Sleeping in My Jeans

by Connie King Leonard

  Beer bottles pelt us. The men yell strings of ugly words. I should cover Meg’s ears, but I can’t shift positions or we’ll be thrown back and forth against the side of the car. Mom guns the engine, and Ruby’s front end skews wildly out of control. Mom straightens us out, races through the parking lot, and drives into the street.

  I loosen my grip and let my legs relax, thinking we made it—terrified but safe. Mom knows better. She yells, “Put the seat up!” Her eyes never leave the road. All her concentration is zeroed in on driving as fast as she dares. “Buckle in and hang on.”

  Cold wind from Mom’s broken window whips through the car. Chills run up and down my spine, but it’s not just from the cold. The broken window takes away any shred of protection we had.

  I let go of Meg and shove our blankets and pillows to the rear of the car. Ruby swings and sways, but I finally get the back seat pulled up and locked into place. Headlights flood us with a blinding bright glare. Meg climbs over and buckles into the back seat. The car behind us eats up our head start with frightening speed. I slide over the top of the seat and buckle myself in.

  Mom races down the street while I keep watch out the rear window. Where can we go? It’s the middle of the night. Businesses and public buildings are closed. Homes are dark.

  “If they force me to stop, take Meg and run. Understand?”

  “No, Mommy,” sobs Meg.

  My breath freezes in my throat. “I’m not leaving you.”

  “Don’t argue.” Mom’s eyes never leave the road, but I don’t have to look at her to feel her fear. “Run. Bang on doors. Call 911.” When I don’t respond, Mom screams at me. “Promise me!”

  My mouth is too dry to answer.

  “Mattie!”

  “Okay, Mom.” My words come out strangled and choked. “I promise.”

  “Start looking for places to go. Meg, you look too.”

  Mom flies through a red light, swings south on Coburg Road, and drives too fast for city streets. The car follows so close I think they’ll ram us. Mom pushes Ruby even faster. The car slides up beside us, threatening to force us off the road. I focus on the buildings whizzing by, looking for a safe place to run. Houses. Parks. Stores. All dark.

  We speed through town, ignoring stop signs and traffic lights. I pray for the red and blue flashes of a police car. There isn’t one in sight. Mom turns a corner too fast, and Ruby rocks on two wheels. She speeds block after block down narrow streets, whips around corners, and pulls into a parking space right in front of the city police station. The car behind us slows to a crawl. Four angry men hang their heads out the windows and yell at us, polluting the air with their filth.

  Bright lights above the police station door wash over Ruby, casting us all in an eerie yellow glow. Mom and Meg and me sit in a trance, silent and alone, expecting the men to sneak up on us, our escape turning into nothing more than a delay. Mom finally turns off the ignition, and her head slumps forward. Her shoulders shake. Deep sobs rip at her body. Fear fills every inch of our battered and beaten Ruby.

  Meg and I fall asleep sitting up, wrapped in quilts and slumped against the doors. I don’t think Mom sleeps at all.

  Chapter Fourteen

  A slap on Ruby’s hood jolts me awake and throws my heart rate into overdrive. Mom screams, Meg starts crying, and I try to slow the pounding in my chest long enough to focus.

  A voice mutters, “Did he find you, Ms. Rollins? Beat up the car? Is that what happened? Did he work you over again—or beat on the girls?”

  Officer Rodriguez leans one hand against Ruby’s roof and picks bits of glass out of Mom’s window frame. His broad face looks even angrier than when we saw him before. “Your taillights are broken, your back bumper looks like you took on a Mack truck, and now you can’t even lock the doors.”

  Last time Officer Rodriguez talked to us, Mom barely said a word. This time, she tells him about the assault on Ruby and how we barely got away; she throws in how safe she thought the office parking lot would be and adds how Ruby’s dead battery cost us a ton of money. Her words spill over each other, faster and faster, until our whole pitiful lives are laid bare.

  The officer listens, but the anger on his face only deepens. “Did you check that list of services?”

  “Two shelters are full and the others don’t take kids.” Mom stops and takes a deep, shuddering breath. “I work two jobs and go to college. I can pay for housing if I could just get the deposits together and find a room we can afford.”

