. I swallow the saltiness of my tears, but my voice cracks anyway. “H-have you seen her?”
“Not since yesterday with you. What’s happened?”
I stare at my sneakers. “When I woke up this morning, she was gone. I don’t know …” My voice floats away. I still can’t say a Disappeared out loud.
“Have you called the police?”
“No way,” I snap. She should know better. She’s seen him hassle us. Nobody goes looking for cops.
“After you search for your mom, look at this new book on angels I ordered for you. It’s extraordinary,” she hands it to me. “I’ve noticed it’s a subject of interest.”
Angels. Home spreads through me, a warmth that’s got nothing to do with heat. This is one of the few places where that happens for me.
It’s a dark blue book with a hardcover and gold lettering on the front. Flipping it open, so many bright, beautiful colors fill the pages that they dizzy me. My eyes land on one angel with so much awesomeness that I can’t stop staring at him. He’s big and shiny, swinging a sword and crushing the devil, with a look on his face that says, “Hell, yeah.”
I can read “the” and “of” under his picture, but can’t make out the rest.
Lizard Lady points at the line, her pink nail floating along the words as she reads, “It says, ‘The conqueror of Satan.’”
The conqueror of Satan.
I like that.
She pats my shoulder, smiling. “I’ll have juice and cookies ready when you’re done.”
This proves why libraries rocks snot. It’s always the right temperature and the right story. The angel book calls to me. Everything inside me wants to curl up with it in a corner forever, or at least for a while, but I’ve got to find Mama. I need to glue my family back together.
My tongue tangles around my thanks to the Lizard Lady, so I nod and try to give her a movie-star smile. It’s pretty good, too, since my teeth aren’t jacked-up like Mama’s. While Lizard Lady gets my snack, I leave the book open to the badass angel, then head upstairs for a quick search.
ABCs dangle from the ceiling of the kids’ section. In the middle of the room, a freckly-faced boy sits in a real bathtub, the old-timey kind with lion’s feet for legs. I don’t know his name, but he’s wearing brand new jeans and sneakers. He’s also reading his book upside down. Rich doesn’t equal smart.
The Valentine’s Day posters still hang from yesterday. We couldn’t stay for the party ’cause we had a three o’clock. The man librarian with the round head and round glasses works at his desk. He never bugs us like Lizard Lady. The story-time room sits empty and my insides do the same. That’s where we sat and listened to Charlotte’s Webb.
I thought yesterday was just another day. I didn’t know I’d wake up to no Mama and no happiness. To make it worse, I’ve already missed Story Time today, so I don’t know if Wilbur wound up bacon or not.
More sadness bubbles up inside me. I don’t want to cry in front of these people, so I hurry along to search the whole second floor, including the bathroom.
Nothing.
My belly distracts me ’cause it growls so loud. Everyone stares and my cheeks scorch hot, but I hold my head up high and stare ’em like Mama would. I’m as good as these Somebodies.
I’ll loop upstairs to the reference section, though I’ve never understood why those books are so special that they have their own floor, but whatever. I can grab my juice and cookies on the way out, but the angel book will have to wait for later. I promise myself we’ll come back and read it from cover to cover as soon as I find Mama. Hopefully, this afternoon.
At the stairwell, the elevator doors slide open. No-Brains stands there—short black hair and walnut eyes. Dark pants, blue button-down shirt with a brown leather coat. That’s his detective uniform.
His stare freezes me to the spot. No sirens scream outside, but they’re wailing in my brain. I saw his gold name tag under his jacket once. It read NOBLITT instead of NO-BRAINS, but trust me on this one. He’s the size of a doorway and way worse than Lizard Lady. He wants to slap on the cuffs and haul me to juvie forever.
Our eyes lock tighter and I’m stuck for a sec, then my feet fly downstairs, even before I tell ’em to.
He chases me, yelling, “Copper, wait! Where’s your mom?”
