Don't Breathe a Word Page 8

  May curled up on a pile of blankets in one of the smaller bedrooms while Creed and I sat on the mattress and talked—for hours, about everything from our favorite books to dreams to his music. Everything in the present—not the future, not the past, nothing about where we’d come from. Even though Creed knew about Asher, I didn’t want to talk about him, let him control even this. I kept the crow bracelet high up under the sleeve of my flannel.

  “So, how did you know I was new on the streets?” I asked. “Was I that obvious?”

  Creed tilted his head back in a silent laugh. “You could say that.”

  “Hey,” I said, “I thought I was doing pretty well.” If my own friends walked past, they wouldn’t even see me. “Was it my clothes? My hair? Come on. What gave it away?” And would the police and Asher be able to see through my façade as easily as Creed?

  He shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s a whole bunch of things. Clothes, hair, yeah, but more like how you carry yourself. You stand up too straight.” I sat up, conscious of how I had slid down the wall next to him.

  “So, it’s my posture? You’re telling me if I hunched a little more, I would fit in, no problem?”

  “Okay, okay, it’s more. I mean—well, you get to know who’s out there, and it’s pretty easy to spot the new people. But obviously you’re not a foster case, and you have no idea what you’re doing—”

  “I managed to get this far, didn’t I?”

  “Yeah, and you just about got yourself dragged down an alley and murdered. You’re lucky Maul didn’t get a hold of you—”

  “Maul?”

  “Yeah. The big kid always out there, pimping his girls. That’s his street name—he thinks he’s all Star Wars badass . . .”

  “Oh, you mean Mohawk. That’s what I’ve been calling him.”

  Creed was suddenly on high alert. “What happened?” His body wound up, like he was ready to pound down someone’s door and punch him in the face. If he only knew the ways Asher had already scarred me.

  *

  “But everyone already knows,” I said to Asher, the night we reached the edge.

  I knew punishment was coming but never imagined it could be worse than his words.

  “I’m wearing the bracelet,” I pleaded. “I never took it off once while I was away.”

  But I could take it off, and that was the point.

  Asher drew back the sheets and laid me into the bed with great care, even if his voice sounded like molten steel. He wouldn’t get my dad fired, or throw my family to the streets. I would do something else for him, something that would make it all go away. Then I would be forgiven.

  Something flashed in his hand—his Zippo lighter. I remember thinking it was strange, because he never smoked in bed. It would be too risky, and he wasn’t into risks.

  But that wasn’t what he was thinking. Instead, he lit a candle and then I saw something else glint in his hand.

  “I don’t care if anyone else knows,” he said softly. “I only care if you know, Joy. You belong to me.”

  Creed was watching me like he was expecting an answer, and I realized his question was hanging in the air. What happened? Had Maul done something to me?

  “Nothing, nothing,” I said, taking a breath. “Mohawk . . . Maul . . . never did anything to me.” But I knew I didn’t sound very convincing.

  “How do you know him? Did he . . . hurt you?” Creed scooted toward me on the mattress and tucked his arm around me—so close that if I turned my head, our lips could touch.

  “No,” I said, slowly, so he couldn’t hear the tremble in my voice. “He didn’t do anything but offer to protect me.” There was a world of difference between being here with Creed and what Maul offered. “I said no thanks.”

  Creed glanced through the open door toward where May was sleeping. “He’s no good, trust me. Stay away from him, okay?”

  Had Maul done something to May? Creed’s face defied a simple reading.

  “So, tell me about street names,” I said, hoping to shift him out of the treacherous sea of his thoughts. “Creed isn’t your real name?” Any more than Triste was mine—but he didn’t have to know that yet.

  “Out here, your name represents who you are, and the more vulnerable you are, the tougher you want your name to be. Creed is who I am. If I used to have another name, it doesn’t matter. I’m not that person anymore.”

  Every question he answered left me with a new one. Where had he come from? Who had he been before he became Creed? I wasn’t Joy anymore, I knew. But would my new name show me who I was now?