  “You gotta get off the street.” Officer Rodriguez leans closer, with one hand resting on Mom’s window frame and the other on Ruby’s roof. “You got lucky, but next time these kids could get hurt.” He pauses, glancing back at us. “Then the state’s got to step in to protect them.” The wrinkle lines around the officer’s mouth soften and he looks back at Mom. “You don’t want to lose your kids, Ms. Rollins. I know you don’t.”

  Mom presses her hand to her mouth, but little sobs bubble out anyway, spilling into the car and filling every square inch of space with worry and despair. Meg lays her head against Mom’s shoulder, offering the soothing comfort of a six-year-old. I reach over the seat and squeeze her other shoulder. Her bones feel sharp and hard against my hand.

  Officer Rodriguez stands up and watches a couple of cars glide by. He takes a notebook out of his pocket, writing in quick little bursts. Mom pulls herself together, lifts her head, and wipes away the tears with the backs of her hands.

  The officer squats down by the car, notebook in his hand. “The perps’ main line of mischief was probably theft, but when they saw you, they decided to have a little fun. Give me the details. I’m headed into work, anyway.”

  “Four guys,” I blurt out, “but there could be one more. I definitely saw at least four.”

  He glances at me. “Color of car?”

  “Dark. Couldn’t tell the color, but the front end has plenty of damage.” I study his face. “Mom rammed ’em pretty hard."

  “I bet she did.” He sticks his notebook in the inside pocket of his jacket. “Fix the window and the taillights as quick as possible. Understand?”

  Officer Rodriguez slaps his hands on the window ledge. “And use hand signals, or somebody could rear-end you. It’s Saturday, so most garages are closed, but if you find one open and they say they’re booked, tell them I sent you. Can’t guarantee it’ll get you in, though.”

  Mom nods, her cheeks glistening with tears.

  I lean forward and look into the officer’s face. “Check the beer bottles for fingerprints. They threw a bunch, and if you go back to the parking lot, you might get a print.”

  He turns to me. “We might just do that.” He stands up and rests his hands on the roof of the car. “Get off the street, Ms. Rollins. Pick a shelter. Get your name on a list for affordable housing. Go to the Mission. Just get off the street.”

  Officer Rodriguez walks away, and Ruby suddenly feels empty, like Mom, Meg, and I are sitting in a black hole with no way out. We might as well be lost and alone in a maze with every turn we make ending up all wrong.

  We sit there and stare into space, drained of emotion. No talking. No discussion about what we do next or how we survive. We just sit there. Our life is falling apart, little bit by little bit. Money dribbles away. First a car battery. Now a window and taillights. It’s like the longer we’re on the street, the harder it is to save enough money for a room, much less an apartment.

  Mom finally leans forward and turns the ignition. Ruby runs. She rattles and shimmies, and the cold breeze rushes through her broken window, but she works. For that, I am grateful. Life with her is scary enough—life without her is too horrifying to consider.

  Mom drives to the gas station. She grips the steering wheel so tight her fingers look white and dead. We go to the bathroom, clean up, and eat peanut butter sandwiches for breakfast. On Saturdays, Mom works eight to
five at 7-Eleven. We need the money, so she has to go, even though she’s so shaken up she can barely stand.

  “The library opens at ten.” Mom’s words come out all flat and hollow, like she doesn’t dare put one bit of emotion in them or she’ll break in half. “You’ll have to stay in the car for a couple of hours, then take the bus downtown.”

  Spending two hours sitting in Ruby, looking over our shoulder for the parking lot scum to find us, sounds scary, but also incredibly boring.

  “I’ll park out front.” Mom’s voice wobbles. “I’m not supposed to, but it’s not for long.”

  “What about tonight, Mom?”

  She doesn’t answer, just stares through the windshield with a hollow look.

  “Mom?”

  She screws up her face and bites her bottom lip. “I’ll call the Mission and see if we can get in.”

  My shoulders drop six inches, or that’s how my immense sense of relief feels. I don’t know where the Mission is or what it’s like, but I don’t care. We’ve got to go.

