Her eyes turn so sharp, I’m tempted to ask for bandaids. “What do you want with him?”
I recognize her tone of voice from whenever she speaks to my older brother, Terek. I swear she could skin a cat just using her words. Now I need to fully commit to the lie, because Mrs. Sanderson wields the power of Dumbledore and Cornelius Fudge all rolled into one, and I’d like to graduate and have a future.
“I have Taz, um, Gibson’s homework.” I hold up the textbook as a visual aid. “From school. From today.”
Either she just caught a whiff of stinky feet or I’m transparent.
“I understand,” she says and my palms turn sweaty. “You shouldn’t be here. Whatever you think you see in Gibson, it’s not there. He is a trap, a very dangerous one. Take the wrong step, and you’ll never get out. Be smart. Walk away before you get hurt.”
I open my mouth but nothing comes out. What do I say to that? Before I can come up with something, she quietly shuts the door on me.
OK. This is more bizarre than a sea cucumber. Why does Taz have the same address as Mrs. Sanderson? Does he actually live here? Am I being warned away to protect him or me, because I’m feeling an ugly tingle in my gut, like when I spot a neglected dog on a too-short chain in a yard already surrounded by a fence … which is the very reason we now have another dog at home and there’s a possibility of me showing up on a wanted poster for pup-napping. Deep breath.
I turn in a circle. Huh. I can’t decide what to do next. I look left, then right, but wishing for Taz doesn’t make him appear, so I give up and trudge down the porch steps. Just as I hit the bottom, I hear the door open behind me. I spin around and find the little boy peeking at me.
“The garage,” he whispers then shuts the door again.
I follow the sidewalk to an unlocked passdoor, which lets me inside a two-car garage with a Mercedes parked in it. I’ve maybe seen this car in the faculty parking lot at school, but can’t be certain because all I know about cars is colors, and there’s lots of dark gray cars in all places. At the back of the space is a workbench with a minimal amount of shiny tools lined up neat and tidy. Through an open doorway, I see a very small bathroom with a toilet and a tiny sink. There’s also a set of stairs.
Is it considered breaking and entering if the door was unlocked and I don’t steal or disturb anything? As the daughter of a cop, I should know these things. Once I climb the stairs up to a loft, I realize it doesn’t matter. I will be both disturbing and stealing something from here.
The ceiling is slanted and the walls and floor are unfinished wood. I’m guessing this area was intended for storage, because I can barely stand upright. A battered guitar case, pair of sandals and garbage bag spilling clothes are tossed in a corner. There is a twin mattress on the floor with a thin green blanket and no pillow. Taz lays asleep under the blanket, his face a mess of bruises, swelling and crusted blood. The knuckles of both hands are raw and dirty.
I stand there for a minute, just watching him breathe as I adapt to a new understanding of his life. A wave of emotion flows through me and my heart is less resilient than a sand castle. My chest caves, and I catch a sob by pressing my lips together tight. This is so much worse than what I imagined in my worst case scenarios.
No wonder he is so angry, hesitant and so … so … belligerent. This dusty, cold space is his reality? How? Why? Whatever brought him to this, his response in English lit makes more sense now.
Survival. He’s struggling with it.
I check my instinct to throw myself on top, gather close and soothe. He’s neither a younger sibling or a neglected shih tzu. He’s a cornered boy, who was punished for showing me a little kindness. He’s hurt and alone, and I’m not sure how long he’s been lying here with no one to help him, but I’m here now. I will help. I need to help. His track record tells me he won’t make it easy.
I mentally roll up my sleeves, kneel down beside the mattress and rest my fingertips every so lightly on his hand. I quietly call his name. Might as well shove a firecracker down his boxers, because Taz pops up snarling, his pale blue eyes fighting the whole wide world.
“It’s me, it’s me, it’s me.” I show my palms. “Are you OK?”
To come up with a more ridiculous question, I’d need a thesaurus and a few days to think about it. He stares at me for a second, then flops back down and throws a forearm over his eyes. His shirt rides up and I catch a glimpse of black and blue welts on his tummy. I feel sick.
“How bad are you hurt? Should I take you to the hospital?” I stuff my hands between my thighs to keep from reaching and use my soft voice. “Can you make it down the stairs?”
