And I gotta get Ben his truck back. He’s riding bitch with Slim ‘til I can meet them at our next stop outside of Detroit. I glance at the little girl. “Yeah, of course it hurt. Where’s your parents at, kid?” I ask out of pure kindness, not because I care.
“Don’t have none. I’m homeless. A vagabond, if you will. No one wants me and I’m just fine with that. What’s your name?” she asks, and even though I don’t want to, I chuckle.
“Vagabond, huh? You can’t beat that. I like that, actually. I’ve been calling myself a roamer. Or nomad. But vagabond has a much better ring to it. Name’s Jacques, and you? What’s your name, little one?”
“Jacques. There’s a reason I’m still here. There’s a reason I’m a successful vagabond-slash-homeless kid and that reason is I don’t tell strange boys my name. Ever. It’s a rule my sister and I stick to. Now, by any chance, you wouldn’t happen to be missing a bag would you… Jacques?”
I’ve scrambled from the ground quicker than she can finish her words, “Hey! You little brat! Give me my bag! Yeah, I lost it. It’s a black leather one. Have you seen it? Look, kid—” Her little feet landing dead in front of me stops my words.
And I step back a bit, trying to give her some space.
I don’t want to scare her; she’s no bigger than a minute. I realize this the instant she’s in front of me. All of her is less than four and a half feet. And I don’t care how big this me-against-the-world act is she’s pulling, I don’t believe it. She’s no more homeless than I am. She’s just a little girl who’s used to running her mouth loud and long enough to send most people running. But nuh-uh, I clocked her little butt. I know her game. I played the same one for almost a year after my mom died.
I also know I don’t have time for this shit.
“Kid, if you know where my bag is, just give it to me. I have somewhere to be and it ain’t here.” My words are calmly spoken, and in a hushed voice as I approach her slowly, keeping both hands held up to show, I don’t know… trust? So she can see there’s not anything in them. “Did you take it from the parking lot, my little vagabond?” I chuckle. “I won’t be mad. I just need it back, that’s all.”
But I don’t think she’s buying it. Especially when her hands land on her hips. “Why? What’s in it that’s so important?” she asks, and I almost lose my cool. Almost.
“Umm…how about adult shit. Like credit cards. And my driver’s license. My cigarettes. Do you speak to all adults like this? You know what, it doesn’t matter. Where’s my bag at, kid?”
I catch her looking over her shoulder towards where the actual park is for the second time, and it dawns on me just how far we are away from the other park-goers standing beside the trees skirting the park when I zero my eyes on hers. “Do I need to drag you over to where all those nervous-looking adults are clucking around? They seem to be searching for something…or someone. How long have you been on your own, again?” I have to swallow hard in order to keep the chuckle down when her wide anxious brown eyes shoot back up to mine while her two front pearly white buck teeth nibble on her bottom chapped lip.
“I didn’t take your bag. Mildred did.” She cocks her head towards the gathering of adults and I realize she’s showing her cards. She’s putting them all on the table. “She took your rolled up cigarette too, by the way. There wasn’t a pack. Oh, and she took your necklace. She said she thought it was hers or something. Anyway, look—don’t mention it to anyone, but I swiped your bag when they weren’t looking—tossed it in the boys’ bathroom. She was going to take it back with us and give it to the cops. So, you can thank me for saving it.” She harrumphs. Harrumphs. And smiles as though I now owe her the world…
And it’s at this point I can’t hold back the chuckle lodged in my throat for another second. I laugh at her and only barely stop when I see a look of hurt cross her face. Then I see the tears well up and gather on top of her bottom lashes, and stop all together.
“It’s not nice to laugh to people.” Her bottom lip quivers and I immediately feel like an asshole and step forward.
“Hey. I’m sorry, kid. Okay? Please—don’t cry.” I wince when I realize that I’m the one sounding as though they’re in pain now. “Look, you did a good job with my bag. I just hope you didn’t toss it in the pisser. But even if you did, you did a good job, and I appreciate you. Okay?”