  “What about Santos?” From my limited knowledge of Spanish, I knew it meant both “saint” and “damned.”

  “He has that name for a reason.”

  I lowered my voice, even though I was pretty sure I could hear soft breathing coming from the other bedroom. “And May?” I couldn’t fathom what her name was meant to identify. “Is that a fake name, too?”

  “That’s her real name,” Creed said through a yawn, burrowing closer to me in the chill of the night. “She doesn’t have anything to hide.”

  Santos came in long after the rest of us were asleep and the first streaks of grey were making their way across the sky.

  “Hey,” he said, making me jump.

  I was still asleep next to Creed. Santos looked tired, like a very old spirit trapped in a boy’s body. I didn’t know where he’d been, and I didn’t want to ask. “May in there?” He gestured toward the other room.

  Creed nodded sleepily. Santos slipped in and curled up with her in the early morning light, the two of them like a couple of abandoned puppies.

  “Are they . . . ?”

  “No,” Creed said, like it was strangest thing he’d ever heard. “They’re family.”

  “Wait . . . brother and sister? But . . . how is that . . . possible?” May and Santos looked nothing alike.

  “We’re all family—the only family we’ve got. It doesn’t have to be blood.”

  “But I don’t understand . . . don’t you have real family?” I winced, even as I said it, thinking about my own. A flash moved across his face, then it was gone, and a familiar feeling crept into my stomach. Wrong, wrong, wrong.

  I wanted to say something funny to break the tension. But Creed was serious. Deadly serious.

  “You don’t have to tell me,” I whispered, willing my tone to convey what words couldn’t. I would give anything to know how Creed came to be.

  He didn’t speak. Instead, he slid closer to me and pulled me into his arms. I was too tired to stay awake, too aware of his arms around me and skin against mine and the rhythm of his breathing to even think about falling asleep.

  Chapter 16

  When I woke up, I was alone on the mattress with a sliver of sunlight coming into the room. I had no idea what time it was, only that my stomach thought it should be lunch and my head thought I should roll over and go back to sleep. It felt incredible to wake up on something flat and soft, even if springs were poking through several unidentifiable brownish spots. The guitar was gone, too.

  In daylight, it was clear that the house had been condemned for a reason. There was plaster torn away in jagged holes, wooden slats rotting away in a gaping mass. Swirls of dust followed an invisible current around the house . . . an asthma attack waiting to happen.

  Santos was still curled up on the heap of blankets as I crept past, keeping my breathing slow and easy.

  From downstairs came the welcome odor of coffee. Coffee? I no longer questioned the wonders and comforts my new friends were able to conjure. I only hoped they saved some for me.

  May and Creed were sprawled on the couch sipping from Starbucks to-go cups, her legs dangling across his lap. Like one big happy family. They turned to me as I gave the room under the stairs as wide a berth as possible. May giggled.

  “Want some? Sorry to say it won’t be one of your Macchiato Skinny Latte Almond Split-Shots, and you might accidentally swallow some grounds, but it’s not half-bad free coffee,
if I do say so myself.” She picked up a steaming cup from the floor next to her and held it out to me.

  I popped off the top to inspect the contents—brownish water with a few floating bits and a swirl of cream—and took a cautious sip. Hot, bitter, with a hint of grit.

  “Not bad,” I said.

  “Not bad? That’s some quality brew, ’Burbs.”

  Joy, I nearly blurted out. “How did you get it?”

  “Secrets of the trade,” May answered languidly, stretching her toes out against Creed’s stomach.

  He snorted. “Used coffee grounds—any café has bags and bags of it they just give away. Then you get a cup—”

  “That reminds me,” interjected May, “don’t wreck the cup—that’s your cup now.”

  “—and the hot water and cream are free,” Creed finished.

  May opened up a waxy brown bag and took out a chunk of what looked like blueberry scone. “Want one?” She tossed me a brown bag of my own, and I opened it to find a bran muffin.

  “Sorry,” she said, “that’s always the one they have left. Always bran muffins. Like we need any more shit around here . . .”

