Don't Breathe a Word Page 9

  “But I don’t have any—”

  “Here,” he said, taking the piece he’d been chewing out of his mouth and offering the greyish purple lump to me.

  Ugh. “Don’t you have any more?”

  “Sorry, last piece.” He shrugged. “But it’s still got some flavor left! Grape Rage! Come on. Are you in?”

  I hesitated.

  “We’ll get a new pack, I promise. All the gum is over on the magazine aisle, across from the ice cream.”

  “Mmm,” I said involuntarily.

  “You like ice cream?” Santos grinned at discovering one of my deep and abiding weaknesses. “Okay, we can get some of that, too. Cherry Chip? Caramel Pecan?”

  “Mmmm . . .” He was winning me over. “Wait a second. We’re running out of room. What about Faulkner?”

  “You’re right! Here. You take him.” In one continuous movement, he scooped the creature out of his hoodie and dangled him in front of me. Faulkner’s pink paws stretched out in the air to discover what, exactly, had happened.

  I took him, still warm from Santos’ hoodie, and tucked him inside mine. Faulkner’s sharp, musky smell clouded my nose as he laid his head on top of my breast.

  Santos grinned. “See? He’ll be fine. Now, back to the plan. . . .”

  Fifteen minutes later, we really were Sid and Nancy on a wild ride in the grocery store—punks with a purpose. I had my Van-screech down and my signals straight. It wasn’t just about bread and bubble gum—it was about freedom and our futures and the risks we would have to take to be the change we wanted to see in the world.

  Santos cruised through produce while I staked out the bread aisle. He would be pocketing peanuts and a few apples, plus snacks for Faulkner, who had a weakness for cucumbers. Meanwhile, Faulkner tucked his tickly pink feet on my ribs and off-gassed a smell only a mother ferret could love. I held my breath and picked up the pace. Exactly like Santos said, there was a mirror above the meat and dairy cases at the back—offices behind one-way glass and cameras potentially everywhere. I hoped my haircut would hide my face enough not to appear on KING 5 news, the camera shot spliced next to my junior-class picture and the reporters declaring it “a definitive match.” No loaf of bread was worth this—I would rather Dumpster dive after dark.

  Santos rumbled his throat. All clear on the produce aisle, awaiting my signal to move.

  Just then, a meat man came around the corner, as tall as Creed but a lot . . . meatier. He wore a white apron with smears of pink and glared in my general direction, like he was about to take me to the back and show me his collection of butcher knives.

  My Vans squeaked on the floor. Oh, no! Was that the signal to move or stay put? Santos was going to kill me, I was so bad at this. So much for being the change. I practically tripped into the butcher’s arms.

  “Excuse me.” I laughed like a crazy girl. “Is there a bathroom here?” I brushed my hair out of my eyes, letting the charm bracelet dangle. Maybe he would see it and realize I was just another normal.

  He got a strange look on his face, sniffed the air.

  Oh, no. He was smelling Faulkner. Or worse. Faulkner’s fart.

  He put his hand over his nose, as if my very proximity was sucking the oxygen out of his lungs. “Yeah, through those doors.” He waved me away and kept walking toward the front of the store. “And hurry.”

  I pushed my way through the double doors to the warehouse in the back, deserted except for me and my new hero, Faulkner. Straight in front of me was a case of Cheetos—jackpot! I grabbed two bags and tucked them in around Faulkner, whose feet scrabbled against the plastic like it was his new playground. “Stop it,” I hissed. While I was here, I might as well grab the half roll of toilet paper sitting on the back of the tank. God knew we needed some.

  I peeked through the twin windows into the store. Santos would be an aisle away, wondering what happened.

  On the desk was a pack of gum—open, and cinnamon, but it was better than nothing. I tucked it into my pocket and dashed through the door, hoping no one would notice the extra poof I’d gained in the last few minutes.

  Santos was in the bread and cereal aisle, giving me the what-the-hell look. “Change of plans,” I muttered as I shielded him from the one-way glass.

  “’Bout time,” he said. “I mean, I know the shit room is bad, but . . .”