  Mom drives so slowly through the streets it’s like she’s making up for last night’s road race. I don’t mind. Moving feels good, like no one can get to us as long as we keep Ruby running.

  “Meg and I could go to the mall.” Doing something other than hanging out at the library chases away a small bit of my anxiety. I hurry on with my plan before Mom can cut me off. “We could hang out for a while and take a bus to the library in the afternoon.”

  Meg’s head pops up and her hands clap together. “Please, Mommy? Can we?”

  Mom doesn’t look at us. “None of the garages are open yet, so I’ll have to find one and take Ruby during my morning break.”

  “Mom? The mall?” I say.

  Mom turns to me with a blank stare. She didn’t hear a word I said—or at least it didn’t register.

  “Please, Mommy. I love the mall.” Meg claps her hands and leans forward. “We get so tired of staying at the library.”

  Mom turns her attention back to the road, driving several blocks before she answers. “You’ll have to figure out the bus.”

  “We can do that.”

  “Please let us,” says Meg. “Please?”

  Mom is too upset to argue. She parks right in front of the 7-Eleven, grabs her backpack, and digs through it until she finds her wallet. She pulls out five one-dollar bills for bus fare and hands them over to me. Before she heads to work, she gives us each a long, teary hug and a hard kiss on the top of our heads.

  I make more peanut butter sandwiches and read Meg a bunch of stories before I decide it’s time to go. Meg and I walk to the bus stop and wait. Standing on the side of the street with cars rushing by makes me nervous. I clutch Meg’s hand and study every car, looking for dark colors and smashed-in front ends until our bus rumbles up. Meg and I hurry up the steps, settling into the warmth and safety of its blue plastic seats.

  We ride to the downtown station, the central hub for all the busses in Eugene. It’s right across the street from the library and a busy place, with a narrow metal roof covering the walkway and benches underneath. Each bus pulls up parallel with the sidewalk to where a sign marks the run and gives departure times.

  Meg and I step off the bus and head to the map on the wall near the office. We find the route to the mall, walk back to the correct bus stop, and wait until it shows up. Our trip isn’t hard, but it does take time. Even with the delay, we arrive at the mall way too early. The main doors are open, but giant metal grates block entrances to the stores. Meg and I drift past handfuls of early morning shoppers, sipping from their Starbucks cups and waiting to spend their money.

  Girls at school talk about shopping at the mall all the time. From the way they brag, their parents buy them piles of clothes throughout the year; they get new outfits for Christmas parties or school dances, or just because they want them. Girls admire each other’s purchases and chatter about where they shop and what good deals they find. Meg and I hardly ever go to the mall. Any new clothes we get—usually shoes, underwear, and socks—come from discount stores like Walmart.

  Meg points to the windows of a big department store. “They got Christmas stuff out.”

  “It seems early.” I’m startled by how much my words sound like Mom.

  “Thanksgiving comes first,” says Meg, “and then we get Christmas.”

  We stop in front of a window display with fake snow on the ground and plastic kids in warm winter coats. The plastic girls with no faces wear pink and lavender and baby blue with striped hats, scarves, and mittens, all in perfect, matching colors. The boys wear bright red and blue and yellow with their own matching stripes.

  Meg squeezes my hand. “My coat looks old and yucky.”

  I don’t have to look at her to see how sad she is—I can hear it in her voice. I squeeze back and give our hands a little swing. What can I say? Compared to these beautiful new coats, her jacket is old and yucky. We walk on, and the more wonderful things we see, the more depressed we get.

  “Let’s play pretend, Meg.” We’ve played the game a million and one times, but mostly with her stuffed animals lined up at a fake tea party. “We’ll make up new names and pretend we’re shopping, okay?”

  Meg looks at me with sad eyes.

  I pull her over to a bench in the center of the walkway. “I’ll be Katelynn. No, there’s a girl at school with that name and I don’t like her. How about Angelina?” I smile at Meg, trying to draw her in. “Would you like a big sister named Angelina?”

  Meg doesn’t giggle or even smile. “I’d call you Angie for short.”

  I paste on a grin, trying to cheer her up. “So Angie for me. Now who are you?”