No-Brains just replaced Officer Kirkland who retired after forever. We loved that roly-poly man ’cause he always left us alone. This new cop has only been on the job for two weeks, but it feels like he’s tortured us forever. He landed himself on my Enemy List his first day when he walked straight up to us like he owned Mama and started a fight with her. He wants to steal me from her and even said so. I don’t want to go to juvie.
His voice echoes down the steps, “I need to talk to you and your mother. Please, I just want to talk.”
I bet. He’s gaining on me. My breath pounds in my ears. My mind clangs with the sirens in my head. I can’t stop ’em.
He hollers, “I think your mom is in danger.”
Yeah, from you.
Leaping to the lobby floor, I knock over a magazine rack to slow him down. As I whiz past the front desk, Lizard Lady stands there holding my juice and cookies, chocolate chip—my favorite.
The angel book still lays open to that bright and beautiful creature in a rainbow of colors. Glancing at the picture, I remember what she read to me:
The conqueror of Satan.
Her face burns stop-sign red when she sees me, then looks away. That’s guilt splashing across her face. She called him. Narking lands her back on my Enemy List, though I don’t know who is #1 right now. Him or her.
Out the front door, I grab my sign and rush on down the block in the cold wind, then zip down back alleys, side streets and even through a drainage pipe. Places most people wouldn’t be caught dead.
Places I’ve spent my whole life.
CHAPTER 4
Downtown has ginormous buildings everywhere you look, so high that they block the sky. Freedom Bank’s the tallest building in the whole city and mirrored with so many floors I get dizzy counting. I heard the President of the United States stays at the Four Seasons when he visits. They’ve got first-class stuff in their Dumpsters. Once, we found a full coconut cream pie that we gobbled up. We pass through here at least twice every day on our way to and from Paradise. I like the leaving part best.
It must be lunchtime ’cause Somebodies crowd the street. Suits badmouthing some dude named Dow Jones. Poor guy, I don’t know what he did to them, but they want to hurt him for it. Plus, moms dressed all ooo-la-la to shop for stuff they don’t need and other folks wearing jeans and regular clothes. Two cabs almost collide at the corner, both guys honk and start yelling.
They don’t help my headache. I scan the pack again for anyone with hair like Cher.
Nope.
The traffic light turns red, so I wait. When we work a corner, this is what always happens: cars line up. Some folks help us out, but most fake-talk on their cell phones, pretending they don’t see us. The fancier the ride, the more they ignore. That hurts worse than my hungry. Whenever the light turns green, most cars drive on by, leaving our hands emptier than before. After it turns red again, new cars line up for the same pretending all over.
I don’t see bus #8089 around. Frustration builds stronger inside, so I sit to regroup at a round wishing fountain by Freedom Bank. Wate
r sprays up from the middle with glittery coins at the bottom—gold, silver and brown. These Somebodies are so rich they just throw their cash away. Still, Mama says to never take from here ’cause it’s wrong to steal other people’s wishes. Not everyone wants to go to California like us, but everybody has hopes and dreams.
You wouldn’t believe it from this spot, but just three blocks away starts Paradise—the meanest, nastiest, scariest place on the planet. Home of the freaks, the junkies and the whores, all trapped together in one place.
All this money here.
All that nothing there.
Staring into the perfect water, I take a penny from my pocket and hold it, debating. Mama would say I’m wasting my money, but I’ve got to pull out all the stops for us. I close my eyes, and say loud enough for the whole fountain to hear, “I wish I’d find Mama today.”
The coin makes a nice thoink sound, then sinks below.
Looking around, I still don’t see her and should’ve added ‘right now’ to my wish.
The Church of the Living Water sits across the street. It doesn’t look like the Eternal Peace chapel at all. There’s not even a cross anywhere outside. It’s just one huge, square building. The parking lot looks full, even though it’s not Sunday. I don’t know why ’til I find my answer parked up front.
A long, black funeral car—the kind that carries stiffers.