She sucks her lips into her mouth before biting and nodding then she wipes away any traces of tears. “Mm-kay.”
“Those your people?” I nod to the adults and frown when she shakes her head.
“No. I don’t have any people.” Her dark brown eyes look out over the lush expanse of green grass across the park’s strolling field. And surprisingly, I don’t see the tears I hear in her voice when she quietly speaks. “You forgot, Jacques. Already, you forgot. I don’t need people. I’m a freaking vagabond,” she says.
Then, after she looks up at me and smiles the biggest smile I’ve ever seen, positively beaming at me, she spins around and runs towards her people. And on my entire way to the men’s bathroom, I chuckle at the little girl’s cute overactive imagination.
Like usual, I didn’t last much longer in Chicago. However, truth be told, I actually lasted a lot longer in Chicago than I ever had anywhere else. Well, besides when I was little and lived with Mom. Before we were taken away the first time. Before Eden and I turned four.
After the mix up at the park a few years ago—I think it had something to do with some confusion as to which day of the week we were supposed to meet—my mother returned to New York with Eden and without me. Then her new job fell through a few days after, and the last I heard Eden was going back to live with her dad. And me?
Well, I went back to live with Donna, the foster mother I started living with when I was in the third grade. Which has sucked every day since, I can promise you. It’s not that I don’t like Donna, it’s just that she’s not my mom. And I want to be with my mom; I want to be where I belong. My thoughts take a turn for the worse in the middle of third period, and after I slide the cross charm thing on my necklace back and forth a few times, I pop it back between my lips and hold it there while I grab my pencil and scribble the last few notes my English teacher wrote on the board when the bell rings.
“Don’t forget, students. All Edgar Allan Poe essays are due this coming Monday. And don’t forget. Format!” I push my arms through my backpack straps while blowing my short dark bangs out of my face then head towards the door leading to the hall when my teacher, Mrs. Davis, calls my name. “Ms. O’Malley. I received a note during class. The assistant principal needs to see you. Stop by his office on your way to Algebra.” Her voice sing-songs and I have to tense to keep my mouth shut. I used to grit my teeth. A lot. Like a lot, a lot. But since Ms. Donna had these stupid braces put on me, I can’t. Gritting equals breaking brackets, and breaking brackets means getting slapped in the mouth. One slap for every bracket. “Shit costs money, brat.” That’s Donna’s award-winning slacker boyfriend, Darrell, for ya. He’s such a charmer.
I smile kindly at Mrs. Davis, though; it’s not her fault the system is failing. “Yes, ma’am. I’ll head there now,” I tell her, then make my way from the classroom.
I’m so nervous on my way to the office. So freaking nervous—I can’t even deal. I’m sweating profusely by the time I make it to Mr. Johnson’s office. Especially because I’m ninety-nine percent sure I know what this is about. And I’m fairly certain it has something to do with my rainbow bag that went missing the other day. I told Lacy I’d hold her cigarettes on Monday because she’d just gotten a new pack and her mom had been going through her backpack randomly all last week.
I knew it was only a matter of time before it resurfaced. And took my butt down with it. I look over my shoulder before wiping my sweaty palm against the front of my uniform skirt and then softly knock, silently praying that the assistant principal has stepped away from his office.
“Come in.” But, no such luck for Eve. Or…it’s even fu
rther evidence that no one is listening to me upstairs. Just like Darrell always reminds me. After I’ve turned the doorknob, I walk in and duck my head once I’ve awkwardly smiled at the vice principal. “Hey, Mr. Johnson. Mrs. Davis said you needed to see me?”
Our eyes meet once he looks up from his desk and he blinks at me a few times. “Oh. Yes, of course.” He sets a file to the side. “Not that one of the matters is of any relevance at this point—I do still want it mentioned. We found your school ID in a bag or a purse of some sort. It was in the shape of a rainbow. Does any of this sound familiar?”
