Compromised (12 page)

“Y
ou can't be here. You gotta go. This is my spot. Go. Go. Go. Gooooooooooo!” He holds his hand out toward us, then jerks it back, retreating to a corner where he taps on the wall. He coughs four times and blows on his fingers.

The boy wears a thin coat. The soles of his shoes are fastened by old pieces of tattered string. The left side of his face is totally scarred from a burn—the leathery skin drapes in brown folds, pulling his left eye taut. It's a horrific contrast to the right side of his face. Through the filth, it's easy to tell how beautiful he was. And his eyes—a winter green. Like pine.

“Go!” He balls his fists. “Go. I don't know you.
Tallywhacker. Go go go go go. This is my spot.” He coughs four more times and blows on his fingers again.

It's taken us three days to get to Elko because we spent two days in Carlin shoveling snow for food. And then walked the whole way to Elko. Nobody would pick us up. Twenty-two miles doesn't sound far. But it sure feels far when you're walking in the snow and haven't eaten much. My hands are covered in blisters. Once in Elko, we found an empty construction site near the airport. And now we're stuck in here with a freaked-out kid.

I'm tired.

Real tired.

Nicole moves toward the boy. I pull her back, but she shrugs me off and says, “Kid, we just want to sleep. We won't do anything to hurt you, so relax already.”

I wonder who he has run from. If it has anything to do with his face, he definitely did the right thing.

I pull some jelly out of my pack. “Why don't you eat this?” I offer.

“I don't,” he says, then freezes. I watch as tension builds up in his whole body. He trembles, then coughs and snatches it out of my hand. “Tallywhacker, asswipe,” he mutters, blowing on his fingers. He returns to the corner.

“We're just going to sleep over here.” Nicole motions to the other side of the room. She turns to me and mouths, “Nutcase.” She starts to talk. Big surprise. Blah blah blah…“We'll only be here one night. No more, kid. So take it easy.” The endless stream of words seems to calm him down.

Nicole and I back-walk and lie down, resting our heads on our packs. I turn on my side and face the boy. My eyelids feel like lead. I try to keep them open—to keep watch—but I can't do anything except curl up into a ball and fall asleep.

 

I shiver. No matter what I do, I can't get warm. I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to cut off the cold; trying to stay in a world of dreams. Sometimes sleep is the only place that makes sense anymore. I perceive the change in light outside. Dawn's lavender skies replace the inky night. I give in to the cold and morning, finally opening my eyes.

“It's colder than a well digger's ass in the Klondike,” the boy says in a quiet voice. He's lying down, his face just inches from mine—his green eyes luminous.

I jump up. “God! What the—” I shout, moving back
until I'm against the wall. Nicole startles awake. “What? What happened?”

The boy sits up. He cocks his head to the side. “Tallywhacker, asswipe. It's cold.” He tenses his jaw, coughs, and blows on his fingers, balling his hands up into fists when he stops blowing.

“Ass where?” Nicole asks, rubbing her eyes.

“It's colder than a well digger's ass in the Klondike,” I whisper, then smile. The boy smiles.

“You're okay,” he says, and taps his fingers on the ground. “Asswipe,” he says. “It's cold.”

“Dude, what's with the language?” Nicole asks.

He blushes and his whole body gets tense. Then it's as if there is an explosion of movement: coughing, head jerking, and blowing on fingers followed by a string of obscenities. He comes up with some pretty original word combos.

Nicole sits up. “Nice.” And we both giggle.

The boy coughs. “Come on. I'll show you something.” He motions for us to follow him and jerks his head to the side. He hop-skips through the room and out into a field. The sun has risen; rain drizzles down. Rays of sunshine break through clouds shining on drops of rain, creating a kaleidoscope of color.

The boy coughs and jerks his head. “The Devil's gettin' married.”

I look across the empty field toward the mountains, then back at the boy. His eyes radiate light. He turns to us. He taps his chest. “I'm Klondike.” Then he taps my shoulder four times and Nicole's as well.

Nicole motions to me. “She's Jeopardy. And I'm Capone.” She owns that name. Chicago. Cosa Nostra. Weird Mafia facts. A dad on the run. She's a definite Capone kind of girl.

I pause. “Yeah. Jeopardy and Capone.”

I don't know how long we stand in that field, looking at the “Devil gettin' married.” I just know I stop feeling the cold.

W
e strap our packs on our backs. I look around for Klondike, but he has disappeared. I want to thank him for the morning and put two more jellies where he slept the night before. We walk until noon, when Nicole slips into a 7-Eleven to lift us something to eat. I think again about asking her to get me some Pepto-Bismol. Or even Tums. Anything to stop the burn. I don't know if it's from anxiety or hunger anymore.

I wonder when I'll stop feeling hungry. But I know that's a dumb question. Biology makes sure the body never stops feeling hunger. Maybe I'll get used to it.

“Do you feel like we're being followed?” Nicole asks.

I turn around. The black asphalt shimmers in the
afternoon sun. There's nobody. “No.”

“Why are you so quiet?”