No reaction. Unless I count his fingers working the thin blanket into a knot. Why doesn’t he have sheets? How about a freaking pillow? What in cocoa krispies is going on here?
“Did Brandon, Marty and Kyle do this?” I need confirmation before I put a bounty on their heads.
Taz shifts his arm up to his forehead and glances over at me. His pupils are pinpoints of fury. “Go away.”
“I can’t unsee this,” I blurt. “Your jeans hang off your butt. You’re going without food. And shoes. And transportation and conversation. I should have figured it out sooner, because my life is the opposite. Too much noise. Too many shoes. There’s more than enough to go around. So if you’re thinking I’ll leave you here, just walk away and pretend this is OK, that you’re OK, well I’m not OK with it, so don’t waste your energy fighting me.”
He turns his face away from me.
I straighten, but I’m not going anywhere. Not without him.
“C’mon.” I reach down and snag his wrist. “We’re going back to my house.”
He tries to jerk free, but I add a second hand, tighten my grip and fight back. He hisses, his face crinkling up and OMG, I just hurt the boy I’m trying to rescue.
“Sorry, sorry, sorry.” I let go. “I just … I’m not taking no for an answer, not this time, so either get moving or I swear I’ll grab you by the ankles and drag you kicking and screaming all the way to my van.”
I wait. And wait.
“You’re coming with me,” I insist. “One way or another, easy way or hard way.”
Here’s a confession. I have no backup plan. I don’t think I can get him into the Ark without his cooperation or a tranquilizer dart.
“You should know,” I babble on. “I managed to bully a pair of ten-year old twins into dress pants for my baby sister’s preschool graduation, and they didn’t fart, burp or pick their noses once during the whole ceremony. I am that good. So you don’t stand a chance.”
He’s silent but I get the eyes. Those pale blue irises slice me to ribbons.
“Come with me or I call 911.” I try to sound convincing. I REALLY don’t want to call in the authorities because they all know me and drawing attention to my family isn’t a good thing right now. But what if he’s bleeding internally? What if … what if … I suck another deep breath, wonder where I left my phone and decide to take this one step at a time. “Not giving up.”
He glares and scowls. He’s super good at it. A lesser being would scurry to safety.
“That’s not going to work.” My voice takes on an embarrassing tremble, and it’s his fault. He’s showing no signs of cooperating and has me on the verge of tears. “You don’t scare me and I can’t leave without you. Do you understand? I can’t. No matter how long you make me wait, I need you to do this for me. Please?”
I watch a change come over his face, and then he eases very slowly and gingerly to his feet.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
He keeps one arm wrapped around his ribs, and I notice his jeans and T-shirt are torn and dirty. His hair is long and loose but matted with sweat, maybe blood, and there’s a leaf and stray twigs stuck in there. I would pay money to be allowed to shampoo and brush him.
“Do we need to go to the hospital?”
“No.” His answer is non-negotiable.
“Take a deep breath.”
I get a lethal glare.
“Show me you can,” I insist. “So I know your internal organs aren’t messed up.”
He makes a show of it, an inhale through the nose, loud exhale from the mouth, chest expanding and he almost pulls it off, but the wince around his eyes gives him away. He’s suffering, but I’m ninety-percent sure of his survival.
He slips on his sandals and takes forever to manage the stairs. I haul the guitar and garbage bag because I’ve decided to keep him. As he eases down one step at a time, I plot revenge options for Brandon, Kyle and Marty. Do I enlist one of my brothers or join forces with Mora? My sister is truly gifted. She once soaked Terek’s jersey in water, tied it into a knotted ball and then stuck it in the freezer. On game day.
As we start to circle around the Mercedes in the garage, Taz stops, then starts shaking his head, which is his way of arguing with me.
I fight dirty. “Hot shower. Advil. Coffee. Soft pillow. Ice pack. Those are the things waiting for you if you climb in my van.” I just need to put on a trench coat and offer him a bag of candy.
Once Taz is settled in the passenger seat, all buckled in, I tell him, “I’ll be right back.” I slam the door on him and march back toward the massive porch. I plan to pound that stupid door knocker and ring that pompous bell until their ears bleed. And then, and then … I’m not sure what I’m going to say, but the swear jar will be getting a large donation.