I blink, doing everything I can to look stupid for the first time in my life. “A rainbow? Wait, someone cut my ID into the shape of a rainbow? Or the backpack was in the shape of a rainbow? Who’d cut an ID into the shape of a rainbow…” I let my words drift off and shrug, actually pulling off ignorance. Brilliantly, too, I must add. And I gotta tell ya, it worked like a charm. It must have, because his next words had nothing to do with his first.
“Sweetie, you’ve been in this school district how long?” he asks as he picks up another file from the edge of his desk then begins flipping through it.
I cough to clear my throat. “S-since the third grade.”
“And you’re in the seventh now, correct?” His eyes won’t meet mine, and suddenly, out of nowhere, I feel the hair on the back of my neck stand on end.
I don’t like his questions. None of them. The only time adults mention the past is when they’re about to change your present and screw your future. I’ve been around the block a few times—I know the key terms to listen for. And I don’t like where any of his words are going.
“Correct,” I answer, even though I’m now on full alert I need more information. I need to know how much trouble I’m in for Lacy’s dang cigarettes. I need to know if Donna and Darrell have been told about it yet, too. But more than anything, I need to know what it is in that damn file Mr. Johnson keeps looking so intently at. Because I have a feeling it holds the key to everything that’s about to occur in the next few minutes.
My muscles bunch like little coils around my bones and wait.
“They’ve called in a social worker, it seems. I’m not sure whom, not yet. But the report was enough to warrant a social investigator to visit the school this morning. They want to meet with you today. After your last class. The information I’m allowed to give them is limited. So, I asked that they return when you and your guardian are available. I’ve already contacted Donna. She said she’d leave work on time to be here at three.” He flips his file closed before standing and pausing behind his desk. Patiently waiting for a reaction from me, I assume.
But at this point, I couldn’t really care less what he does. He could go fly a kite straight out of the window for all I care. I’ve heard enough. He said what I needed to hear. I nervously lick my chapped lips and glance at the clock on his desk before clearing my throat. My thoughts are like rampaging bulls, wreaking havoc on the attempt at calmness in my voice when I ask, “And what do they want?” I pick for any and all extra information I can accumulate for myself at this point, while calculating how much time I have and which classes I’ll make it to one last time. “Like, what’s this all about? I didn’t do anything wrong. Did I?”
Okay, I’ve done plenty wrong. But had I not done it, I wouldn’t have the extra money stashed away in Darrell’s shed behind the house that I’m going to need in a few hours, would I?
“Actually, I’m not really sure. I thought Donna would be able to give me an answer to that question as well. But all I know is what the investigator told me, which isn’t much. About the same as what you and Donna know.” He motions for me to leave, but I hesitate.
I wait. Waiting for what, I don’t know. Someone to make all this crap right, I guess. I stand, but stop before leaving his office. And I hate myself for it, but I hesitate again. “But am I in trouble?” I plead for him to answer.
Probably…maybe because I don’t want to leave. Maybe ‘cause I’ve grown fond of the money I’ve been collecting, both by stealing (sometimes) and finding, as well as earning. Maybe it’s Donna. Or maybe I really like the new zebra comforter set she bought for my bed at K-Mart. Maybe it could be a million things, but for a second, I really really don’t want to leave Chicago. I don’t want to leave Mr. Johnson’s office. I don’t want to have to run away.
I’m afraid I won’t be able to find my mom. For the first time in my life, I think I’m old enough to be smart enough to actually think there’s a possibility I won’t. Three-hundred and seventy-eight dollars and seventy-three cents is a lot of money for a thirteen-year-old kid. But not for a kid traveling from Chicago to New York. And that’s based on where my mother was the last time I spoke to her…which was three months ago? Maybe?
So, yeah. I hesitate. Probably for many reasons, I hesitate. But then when the assistant principal of Northwest Middle High just shoos me from his office, I reconcile that this is it. I roll my eyes and resolve for myself that after tonight, for the first time in my life, I’m actually going to be exactly what I proclaimed I was to that boy in the park the day I thought I was getting my mother back.
A vagabond. A freaking homeless.
Great, Eve O’Malley. Just. Great.