Here’s my chance. I hurry up the steps, then set me and my sign by the main door. The wind whips my hair as a couple passes by me. I hold out my sign and my hand to ’em. “God bless you, ma’am, can you spare some change? I’m hungry.”
The lady pulls her fur coat closer, but doesn’t even look my way. The man opens the door for her, then they go inside to hear about Jesus healing the sick and helping the poor.
Mama whispers in my ear, “Don’t worry, Copper Penny. There’s a feast waiting in heaven for folks like you and me.”
I sigh and take my sign back down the steps, but slower. Her words don’t fill me up today. There’s already too much missing her inside.
Leaving downtown, the buildings grow smaller, plainer and uglier. It’s like Mama equals downtown; Copper equals Paradise. I’m not that much of an ug-bag, but my pretty just hasn’t kicked in like hers. It better hurry up and bring me some boobs, too.
It’s turning into a gray day, with clouds that can’t decide to rain or snow. Both would turn me into a Popsicle. The sun keeps moving farther to the right, and I still haven’t found her, or a solid lead. This is way harder than it looks on TV.
At the train tracks, I stop. They’re the official dividing line between Downtown and Paradise. I rub Mr. Lincoln’s beard to work my guts up to do this.
He’s not helping, so I close my eyes and picture Ilana Sakowitz’s grave back home. She’s got a white marble square with a six-point star above her name in the middle. She’s buried with the Jews, before the Nobody Section. Ilana died in 1997 in her sleep. That’s how I want to go, too. Her story is one of my favorites of all.
Mama said that the Nazis broke into Ilana’s house in Germany when she was still a young mom, then made her pick which kid to kill—her son or her daughter. She refused and said to shoot ’em all dead. There was lots of screaming and crying. They even put a gun to her head, but she wouldn’t budge. For some reason, the Germans didn’t touch any of ’em and left. Ilana Sakowitz was a brave and courageous soul.
I’m trying to be one now, and repeat the same about myself. Like that, I tuck Mr. Lincoln into my pocket again, then cross over to the wrong side of the tracks.
People of more colors than crayons crowd the streets, all piled in layers of clothes to stay warm. You can’t walk down most sidewalks there’s so many tents, sleeping bags and just plain street-sleepers all packed together. The smell of human trash hangs in the air.
Welcome to Paradise.
It takes me a few seconds to remind myself to breathe, from scared as much as stink. The Street Killer didn’t get Mama. She’s been seen twice in the last few hours. She’s alive on bus #8089 somewhere.
The sooner I find her, the faster we can go read my angel book at the library. Just stick to the shadows and keep looking. A bus drives by, but not the right one.
After it passes, the hairs on back of my neck prickle. There, on the back of the empty warehouse across the road, I see new graffiti. It’s spray-painted red, the color of blood:
Dios Odia A Los Pobres
That’s Spanish. I just know odia means hate.
The gangs are always tagging walls and buildings, slanging and banging threats against each other all over town. It’s usually who rules this turf, who’s on their hit list, stuff like that, but my body still gets that pukey feeling. A sharp, metal taste crawls into my mouth.
A little Mexican boy runs by wearing giant blue ear muffs that match his coat, so I ask him about it. He says in a Mickey Mouse voice, “Dios Odia A Los Pobres.”
“What’s it mean?”
“God hates the poor.” Mickey runs away, but he said it so no-big deal. Like didn’t you know? God hates the poor.
The Street Killer.
The rumors must be true. My whole body shudders and I can’t make it stop, but at least swallow down my scared some. This is way worse than the gangbangers. It’s like a message straight from above. I fold myself up more and press on, but feel heaven’s hate following me, too.
By the Party Palace liquor store, I see a green 7-Up can stuck on top of the fire hydrant. That’s just litter to most, but it’s a secret sign just for me. My heart lifts an inch or two as I hobble around to the alley. I need a pick-me-up.
An old phone booth lays on its side, the kind where Clark Kent changes into Superman. There’s so much graffiti spray-painted on the glass you can’t even see inside, and that’s just how we want it. I look both ways to make sure no one’s watching, then open the creaky doors to step through.