  “It was Faulkner!” I whispered, then imagined what this conversation would sound like one aisle over, and just like that, a giggle popped out, and then another, and then Santos started, and then it was pretty much impossible to stop. But we tried—because Meat Man came around the corner as Santos was stuffing the bread into his shirt and shouted, “Hey!” He wiped his sausagey hands on the apron.

  Santos and I were trapped between Meat Man and the back doors. I grabbed his arm and said, “Come on!” because I thought I remembered a door standing ajar where Meat Man must take his smoke breaks in between chopping things to little pieces, and if we ran right now, we could actually make it.

  Santos followed me through the swinging double doors and there it was—a crack of light. If we were lucky, some other meat man wasn’t out there, but we didn’t have time to check. The first Meat Man was hot on our trail. But he wasn’t fast like me or agile like Santos, who knocked over an open stack of Quaker Oats as we slipped out the door. We heard Meat Man swearing as we beat it all the way up the next block to the library bushes.

  “You are one crazy chica, you know,” Santos panted. “What the hell . . .”

  I waited for the boom to drop—he would never take me with him again. I almost got us caught or maybe even killed by Meat Man. Asher flashed through my mind. I winced, shielding myself from whatever might come next.

  Before I knew it, my throat was closing. I gasped for air and only felt particles creeping in, the dust from my clothes and Faulkner’s fur and the terror of escape and now Santos’s disappointment. Slowing my breaths was not enough.

  I was going to suffocate.

  In a flash, I whipped out my inhaler—it wasn’t my emergency one, but it would have to be good enough.

  “Hey,” Santos said, his voice soft as the rest of the world spun around us. “Hey, are you okay?” He was putting his arm around my shoulder, rubbing my back with his hand. “Triste? Triste, are you okay?”

  It took me a minute to respond. “It was Faulkner,” I said, barely a whimper. Then it all came out in a rush. “The meat guy was coming, and he farted—”

  “The meat guy?”

  My breath was returning to normal. “No, no! Faulkner . . .”

  Santos started laughing.

  “. . . and I didn’t know what to do, I told him I had to use the bathroom, and I was back there and was thinking you were by yourself, and I didn’t want you to think I’d gone back on the plan—oh yeah, then I tripped . . .”

  Santos’s laughter died down. “So you’re sick,” he said seriously.

  Damn, I thought. I shouldn’t have resorted to the inhaler. “Not really,” I lied. “I just have asthma sometimes.”

  Santos frowned like he didn’t believe me and pointed to my inhaler. “You’re gonna run out of that shit sooner or later, though.”

  Faulkner popped his head up through the top of my hoodie, making a crunching sound against the Cheetos bag. I was grateful for the distraction. “Oh wait, here,” I said with a sniff, pulling out the bag. “These are for you.” I took the gum out of my pocket. “And this, too.”

  Santos snatched the bag and the gum like I’d just given him a birthday present. “Shit, girl, you’re the best!” And he tore it open right there and stuffed a handful into his mouth. “Whatever drugs you need, I can get for you. You just tell me. Okay?”

  He gave a Cheeto to Faulkner, who crunched nuclear orange dust all over my hoodie. But I didn’t care. Because Santos didn’t care.

  Santos was going to help me.

  I was in.

  Chapter 18

  I gave Santos a list of the meds I might need for any and
every asthma eventuality, and he showed up a few days later with a sack full of drugs: Fluticasone inhalers, albuterol inhalers for emergencies, prednisone oral steroids, amoxicillin and azithromycin in case of bronchitis or pneumonia . . . all of it labeled haphazardly and in varying quantities, as if they had all escaped from the medication graveyard.

  “Don’t tell anyone I got this for you,” he whispered, shoving the plastic bag into my hands.

  I perused the contents. “Oh my . . . this is unbelievable. How did you get these?”

  He grinned as if I’d just given him a huge compliment. “You know I could tell you, but then I’d have to keel you,” he quipped in a gangsta accent. “Besides, I can’t have you dying when I’m supposed to be teaching you how to live.”