  Creed tilted his head and glared, which, I realized more and more, was part of their routine. Part of becoming a family was finding your place in it. And despite the terrible air, I hoped there would be room to breathe in this one.

  Suddenly, with a wild spiral of legs, May was off the couch and in my face. I’d thought we were about the same height, but now I realized I towered over her by a good three or four inches. How she made herself seem taller was one of the deep mysteries of May. “That reminds me,” she mumbled with a mouthful of scone, “we’ve got to do something about your hair.”

  I tried to tuck it behind my ear, like I would have when it was long, but the ragged ends slipped through my fingers.

  “Oh, no,” said Creed. He got up from the sagging couch, a tweedy brown in the dappled light. “I’m outta here, before this gets ugly.” He picked up his guitar. “May, you’ll take care of her today?” It was more of a statement than a question.

  “Hmmph,” May grunted. She scrutinized me, picking up locks of hair and letting them fall limply. Other than the occasional quick scrub in a public bathroom, I hadn’t bathed since I’d left. Two weeks ago? I’d lost track.

  Finally she sighed testily. “Could you . . . sit down or something, so I can get a better look at you?”

  “Um, okay,” I said, feeling like the matter had already been settled long before I came on scene.

  Creed disappeared around the corner. “I’ll be back later,” he shouted, then pounded down the stairs with his guitar.

  I sat up straight on the couch as May ran her fingers through my scalp, still tender from my Manic bleach job.

  “Oh my God. No wonder. Did you do this yourself?”

  I nodded.

  “Oh. Ouch. You totally burned your scalp.” She combed through my hair with surprising tenderness. “Well, there’s nothing I can do about the color until it heals, but at least I can give you a decent haircut. Don’t tell me—you did that yourself, too.”

  I nodded again.

  “Well, whatever it was you ran from, it had to be bad if you were gonna give yourself the fucking worst haircut I’ve ever seen. Wait here.” A second later, she appeared with a pair of shears.

  “Don’t tell the boys I have these, or they’ll use them to pull nails out of their boots or some stupid shit like that.” She brandished the scissors in front of my face to emphasize the point.

  “No problem,” I said.

  “Good. Well, I keep them hidden anyway. Those guys can do the most stupid-ass things and have no idea what they’re wrecking. Now sit on the edge so I can reach you.”

  I sat obediently and she ran her fingers through my hair again. Bleaching my hair had turned my strands from thick and dark to white and airy, like cotton candy, more and more tangled each day. She finger-combed the strands until it felt like a rhythm.

  When we were younger, Neeta and I used to do each other’s hair—she would put dozens of braids in mine, and I would make ringlets of hers. My mom let us have slumber parties whenever we wanted—I think she felt bad I was so isolated. They never let me stay at someone else’s house, just in case I came down with pneumonia or had a sudden asthma attack. Neeta was like a substitute sister.

  May lifted my chin and arranged the strands one way and then another. “What are you doing?” I asked.

  “I’m trying to figure out what’s going to look the best on you. I mean, you’ve got these chubby cheeks.” I frowned. “But then you’ve got this great sharp line to your jaw and big eyes, like Natalie What’s-her-name—”

  “Portman?”

  “Yeah, whatever—but with white hair. So actually, if we gave you the right shape, you could totally work the grandma hair thing—”

  “Grandma?”

  “Do you want me to fix it or what? No. Don’t answer. It couldn’t get worse, so you might as well let me make it better.”

  Seconds later, I felt the shears tearing through the hair I had left, and little by little, it fell on the floor in fluffy white tufts. May paused to take it all in, then dragged the blades through more and more of my hair until we both heard the floor creak behind us. Santos rubbed his eyes with his fists, reminding me of my younger brother, Jonah. “Got any coffee?” he mumbled, staggering further into the room. His hoodie and T-shirt were rumpled and faded, pants hanging down around his hips.

  “It’s cold by now.” May handed him the fourth cup where an “S” had been scratched into the waxy surface. “There’s bran muffins in the kitchen.”

  “Wow, nice hair. She’s Sid and Nancy now.”

