by Marcy McKay
No. No-Brains may be her brother, but he’s nothing to me. Forget that.
The envelope’s too thick for my sock, so I stuff it down my coat sleeve to keep safe. After I put the stone leaf back in place, I pat the Warrior Angel’s feet. I’m not sure if I mean thanks, good night or goodbye.
Back at the truck, Turdmouth reopens the door for me and I climb inside.
“Take all night, why don’t you?” O’Dell starts the engine. “What were you doing?”
“Looking for our sleeping bags you stole.”
“Give it a rest, girl. I told you I didn’t touch them.”
“Did, too. Drive.”
Turdmouth says, “I’m glad she rides your ass as bad as mine.”
“She’s worse than a lawnmower.”
I’m trapped in the middle of their guy sandwich.
O’Dell says, “Where to now?”
Turdmouth’s blank face must match mine. I still haven’t figured out where to spend the night. There’s too much to try and keep up with in my head.
O’Dell says, “Want me to unlock the Main Mausoleum for you?”
“No, it’s not safe here at all. We need to get away fast.”
“You two could crash at my house. My mom wouldn’t mind.”
Niceness from the Butt Munch keeps catching me off guard. I don’t want to owe him, and his mom would probably take one look at us and call the cops. I’ve got enough problems, so I say, “Thanks, but … oh, wait. I know where to go.”
“Where?”
“Drop us off at the Burger Heaven at University and Stratton.”
“How will I reach you if I learn anything new? Especially about that Diablo guy?”
“Give me your cell number. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
“Okay, but no more digging up dead dogs. You really do reek.”
“No more letting ’em die on your watch.” As we drive away, I take one last look at the Warrior Angel and the last spot I saw Mama.
Alive.
CHAPTER 31
Me and Turdmouth huddle between two empty cars in the parking lot of a twenty-four-hour Laundromat, Self-Service Suds. We’re a few blocks past the Burger Heaven. Through the glass windows that stand floor to ceiling, we watch one guy sitting there alone by the dryers. He’s got stringy black hair to his shoulders and the palest skin I’ve ever seen.
Pasty White reads some girlie magazine, turning it this way and that. My cheeks blush at seeing something so nasty with Turdmouth. We can’t go inside ’til Pasty White finishes looking at bush and boobies.
These cars block us some from the cold. There’s no Diablo wailing wind around here, but that doesn’t stop the crying in my heart. Sugar will never lick me again and I hate thinking about his poor family. That nice couple woke up this morning and wondered why they couldn’t find him anywhere. They probably still don’t know they’ll never see him again. I can’t tell ’em what happened ’cause I can’t say it’s my fault.
Plus, No-Brains says he’s my uncle. I can’t find Mama to learn if he’s lying or not, or why she’s caused so much trouble lately. If that’s not bad enough, Diablo will kill me tomorrow if I don’t repay him his thousand bucks.
That’s about twelve hours from now and I’m still short a hundred bucks. I rub my lucky penny. I’d rather do anything than go back to Paradise, but it doesn’t seem to matter. Diablo keeps popping up everywhere I go. I just want to fall sleep and figure out this mess tomorrow. I want to go inside, so my brain orders Pasty White like a witch’s spell: go to sleep, go to sleep, go to sleep …
Another hungry growl rumbles from my belly. I tell it there’s no more food tonight, but that doesn’t shut up the wants. I need out of my head and want to clear up a few things up with Turdmouth. “You were right. We should’ve followed Diablo.”
“No. You were right. It was too dangerous, but I still don’t want you to go to him alone tomorrow.”
“We’ll see.”
“‘We’ll see’ always means ‘no.’”
I giggle. “I’m not sure I’ve got it in me to go back to Paradise again.”
“I don’t blame you.”
A few more snowflakes fall as the fuzzy moon presses these worries down harder. I shock myself by asking him, “Do you believe in angels?”
“Huh?”
“You know … angels, ghosts and stuff. Something out there beyond us.”
“For real?”
“Yeah.”
“What made you think of that?”
“Almost dying a few times lately.”