  From then on, Santos took it upon himself to show me how to survive on the streets. “It’s like that Mice and Men book,” he declared. “There’s Lennie, the slow guy, and George, who kinda, you know, watches out for him, and Lennie’s got, like, this thing for rabbits. So I have to watch out for you and make sure you don’t get yourself killed.”

  “So . . . I’m Lennie in this scenario? You’re the one with the rodent.”

  “Ferret, not rabbit.” Faulkner poked his nose out at this sound of his species. “And you’re missing the point,” Santos continued.

  “Which is . . . ?”

  “I gotta watch out for you.”

  “Right,” I said. “Then you’re going to shoot me at the end?”

  “I doubt you’ll be the first one to die,” he said quietly.

  If I were as fat as you, I’d kill myself, May had said. There had to be so much more to her story. More to all of their stories, if what Santos said was true.

  Santos recruited May and Creed in my reeducation whenever possible. Most days they fell into a rhythm, going their separate ways during the day, then coming back together at twilight. Except Santos, who disappeared most nights as soon as it was dark and didn’t get home until maybe three or four in the morning.

  May fixed my hair, bleaching the top layer a white-white and giving the layer underneath a cool blue hue. Santos taught me to be quick and invisible. Creed watched over all of us.

  Creed never explained to Santos and May where I’d come from, and they didn’t seem to recognize me from the club. The agreement between us was unspoken: Creed felt responsible. It would be just between us. And when we curled up together on the dingy mattress, I thought about how he made me feel safe but not crushed. He sang himself—and now me—to sleep.

  I could fall for someone like that.

  My friends and every other kid in King County were back in school now, which meant the rhythm and flow of Capitol Hill shifted to a steady stream of students heading into Seattle U and the community college. At least it was easier to sneak onto the campuses for the essentials now—clean bathroom and a shower now and then. Even Creed was starting to notice my earthy aroma.

  “Okay,” Santos said one day when he was showing me the finer locations for acquiring the necessary goods: soap, styling wax (for him and May), socks, and candy. Creed brought home a new backpack for me after I told him about the one Stench stole, though I left out the part about the meds. The last thing I wanted was for my health to become an obsession for him, too.

  “Okay, so at some point,” Santos said, “you have to decide what you’re going to do with your life.”

  “Whoa, whoa, wait a second. So I’m planning my future now?”

  We were walking down Broadway toward the Walgreens for a licorice run—not the Twizzler kind, but the long, red ropes you could hardly find anymore. They were practically impossible to stuff into a backpack silently, but Santos had mastered the art and promised to teach me.

  Santos grinned. “Well, we all do something. We can’t just steal bread all the time—though you’re getting better, I’ll admit. For a while there, I was worried we’d get kicked out of every market on my list.”

  I beamed at the compliment. “But I thought you said it was a moral imperative, that stealing bread was the first step to changing the world?”

  Santos talked with his hands when he wasn’t petting Faulkner or feeding him bits of cat food, and this time he waved a finger at me. “Don’t get me wrong. Bread is the first step. Having a job—that’s the next step. Everybody contributes.”

  Creed didn’t play his guitar at the squat because of the noise, but he came back every day with a fresh pile of change in the case.

  “So . . . Creed plays music. What does May do?” She could do hair, clearly, but I didn’t know any salons hiring street girls.

  “She does a bunch of stuff,” Santos said vaguely. “I think she’s got art students at the college who pay her to . . . you know . . .”

  “She’s a prostitute?” I blurted out, then covered my mouth. Santos looked injured.

  “No! She poses. Like for drawing or whatever. She’s a model.”

  “Huh. That doesn’t sound so bad.”

  “Yeah. Well, maybe she can hook you up, too. They probably need more than one cute girl to draw.” I looked at him sharply—he was blushing furiously. “I mean, you know, you’re both . . .”

  “Cute,” I finished. “Figure-drawing models have to be more than cute. It’s not like porn, you know.”

  He started laughing wickedly and looked away.