“I'm just thinking about food.” And what else would I be with Nicole talking all the time. But, I admit, I kind of like it. She has some pretty funky stories.

Nicole gnaws on a piece of beef jerky. “Christ, this is spicy,” she says. “Makes me Goddamn thirsty.”

“Well, you stole”—I look at the name—“colon cleaner jerky. What do you expect?” I tried one bite, but the burning was too intense. Plus it's gotta be bad for my stomach. I wonder if she can steal tea bags. That's not too much to ask. Hot water and a tea bag. I clear my throat.

Nicole looks at her package and shrugs. “What's the theme of the day?” she asks.

“Your pick,” I say.

“Okay,” she says. “How about the most beautiful thing you've ever seen?”

“Uff.”

“Well?” she asks. She swallows and sticks her tongue out. “This stuff burns going down.” Nicole rubs her throat. “Can't even fuckin' eat it.”

“Well, what did you expect? The wrapper has a guy farting fire.”

Nicole studies the wrapper. “Pretty tacky.”

“What? You now have scruples about colon cleaner jerky packaging?”

Nicole looks at me. “Ha. Ha.” She leans against the speed-limit sign. We've been trying to get picked up for about an hour.

“Next time steal something less, um, leathery,” I suggest.

“Have you ever heard the expression ‘Beggars can't be choosers'? Well, the same goes for shoplifting.”

“Okay. Sorry.” I try one more bite of jerky. It tastes like the sole of a shoe that's been dipped in Tabasco. My throat's been bugging me enough as it is. Oh well. I tuck the jerky into my pocket for another day.

“Well? The most beautiful thing?”

“Give me a minute.”

Nicole sighs.

“Okay,” I say. “There are these things called diatoms—a type of phytoplankton. Anyway, I had a really amazing biology teacher when we lived in New Mexico. He took us to an exhibition of molecular photography. It was like looking at perfection. Nature is perfect—even in its tiniest, microscopic forms.”

Nicole nods. “But nature made humans.”

I think about that. “Really, how we work is perfection. How we grow and are born. It's just everything gets messed up afterward.”

“Wonder why.”

“I think free will.”

“Free will?” Nicole asks.

“Well, instinct doesn't have malice, you know. It just
is
. Humans, though—” I pause.

“Are shit.”

I shrug. “That's one way of putting it.”

Nicole says. “Anyway, molecular photography. Never heard of it.”

I stretch. “And you? What's the most beautiful thing you ever saw?”

“The Devil gettin' married,” Nicole shades her eyes. “Do you see that?”

I look down the road. I don't know how we haven't noticed him. Klondike approaches us with his strange hop-skip.

“I knew we were being followed.”

Klondike coughs, balls his fists, and jerks his head. “I want to come with you. Tallywhacker, asswipe.” He taps my shoulder. “Okay?”

I shake my head at Nicole. Two is hard enough as is.
With three, nobody'll ever pick us up. And we'll be stuck walking the rest of the way to Boise. My feet are already feeling pretty raw.

This is not part of the procedure. I've already changed the constants to include Nicole, but not Klondike. In science, you can't just keep adding facts to fit the existing experiment. And I don't want a new experiment. I don't want to start over.

I look back toward the city that has faded in the distance. It's there. At least that's what the billboard for the Bob & Tom Show on Coyote FM 94.5 says. On the other side of the road there's a billboard about erectile dysfunction. We've walked over an hour, and I realize I forgot to look for the library in Elko.

I take little consolation in the fact that forgetting helps the brain conserve energy while improving short-term memory and recall of details like…like what? What could be more important than finding a phone number for Aunt Sarah? It's not like I misplaced my keys. I forgot a critical step in the procedure. It's like I blew off the entire procedure altogether.

It must be the hunger.

Klondike crosses his arms and says, “I'm coming.”

Nicole stares down at her shoes. She doesn't say anything. I look Klondike in the eyes. “You're too young to come with us. Go back to Elko.”

“I'm twelve.”

I scowl.

“Eleven.”

I raise my eyebrows.

“Ten. Old enough. Tallywhacker, asswipe. I'm old enough on my own, I'm old enough with you.” His voice changes whenever he says “tallywhacker” and “asswipe” to a gruff sound; then he goes back to talking like normal.

“No, Klondike.” I look to Nicole for support, but she still just stares at her feet. “Sorry. We can't take you.”

“So I'll follow. I'm not with you, just on the same road as you. Tally—” He coughs and balls up his fists again. Klondike taps Nicole on the shoulder.

I get up and walk down the road. Too many changing variables. Nicole catches up to me, with Klondike following at a short distance.

“What do we do?” I ask.

“He's ten,” she says.

“Why do you always want to look out for the younger kids?” I ask. And if something happened to one of them at
Kids Place, it always got fixed. I always figured Nicole was behind it. Especially with how they all hugged her when she got back from the hospital.

“You did. Billy. The new boy at Kids Place. You stopped the Triad from hazing him. Even I couldn't have stopped it. Not like
that
. How is that different from what I did?”