Except I hear the familiar screech of the Ark’s door opening, look back and find Taz with one foot already planted in the driveway.
“Don’t,” he says, and I can’t argue with his level of desperation.
CHAPTER 31
TAZ:
We climb the steps to the big front porch of the West house, a wind chime jangling my last nerve. I don’t know how Barbie talked me into this. That’s not exactly true. Nobody has ever looked at me like she did in the garage, like my pain was causing hers. Then she said please, and I was a goner. Which might explain why she got away with dragging all my stuff along. I just wish she’d be more careful about banging my guitar around.
“You know my name, right?” She drops the case with a thud. I wince. Hand on the door handle, she gives me a straight on stare. “Taz?”
I offer a nod, but I’m not listening, too distracted by the noises coming from inside the house, chaos so loud it’s bleeding through a solid wood door.
“Say it,” she prompts.
I blink and wonder what she’s talking about.
She huffs and rolls her eyes at me. “My name.”
Still not following.
“That’s the magic word,” she tells me. “The one that gets you inside. Before we go one step further, you’re going to prove you’ve paid enough attention, care enough about me and are a decent enough human being to come up with my name.”
Three letters are gonna tell her all that? I’m tempted to refuse, just to see if she’ll send me on my way. But this girl deserves a name, so I answer, “Tia.”
“Thank you.” Her mouth curves up at the corners and her face goes all soft. If she cries, I’m outta here. But she pushes at the front door, needing both hands and a shoulder to shove past a barricade of shoes and bookbags.
I snatch up my guitar case, follow her for two steps and make it onto a wrinkled rug before the loud voices, screeching cat and odd thumps trip me up. I’m in hell. I retreat, fingers jumping against my jeans, feet stumbling over the orange tabby as a basketball flies by my face. It smashes into the wall and nearly clips me on the rebound.
“Hey! No basketball in the house!” Barbie … No ...Tia shouts as she slips an arm around my waist, maybe trying to hold me together when there’s nothing left to do but fetch the dustpan. “It’s OK, Taz. Just think of my house as a fenceless zoo.”
This is the uproar of a mosh pit in a monkey cage, and I might as well be wearing a banana suit. I’m already squirming out of her touch when Tia flashes her hands, steps forward and says, “Whoa, whoa, whoa,” to the mass of bodies and assorted pets piling up on us.
“What the crap,” Baby Barbie blurts at the sight of me, and they all want to know who messed me up, want to do something about it, and what the actual hell is happening here? This has nothing to do with them, is my shit to deal with. Mine. I catch myself getting angry for no particular reason, except that nothing and nobody in this house makes sense.
For chrissake, there’s even a little white dog wearing a yellow bonnet and purple feather thing around its neck, yapping like mad. He races through the maze of legs … bark, bark, bark. And here comes Tulip, on the run in a pink tutu, pink rain boots, sparkle crown and wings on her back. I’ve somehow crawled up the ass of Mother Goose.
“Tummy!” She throws her arms up, tries out a leap, and I know we’re in trouble when she loses a boot, trips over the new dog and face plants at my feet. Super.
I’m not only knee deep in goose shit, I must like the taste because I ignore the screams of my sore body, squat down and scoop up the miniature tooth fairy. Her little hands find my pulverized face and she’s not happy with it. The bottom lip pops out and she’s leaking from eyes, nose, everywhere. She’s like an overripe peach, soft and sweet and dripping all over my hands.
“He’s OK, he’s OK,” Tia reassures her. “He just had an accident.”
Between sobs and hiccups, she wants to know, “Like Ingrid?”
The whole clan bursts into laughter, which only makes Tulip cry harder, and I think maybe they’re making fun of me. The anger climbs another rung on my ladder.
“No, not like Ingrid.” Tia glances at me, registers my scowl and points at the dog in drag. Still barking BTW. Seriously, does no one hear him? “Meet Ingrid. He’s my latest rescue and responsible for all fresh carpet stains and wet socks.” To Tulip, Tia says, “He … um … fell down.”