He laughs, then tilts his head away. His Hershey-Bar brown eyes watch the night so serious. I’m not sure what he’s thinking ’til he says, “Well, I don’t know, but there’s definitely stuff out there that makes no sense.”
“Like what?”
“Last week, I pissed off Eddie Loco’s little brother.”
“Which one?”
“Spider. He was chasing me through Paradise. Part of me wasn’t scared since he’s such a short, fat punk, but his switchblade is way bigger than my pocketknife. Plus, he’s nuts like his brother. Spider cornered me in the alley behind Diablo’s hangout, but somehow I got away. I don’t mean I escaped, it’s like something sucked me out of there.”
I nod, knowing that feeling.
He says, “I’m still not sure how I made it out alive, but don’t have no clue how to explain it. I’d like to think there’s something better out there than the BS those preachers push on us.” His shoulder nudges mine. “What about you?”
“I don’t know. I’d like to believe that, but it seems more like fairytales … Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny and stuff.”
“Maybe, but it’d be cool to have a badass Batman against all the Diablos of the world.”
That reminds me of the angel book at the library yesterday, that bright, beautiful creature on the page … the Conqueror of Satan.
He really does get it. We’re flipsides of the same coin—a girl with no mama and a boy with no daddy. I so want to tell Turdmouth what really happened last night with my attack, about that soft kiss to my cheek like the wing of an angel, how something saved me from death. Especially since he thinks the Warrior Angel is kick-ass, but I can’t explain it without sounding crazier than Corn Dog.
Maybe tomorrow.
Turdmouth’s face changes. He watches me so hard and his eyes say so much, but I can’t read ’em. Is it good? Is it bad? What’s he trying to say? I feel my cheeks burning and wipe my nose fast to make sure there’s no boogers.
“What?” I finally say.
“Nothing.” He turns back to watching Pasty White. I guess I said my spell out loud at some point, because he says now, “Go to sleep, go to sleep, go to sleep …”
I giggle and say it with him. It feels good to laugh. Sugar makes me hope more than ever that Salt and Pepper are safe tonight, warm and fed in spite of their crap-sandwich mama. Bird doesn’t deserve those boys. I hope Mai Wong and her parents are okay, too. I’m still not sure how I feel about Zhi Peng, but she’s my best friend, so I guess I want her brother safe, too. Most of all, I hope Mama and Turdmouth’s pops show up tomorrow.
Our command works on Pasty White ’cause his head drops back and his girlie magazine falls to the floor. It looks like he’s snoring.
Turdmouth starts to go, but I tug at him. “Let’s wait.” I say, but shiver inside my coat.
“Screw that. I’m cold.” He starts walking through the parking lot, so I follow. The door tings above us.
Pasty White moves, then quits snoring.
We freeze and stare at each other. My heart stops for a full beat or two, while Turdmouth snickers. I give him a “be quiet” look, but that just tickles him more. Pasty White doesn’t wake up. His buzzing starts up again, even louder than before.
Turdmouth tiptoes away from him, to the left, and I trail behind him. It smells sudsy clean in here. The washers and dryers look super old and are the color of pee. Two rows of dryers make a U-shape along the wall
s, one on top of the other. Two rows of washers sit in the middle of the room, side-by-side on the floor.
Pasty White used that front washer ’cause it’s rocking and we hear the laundry spinning around inside. His clothes crammed in the basket smell April fresh like the commercial says. I’d like to wash the stink of death off us, but that won’t happen tonight, either.
We check everywhere for a blanket, sheets, or something to keep us warm, but there’s nothing. I don’t want to steal one of Pasty White’s T-shirts ’cause I can use my jacket for a pillow. I’m too short for a top dryer, so I pick a bottom one in back. The washers will block us down here, too. My fingers and toes throb as they thaw from my gloves.
Turdmouth opens the dryer door to the right of mine so we’re neighbors. He watches me extra hard again and weirdness crackles between us. I’m still not sure what’s wrong. My heart beats faster.
He stares at his boots, knocking one against with the other. His face turns stop-sign red and I think he might hurl. When he looks up, I can’t read his eyes, but they still butterfly my insides. It’s a twisted, tumbly feeling I don’t understand.