***
I waited until after fifth period to skip and leave school. That gave me plenty of time to get into the house, pack my bag then swing by the shed, grab that bag—after digging it up, of course—and then get to the bus station, and hopefully be on a bus by the time three o’clock rolled by and Donna Mitchell pulled up into the school parking lot. And I had an ample amount of time—I made sure of it.
After going through my cash and counting out how many packs of snack crackers and bags of chips I had, I saddled myself down with all my duffle bags and headed down one of the back roads towards the bus station. I slipped a twenty-dollar bill in my pocket before I left the house and hid the rest of my cash in my shoe, mainly on purpose to keep it from falling out of my little pocket. But the extra hidden factor and split up maneuver made it sheer genius. It also made it easier to count out the money I owed when it came time to pay the Circle-K cashier for my bottles of water. Once I was loaded down with as much as I could carry, I made my way into the bus station.
Now, I didn’t know if my momma was in New York. But what I did know was that there wasn’t anything left in Chicago for me…at least not anymore.
After little thought and even less debate, I decide to buy a ticket for the bus departing for New York City at 2:15. That’s forty-five minutes ahead of Donna’s schedule. Which gives me a little more than an hour and a half to waste. After picking up some socks from an Eckerd’s across the street, and an extra toothbrush and some toothpaste, I went through my bags one last time and meticulously packed each one of my belongings away before loading everything up on my arms and my back, and heading back into the bus station.
After settling down on a bench next to lost baggage, I glance up at the big clock on the wall and read the time. Thirty more minutes and I’m out of this town. I have butterflies and nervous knots all at the same time. And for a second, I think the butterflies are going to win out…then the knots tighten and kill them all. My palms are sweaty and the dang heels of my navy Chucks keep tapping against the floor. I’m only somewhat aware of how anxious I look when I begin to rub my hands down the front of my skirt for the hundredth time and I pull my already chewed up lower lip between my teeth.
“Vagabond?” I hear a boy’s voice from my past, and my eyes—wide as saucers, I’m sure—land on his when I snap my head up.
“Jacques?” I whisper, probably looking as though I’m seeing a ghost. Because I am. I am. This guy can’t know how many times I’ve thought about him. How many times my silly little eight, nine, ten, and eleven-year-old mind changed the way our story played out and ended.
And instead of going back to where Mildred and the other social workers and parents were at that day in the park, I was stopped. Stopped by Jacq
ues. He can’t know how many times in my daydreams and during the intermission of my nightmares he asked me to hop in his truck. And instead of going back to Donna’s with my tail tucked between my legs, I went off to places unknown with the dark-haired boy with a driver’s license from New York, New York.
“Well, how’s it hanging, Vagabond? Upgraded to bus stations, I see? Not bad. Not bad, kid.” He squats down on his haunches, putting us nose to nose, and winks. “Really kinda hoped you’d be doing better than this. You hungry? I got some extra cash. Wanna go grab a bite?”
It takes me several seconds, but I do find my composure, somewhere during his spiel. The only downside is, I wasn’t paying attention to what he was saying. Something about eating. I think.
“I’m—no.” I pat my bag, fuming at myself for fumbling over my words. “I have stuff in my bag. This isn’t my first rodeo, okay, cowboy? I don’t need your help.” I glare at him, completely uncertain where this new animosity I have for him sprung from. Hormones. I almost growl. Almost. I read the sign directly above his head and smirk. “What? Did you lose your bag? Again?” I tsked at him and when he looks over his shoulder, then back at me, obviously a little more than pissed, I begin to chuckle.
“No, you little pipsqueak. I didn’t. My bus just dropped me off, actually.” He glances down at his watch. “And I have to be at a meeting, like right now. So—” He looks back up at me then holds out his hands for me to grab. “Here, let me help you up. At least. I’m trying to be a gentleman. Trying being the operative word.” I stare at him, assessing him from my perch on the bench. He seems harmless enough. And in the brief moment I was around him before, years ago, he didn’t try to hurt me.
If I Should Die: A Kimber S. Dawn MC Novel Page 2