Mai Wong sits there, beaming. She looks tinier than usual stuffed in her gray down jacket and baggy jeans. I’d give anything for her long, black ponytail. It’s much more like Mama’s than my mess of a hair. My friend’s eyes shine blacker than licorice, which I’ve only eaten once, but it was delicious. Mama found some in the trash for us, still in the wrapper. I’d never throw food away like that.
Mama says I’m a nickname kind of girl, but Mai Wong’s too pretty of name to change and she thinks it’s funny how I call her by her full name. Mai Wong usually wears that red bandanna around her neck like I wear my blue jacket, but it’s poking out from her coat pocket now. She should hide it better over here. Our families fly different colors. Mama isn’t in a gang. She’s way too smart for that, but you’ve still got to pick a color for protection. Even then, you die sometimes.
My part of Paradise is about ten blocks long. Her family’s turf is about the same, but her red here in the land of blue-and-silver could get us both murdered. We’re supposed to be enemies. We’re not even supposed to know each other at all.
Instead, we’re best friends.
We met each other a few years ago when me and Mama saved her life, but more on that later. Mama loves me going against society and all that, but Mai Wong’s family doesn’t know about us. It’s a secret. Especially, from her brother, Zhi Peng. He runs the Asian Assassins, and he’d assassin a piece of white bread like me for sure if he found out.
She tugs my hand to sit beside her, then studies my banged-up self. “What happened?”
“Mama went missing last night. I fell chasing her on some bus a while ago.”
“Are you okay?” She touches my scratched cheek.
It’s the first, real niceness anyone has shown me all day and not fake friendly like Lizard Lady. This is real. That same kind of library warmth stretches through me now, and I let myself be safe just for a few minutes. I’ll get back to looking, but it’s nice not to be so cold and lonely.
It’s like Mai Wong reads my mind and says, “You know the Street Killer didn’t get your mom. Zhi thinks the Street Killer is m
ade-up anyway. He says it’s Diablo and the Barrio Brothers offing people instead.”
Those names flip-flop my insides. The Barrio Brothers sell everything: weed, meth, crack. Diablo means one-stop shopping in Paradise.
Mai Wong says, “What are you going to do?”
“Save Mama, then get out of here.”
“How?”
“I don’t have a clue.”
“I wish I could go with you.”
“Me, too. How’s your brother?”
She sighs and folds her hands in her lap. “Zhi and his boys did a drive-by over here last night. Diablo’s gang was ready, so they scrapped.”
“What happened?”
“Koi got popped in the shoulder. The bullet just grazed him, but now Zhi hates Diablo even worse, if that’s possible. He said it’s payback time.”
It’s always payback time. We don’t talk, picturing the ugliness of revenge. Payback keeps these gangs going, and usually involves a stiffer, sometimes beyond the bangers themselves. Innocent folks get caught in the crossfire, too: a mama, a Copper, even a Mai Wong.
A weird quiet wraps around us both, worrying about our families. I picture Mama alone on that bus.
I think I hear a noise outside, then it goes away. These scratches on my palms burn worse as I use ’em to stand. “I better get back to looking.”
She says, “Be careful.”
“Always. Tell me one of Grandmother Wong’s sayings for good luck.”
“Try to save the dead horse as if it is still alive.”
“What’s that mean?”
“‘Do the impossible, for it may truly be possible.’”
“I like it. Thanks.”
Mai Wong hugs me. I haven’t been hugged since Mama yesterday. We shower some at the motel, but I know I still stink at times. Mai Wong’s nice enough to not mention it, though I do catch her breathing out of her mouth some.
My arms squeeze her extra tight. She makes my loneliness feel a little less alone. I love Mai Wong almost as much as Mama and food.
I step out of the phone booth first to make sure it’s safe. The real world rushes back again. The Street Killer, Mama, O’Dell, the Burger Hanch, Lizard Lady and No-Brains. Too many folks crowd my brain.