“Ummm …” he says.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing, it’s just.” He glances at Pasty White, then the floor, then back at me. “I found this and cleaned it up. It’s not really a present, but I don’t want it, so, well … here.” He shoves something tiny into my hand, then climbs into his dryer and slams the glass door behind him.
I didn’t even get a chance to say thanks. My fingers already know what it is before I see the pink, candy heart in my scratched palm and can even read what it says:
MISS YOU
As I curl up in my own metal bed now, I don’t know what to think about Turdmouth or this heart. I’m so confused. My mouth yawns, extra thick with sleepy, so I give up trying to figure anything more tonight. Lying like this, the envelope pokes my gut, so I fold it and hide it in my coat pocket, then turn my jacket into a pillow. I tuck my street sign underneath and keep my feet front and center in case Pasty White goes for my bush or boobies. If he does, I’ll turn him bloody red.
He’s still snoozing outside, so I tell myself it’s okay to do the same. I use my own witch’s spell on me: go to sleep, go to sleep, go tosleep …
It’s the same dream every night. I dream about Egypt. Not Egypt, the place, though I’ve read about it at the library, but Egypt—the girl. O’Dell said I called out her name when he woke me up this morning.
Me and Egypt played together when we were little. She was my best friend long before I even knew Mai Wong. Egypt had the greatest laugh—loud and deep from her belly. She wore her wavy, brown hair long, way longer than Mama’s, with sky-blue eyes and freckles sprinkled across her nose.
Mama potty-trained us both. She made such a fuss about taking us to Mission for Dopes to pick out our “big girl” panties from the donations room. Egypt’s hand-me-downs were pink with Cinderella on ’em. Mine were green with little gold stars.
I liked hers better.
Egypt had a bad mama. My family keeps rules about what Mama does, but Egypt’s mom did anything with anyone anytime, as long as they had cash. Egypt’s mama was a crack whore. A few years later, she and her pimp figured out they could make more by renting out Egypt, instead.
The first time it happened, Mama had just started teaching us both our ABCs. Egypt didn’t like books. She always wanted to build rock cities instead. We’d wash ’em in the gutters of Paradise. She could do that all day.
She’d just set down our favorite rock onto our fort, it was extra dark and smooth. Egypt smiled so happy. All of a sudden, her mama snatched her up from the sidewalk and shoved her to a man in a nice suit.
She gave him Egypt.
He gave her cash.
Egypt didn’t know what was going on and hollered like crazy, kicking and beating her fists on him. “Let go! Mommy, make him let go!”
He walked away faster and she stretched back more, screaming, “Mommy, Mommy, Mommy!”
I didn’t understand, but still reached for Egypt, crying back her same words. “Mommy, Mommy, Mommy!”
She bawled worse in the backseat of his fancy, white car. I tried to help her and couldn’t take my eyes off the letters on his hood: BMW.
Mama got to me before I could save Egypt. Mama grabbed my hand and yanked me hard the other direction. I cried ’cause Egypt cried, but Mama said the same thing over and over as she held me in her arms and carried me away. “You can’t undo what’s been done …”
Mama took me to 7-Eleven for my favorite bubble gum and shared her cherry Slurpee with me, too. Later that day, we saw Egypt and her mom back on their same corner like it never happened.
A good mama buys her daughter gum.
A bad mama sells her daughter for crack.
Egypt and me played together some more, but she changed after that day. The BMW stole her laugh. She wouldn’t touch our rocks anymore, she started hitting me and threw away her Cinderella panties, too.
Then one morning, Egypt and her mama disappeared. We never saw ’em again. Paradise swallowed ’em up whole. It happens on the streets.
It happens a lot.
I wake up now, my clothes wet with sweat, hollering like Egypt all those years ago, “Mommy, Mommy, Mommy.”
I feel a scream, a jerk, then another shout. Mine and someone else’s, but I don’t know whose. I’m not sure where I am or what’s happened ’til I hear and feel my voice bouncing around inside the dryer.
The Laundromat.
Is it Turdmouth?
Nope. A lady with a hairy chin points at me, her mouth stuck in a furry yell.