“Fell down what?” Thing One wants to know. “Every staircase at Hogwarts?”
“Not helping,” Tia snaps.
“He looks like the wrong end of an Avada Kedavra curse,” adds Thing Two.
WTF does that mean?
“Did it hurt real bad?” Tulip asks me
I nod, but I’m not real with it because … Somebody’s gonna shut the dog up, right?
“Are you gonna sleep now?”
That’s all I’ve been doing since I left my bike by the side of the road, and it still sounds good. So I nod again. Big mistake. Tulip wails, “What if you never wake up?”
Since it’s easier to order pizza than have a conversation with me, it’s a long wait, but I finally manage to say, “I always wake up.”
“My daddy didn’t.”
Well shit. I stepped right into that one.
“We’ll take good care of him,” Tia assures while the rest of them sag. “Right guys?”
There’s tons of nods, and I don’t like that me and the new mutt seem to be interchangeable. Just to be clear, he’s still running circles, still barking loud enough to peel the rind off my sanity.
Tia leans in, wipes the tears off her little sister’s face, and I catch a whiff of how good she smells. Clean and fresh and promising. The opposite of me. “He’ll be all better soon,” she tells her.
Tulip turns on me. “Promise?”
Just for her, I manage to say, “Promise.”
She strangles me with the wrap of her arms, nuzzles her face into my neck, and I’m almost, sorta OK with it, even if my sore body is weeping. This little fungus has grown on me.
“All right.” Tia claps her hands. I’ve seen her do this before. She’s taking charge. “Little kids get ready for bed. Big kids, homework time.”
“Homework?” scoffs Baby Barbie. “While we all love your optimism, how about call it what it is? We’re supposed to get lost so big sister can get busy with her boy toy.”
Wait. What? I think I just missed something important but … bark, bark, bark. For the love of Christ … the dog, the dog, the dog.
“Stop that!” Tia snaps. Not sure who she’s yelli
ng at, but I quit fidgeting and the new dog drops his fuzzy ass to the floor and finally shuts the hell up. Thank you, thank you. I place Tulip on her feet, unknot my fingers and take my first halfway normal breath since stepping inside.
“You.” Tia taps my chest. I jump, and if I could stop acting like a total spaz, this would go a lot smoother. “This way.”
She leads me to the bathroom. I get a couple of Advils, a folded towel and the hair tie off her wrist, before she leaves me alone.
I lock the door, stand with my eyes closed for a second and calm my shit. Charity, that’s all this is. No sense thinking anything else and doesn’t matter. I’d sell my left nut for a hot shower. So I strip out of my filthy clothes, adjust the water temperature to scalding and step under the spray. The hot water hits sharper than darts, poking little holes in me and my shame swirls down the drain with a mix of blood and dirt.
I use soap that comes in a bottle with a pump-thing, wash my hair in coconut-scented shampoo, and when I’m too tired to stand any longer, I sink down and sit under the jets. The noise is a cocoon. There’s just me, the water pouring down my face and the knowledge that I don’t belong here. Or anywhere. I’m not just ignored but actively despised at every turn, and I wish I could figure out why and do something different.
So I pull my knees to my chest, try to get past the nausea rolling through my gut and hate myself until the shower turns cold. Aren’t I just a barrel of fun? How long before Tia gives up on this defective jungle gym?
I drag myself out, wrap a soft towel around my hips and take a second to check the damage in the mirror. I haven’t seen the monster in months and I look like crusty hell. Old scars, fresh beating, dark under my eyes, sharp cheekbones and hollow jaw. I’ve lost too much weight and Tia noticed. I can’t afford to get noticed.
I pull on fresh jeans and a T-shirt, moving slow because every movement is agony. I comb my hair, steal Q-tips for my ears and borrow a razor to shave the patchy fuzz that is all I manage to grow. I can’t decide if getting clean makes me look better or worse.
Time to bounce. I crack the bathroom door and find Tia leaning against the opposite wall, one foot propped up, definitely waiting for me. She looks me over real slow, cheeks flushed pink, like maybe she’s embarrassed, and I catch on. I show her my empty hands to prove I’m not stealing anything.
Shatter (The Choosy Beggars Series Book 1) Page 13