  May rolled her eyes. “You can’t be Sid and Nancy. But she doesn’t look half bad. Here—take a look at yourself.” She held up a shard of mirror. “We can fix the makeup later, but look at the cut and tell me what you think.”

  The blonde in the mirror blinked back at me—hair razored and wispy around the face just below the jaw, unlike the jagged chunks I’d left by grabbing the entire mass and hacking it off. It looked chic and punk, mean and sassy at the same time, making my round cheeks disappear and my chin look sharper. Suddenly, I looked like a badass. Cross me if you dare.

  “Wow. It’s the best haircut I’ve ever had,” I said, and I meant it. May clearly had the street power of disguise.

  “Whatever,” she snorted. “But it’s better than that post-Gene Juarez Salon look you had going on. Nobody is going to call you ’Burbs now.” She giggled. “Except maybe us, because you’ll always be ’Burbs to me. But you look hot now.”

  “Smokin’,” Santos agreed, chomping on his muffin. He slugged half the coffee and then fed some muffin to the ferret, who sniffed around before swallowing a fingertip-sized bite whole.

  “At least nobody is going to try to jump your ass,” May was saying. “A few more weeks, and you’ll actually look like you belong here.”

  Maybe I would look like I belonged. But the real question went deeper—I’d left one family and only accidentally found another. Would there be room in this one for me?

  Chapter 17

  “Okay, so the first thing you need to learn if you’re going to survive on the streets is how to shop.”

  Santos and I were down on MLK Way outside the Red Apple Market, where he seemed a lot more comfortable than me. As far as I could see, I was the only white person for about a mile radius, and if looks could talk, none of them thought my Sid-and-Nancy hair was half as cool as May and I had this morning.

  On the way, he’d told me all about his ferret, Faulkner, “Named after my favorite writer.”

  “William Faulkner? You’ve read William Faulkner?”

  “Course,” he replied, like I’d suggested he couldn’t read instead of reading one of the hardest authors assigned in my English class last year. “You read him?”

  “Yes . . . but I didn’t think . . .”

  Santos shrugged. “Course I read
—everybody goes to the library. I liked The Sound and the Fury best—all those secrets, and how things in the past affect people, and how the same stories sound different, depending on who you talk to. And the one character who seems to be the weakest is the one who knows everything.”

  Now that we were in front of the Red Apple Market, Santos barked at me, “You’re not paying attention.”

  My thrift-store PVC pants were too hot on a sunny day, but at least I’d left the flannel at the house. Asher’s smell had almost faded by now.

  “That’s the first thing you need to learn, Triste—pay attention. Because if they think you’re there to take stuff, they’re going to pay attention to you.” He crouched with his hands out, looking like a panther about to pounce. “You have to be quick. Stealthy. Not let them know what you’re up to.”

  “But it’s stealing,” I protested.

  “It’s surviving,” he retorted. “It’s like that guy—the one who stole the bread and who got stuck in jail for a hundred years . . . Gene Val-gene—”

  “Jean Valjean? From Les Misérables?”

  “Yeah. Him. Anyway, who knows if you and me taking bread is going to lead to us being mayor someday, and if that would lead to a whole revolution—the homeless, the foster system, predators, adoption . . .” His eyes glowed. “Everything could change because of the bread you and I are about to take.”

  I thought of being in mock trials with Neeta—the two of us an unstoppable team. Neeta was the strategist. I formulated the counterargument. Then Neeta went in for the kill. But I couldn’t think of a single counterargument to shoot down Santos’s grand master plan for the food I was about to help him steal.

  And suddenly I knew his street power with startling clarity: He could talk his way through anything.

  “So here’s the plan. You go in and scope out the bread aisle—actually, I’m kind of hungry for some Cheetos, too, so if you can, cruise through the chip aisle, okay? I’ll come in after you and stay in the produce section. If you see somebody, you give me the signal—like,” he glanced down at my Vans, “screech your shoe on the floor, and I’ll know to lay low. But if the coast is all clear, pop your gum.”