“Morning, sunshine.” I grab my street sign and jacket, then pop past her, flying by all the laundry folks.
Turdmouth’s dryer door hangs open. He must already be outside.
The sun shines bright on Pasty White’s empty chair from last night. I must’ve slept a long time, but I’m still tired. Hungry, too. We should go to the Burger Heaven and scrounge up breakfast.
The exit door tings as I throw on my jacket and rush outside. I can’t move ’cause it dumped snow last night. It covers my tennis shoes over my ankle, so that’s a couple of inches. The glaring white blinds me a sec and I wobble to keep my balance.
When my eyes finally adjust to the brightness, Turdmouth’s nowhere around.
He’s gone.
That’s when I check my coat pocket for my cash and lucky penny.
They’re gone, too.
CHAPTER 32
My world turns topsy-turvy again. I can’t find my footing. Panic strangles me and I can’t breathe. The air stays buried beneath the snow, or maybe Turdmouth stole that, too. He took everything else. I check all over for my cash—my jacket, my jeans, even my socks, but it’s gone.
All eight hundred eighty-one dollars and one cent.
I stumble back and hit the Laundromat’s giant glass window. The bearded lady glares at me, while folding her ugly laundry.
That sends my legs running. It’s hard to trudge along banged-up like this through the deep snow, but I keep going. Wetness creeps into my socks like the truth. Turdmouth wasn’t my friend at all. He’s a thief and a liar. I can’t believe I fell for the oldest con in the book; Mama calls it smoke-and-mirrors. He gave me this stupid candy heart to distract me from my cash.
I picture the pretty pinkness in my pocket right now—MISS YOU.
Here’s my message back to him—YOU’RE DEAD.
The bottom of my jeans are getting drenched. I’m shivering. The one place I have to go now is the last place on earth I want to be.
Paradise.
Turdmouth made that decision for me and he’ll pay for it twice as much. He’s probably there looking for his daddy this sec. That, or spending my money. I told Turdmouth I was done with people after we found Sugar murdered, but that jerk sealed the deal for me. They lie, they hurt, then they leave.
Downtown, most of the sidewalks are shoveled and clean, but m
y chills won’t stop. There’s a few business suits out this morning, but they’re bundled up warm in their fancy coats. No one’s sitting or standing near the edge of the fountain.
Good.
As I race by, the pretty coins sparkle at the bottom, all shiny and glittery. Ripping one glove off, I scoop up some cold, wet change, then rush away. I’ve got no clue how much is here, but it’s more than what Turdmouth left me.
Yeah, Mama said to never steal from the fountain, but everything is different now. Since my dreams will never come true now, to hell with everyone else’s. Bite my ass, world, then buy me lunch.
After the business district, I crossover the railroad tracks into Paradise. There’s no need to remind myself I’m a brave and courageous soul today. I’m out for blood. Of course, nothing’s shoveled on this side of town. Nobodies never get it cushy as Somebodies—not here, not at the cemetery, and definitely not in real life.
Most cars are stuck in the snow drifts. That red van keeps spinning its wheels, while rocking back-and-forth, but it doesn’t budge. There aren’t many folks out today, so Paradise looks like it’s wearing a fancy snow coat, all dressed-up in its white fluffiness. A newcomer might think this looks pretty.
Pretty is a lie.
Everything is a lie.
Mama hates weather like this ’cause she always worries about us turning into popsicles. Not enough to change or get us out of here, but hey—Corrine Daniels worries. Big, fat deal.
There’s a huge white drift against the empty warehouse that hides most of the graffiti, so today’s message is just the facts:
hate
afraid
I hate Turdmouth and he should be afraid. It’s easier to see there are no Barrio Brothers or cops around this morning, but that leaves me sticking out like a sore thumb. I pull my hoodie deeper over my head and hope my luck gets better, even with no penny. That coin was the only thing totally mine. Besides, I don’t ever remember coming here without Mr. Lincoln. The cold burns my frozen cheeks.
My stomach growls, loud and angry. I tell it we’ve got to kill Turdmouth first, but that just upsets my belly worse.