  “Somehow, this feels so incestuous,” I teased, then stopped. Maybe I was being presumptuous, thinking I’d penetrated the family circle.

  “Hey, baby,” he said in a fake Spanglish accent to the police car rolling to a stop in front of us, “would you like to buy my seester?”

  I hovered behind Santos. The cruiser’s window rolled down at an eerie pace. He clutched a flyer in his hands with a girl’s face photocopied onto it. Joy’s face. And mine.

  The cop did not look amused. He held up the flyer. “Have you seen this girl? She disappeared about a month ago.” I looked down at my shoes.

  “She a runaway?” Santos asked, wary. None of us were friends of the police, who regularly harassed kids on the street.

  “Could be,” the cop replied grudgingly. “You seen her?”

  “Hey,” he called to me, leaning forward to get a better look. “You seen this girl?”

  I cupped my cheeks in my hands, like I was looking closely at the picture—but really I was trying to hide my face. That and the wild pounding of my heart.

  I slowed my breathing. They had to be looking for a girl with asthma. An inhaler would give me away in an instant.

  It was last year’s school picture, taken not long after I met Asher. I’d probably lost ten pounds since then—five when Asher thought I should, and five more since I’d been out here on the street. She wasn’t me anymore. Those cheeks were too round, still smiling and innocent. She looked like a baby.

  She deserved whatever she got with Asher, and probably more.

  “She looks like some cabrona,” Santos observed. “Why you looking for her here?”

  The cop shrugged. “You sure you haven’t seen her?”

  “Hell, no,” Santos said, a little too loudly. A couple of normals on the opposite corner looked over to see what was going on. “C’mon, Triste.” He looped his arm through mine. “Hey, we don’t bother you, you don’t bother us.”

  “Watch yourself, Rat.” The cop spat out the window and moved on.

  “Let’s get out of here.” Santos was still holding my arm as we walked faster and faster, away from the Walgreens. The cop didn’t follow. He’d already cruised past the next group.

  I could barely catch my breath. I had to be way more careful from now on.

  We never did make the licorice run.

  After dark, Santos disappeared without saying a word to any of us.

  “Where is he going?” I asked Creed, after May had gone to bed and he and I cuddled close to keep the chill away. Being so near was both a blessing and a curse.

  “He doesn’t really talk about it,” Creed murmured into my hair.

&
nbsp; “But he looks worse every time he comes back. Aren’t you worried?” The last few times, he’d come in grey and exhausted and looking like someone had punched him in the jaw, then slept until midafternoon.

  Creed let out a frustrated sigh. “I can’t control him any more than I can control you.”

  But he could—he just didn’t know it. Every time he touched me, I felt my nerves waking up as if from a long sleep. The more we stayed here together, the worse it would get.

  I shifted so our foreheads touched and our breathing mingled. Our eyes couldn’t help but meet. Candlelight flickered on his skin, prickly and unshaved for days. Up close, his eyes were a network of blues and greens and topaz under a shock of dark brown lashes.

  “You have more control than you think you do,” I said. His lips were only inches away. He didn’t blink, only stared at me, weighing something I couldn’t fathom.

  “No.” A pause. The moment was broken. “I can’t control even the things I want to.” He rolled over and blew out the candle.

  “‘Just gotta let it go,’” he sang softly. He didn’t pull me close again.

  With Asher, it was always so clear. After I’d given myself to him, there was no going back. He liked that I was a virgin—one of the things he liked best about me. He could teach me whatever I needed to know, which was everything. Every day after school, he picked me up in his DeLorean and took me to his private apartment. He would work on research while I did my homework. Then, when I was finished, he would do things to me that I never knew were possible, stripping away layer after layer of what separated us until there was nothing left.

  Even when he was angry, I always knew how to bring Asher back to that sweet place. He would forget my words and focus on my body.

  What was stopping Creed?

  Chapter 19

  Creed and I downed the coffee May made for us one morning as he thumbed through the paper she’d snatched on the way. I avoided looking at newspapers, as if by avoiding them I could ignore what was happening outside of my cozy new world.