  Meg studies the shoppers walking by with bags in their hands. “I’m Abigail.”

  “Angelina and Abigail.” I’m not surprised Meg picked an A name to match mine, but it still makes my heart squeeze so much I hurt inside. “Do you have a nickname, sister Abigail?”

  Meg gives me a weak little smile. “Abby?”

  I hop off the bench and pull Meg up with me. “Let’s go shopping, Abby. We need new school clothes and outfits for Thanksgiving and Christmas.”

  Meg is slow to get into the act. I drag her through the stores, looking at everything but new coats. We don’t try anything on. Just look. I hold up a sweater and say, “Do you think this is a good color for me, Abby?”

  Meg’s eyes seem dull and uninterested, but I wiggle the sweater in front of my body until she tilts her head to one side and gives in to my antics. “No, Angie. It’s too pinky.” She pulls a red one off the rack. “Try this one. I like it better.”

  We keep the Angie and Abby thing going for a couple of hours while we look at jeans and t-shirts, warm sweaters and new shoes. We choose tops and long pants for Thanksgiving and party dresses for Christmas, with shoes to match. Clerks come by and ask if they can help. I smile and say, “No thanks. We’re just looking.” They drift away to help someone else.

  “Abby,” I say. “We need a Christmas present for Mom.” Meg and I stand in the middle of one of the nicest stores in the mall, where mirrors and shiny, silver decorations twinkle like stars. Shoppers bustle by with bags clutched in their hands, some chattering happily with companions while others wear grim looks of determination. “What should we get her?”

  Meg’s little nose wrinkles in concentration. “Something pretty. Really pretty and nicer than she’s ever had.”

  We wander through the store, passing up the ladies’ clothes and shoes. All the jeans and sweaters are too practical, and Mom would have no place to wear party dresses and high heels. I hustle us by the household things like fluffy towels and gleaming china. That kind of stuff is nothing but a reminder that in real life, Mom doesn’t have a home to put it in.

  When we see the jewelry section, Meg and I know we’ve found exactly what she needs. Long glass cases full of gol
d and silver bracelets, earrings, and necklaces gleam under a soft glow of light. Diamonds and rubies sparkle up at us. We gaze at the treasures, hypnotized by their beauty.

  A store clerk moves to the other side of the display case and asks if we need help. I glance up and smile politely. “No thanks. We’re just looking.”

  Meg and I move to the earrings, and that’s when Abby and Angie’s Amazing Holiday Adventure shrivels up and dies. The clerk follows us. At first I ignore her, which is hard to do because she stands directly in front of us. I finally look up and stare right at her. She isn’t smiling helpfully like clerks are supposed to look. Her fifty-something face is perfectly done without a blemish showing beneath what must be layers and layers of makeup. Cold blue eyes, behind heavy coats of shadow, liner, and mascara, glare back at me. Meg doesn’t notice, chattering on about whether we should get Mom a bracelet, a necklace, or earrings.

  I continue to meet the woman’s frosty glare. “Why not all three?”

  Meg’s head pops up, and she looks at me with a wicked little grin. “Why not?” That’s when Meg looks from me to the clerk and stops being Abby. The joy of our little game fades from Meg’s face, tightening a rope around my heart.

  “If you girls aren’t buying, you need to move on.” The lady cocks her head to the side and purses her lips.

  I scowl at the witch, but it doesn’t faze her. She wrinkles up her nose like we’ll ruin the pretty things by standing too close to the display case. Meg’s shoulders droop, and our game is over.

  Nasty words simmer in my mouth. I ache to spew them out, to stab her over and over with their ugliness until she feels as hurt as we do, but I can’t let myself say them. Not in front of Meg. Meg clutches my hand and pulls me away. We walk hand in hand through the store and out into the mall.

  “Mattie?”

  I whip around. Jack stands behind me, shopping bags clutched in his hands. A grin spreads across his face. “I thought that was you.”

  “Do you know that big boy, Mattie?” Meg whispers up at me.

  “He’s a friend from school.” Friend is out of my mouth before I even think about it. I want to pull it back, erase it, and deny he means anything to me—but that would be a lie. An out-and-out lie.