“Because I did it for me. Not for him.” I hate to admit that. It sounds selfish, but it's true. He was just a positive result.

“Well for whatever reason, you stood up for somebody. And Klondike needs us. He shouldn't be on his own. God knows how he's survived this long,”

“How long is this long?” I ask. “Maybe people are looking for him.”

“Did you get a look at his clothes? Hair?”

I nod.

“Long.”

“Yeah. Okay. But he's not our responsibility.”

Nicole squints in the sun. She lowers her voice. “He kinda is. I mean he's in this same mess. We're all in it together.”

“So now
anybody
who lives on the streets is part of us—some kind of wacko version of the mob?” I shove my
hands in my pockets. This is not procedure. It can't be, because then we'll never make it. I'll never make it. I've got to go back to my original, basic purpose.

But that hypothesis doesn't work. Because it doesn't include all the constants: me, Nicole, and now Klondike.

We're two too many and too much baggage. I hate this hypothesis. It's way worse than my others, and then the procedure will have to include convincing her to open a kind of foster home for runaways from Nevada. I sigh.

“God, what's that smell?” Nicole asks.

Klondike skips up to us. “What did you want me to do, let it crowd up around my heart and kill me?”

I inhale and then pinch my nose. “Gross, Klondike.” But I can't hold back a giggle.

Nicole and I exchange a glance. She hands him a piece of beef jerky. “Come on.”

I
've decided I'm being pretty negative about the plan—and absolutely unscientific. There's no proof to show that Nicole and Klon will want to stay with my aunt Sarah. Actually, Nicole wants to find her dad. And Klon? I'm not sure. Moreover, there's no proof to show Aunt Sarah will even want me to stay. My scientific procedure has, so far, been a big shot in the dark. So I think about it all afternoon. We finally get a ride in the back of some guy's sheep truck, minus sheep, to Jackpot, Nevada. And I come up with something that will work.

I think.

I can see the glaring problem. The new hypothesis doesn't include Klon. But I've decided he's too new to the trip to include in the method. Maybe he just needs a change of scenery. Maybe he'll find somebody else to travel with. No sense in getting all fussed over him. My details are pretty shaky when I think about the whole procedure, but I can't imagine
all
scientists having everything cut and dried from the beginning.

I sigh. I'm thinking the scientific community ought to come up with another method. Or maybe social scientists do something different altogether. I should look into that.

We make it to Jackpot, the last town in Nevada before Idaho. Klondike can't walk too fast. And he's always stopping on the side of the road to check out rusted cans, abandoned campsites, road kill. He's especially interested in road kill.

He's a little boy.

Klondike sleeps on a pile of cardboard boxes we found. His threadbare coat hangs midstomach, too small to button. His stomach is concave, an empty cavity beneath his covered rib cage.

 

“What's the big deal? So instead of two, we're three,” Nicole says. “And he needs us.”

So when did Nicole go all UNICEF? Geez. “The more people, the more complicated,” I finally say. “He looks younger than ten years old. And nobody wants to pick up kids unless they have some kind of weird porn ring in their basement or something. And I'm not particularly interested in showing up on a carton of milk.”

“You're so clinical,” Nicole says. “It's like you don't give a shit about anybody but yourself and your Goddamn locket.”

“Why is looking out for myself so bad?” But that's what Dad did. And look where that got us. I clap my hands on my arms and rub up and down. Stupid weather. Too bad Dad didn't get caught in summer.

“You know what happens to people who don't look out for others? Watch each other's backs? They end up alone.” Nicole straightens her back and huffs.

“Well, you're certainly the model of being surrounded by friends and loved ones,” I say, and hold back from mentioning the clear absence of friends her age at Kids Place.

I stare at Klondike. He shivers and coughs. Nicole's
right. I take off my coat and put it over him. “He doesn't have any clothes that fit, and that cough sounds pretty nasty.” I turn to Nicole. “You think you can get some cold medicine at the drugstore tomorrow?” I wouldn't mind some either.

Klondike coughs so hard, I worry his ribs will explode through his paper-thin skin. His eyelids flutter open; then he curls up into a ball, wrapping my coat tight around him. Nicole and I wait until the coughing subsides. All we can hear is the quiet wheeze of his breathing.

“A drugstore,” Nicole mutters. “With all the meth heads it's not easy anymore—Sudafed freaks.” She talks to herself and sighs.

“I'll help you,” I say.

“Help me what?”

“Shoplift.”

Nicole raises one eyebrow. “We're not doing some kind of chemistry lab here. It's shoplifting.”

“So?”

“So I'm gonna have to teach you.”

“Okay, fine. You teach me.”

“In return for what?”

“I'll show you how to read.” It's something I've been
thinking about. Another procedure, another hypothesis.

Nicole sucks in air. “I know how to read.”

“Okay,” I say. I pull a piece of newspaper from the pile I have on top of me. “Read it.”

Nicole stares at the paper in my hand. She pushes it away. “Whatever. I don't have anything to prove. I'm not stupid,” she mutters.

“Just because you can't read doesn't mean you're stupid. It just means you never learned.” I shiver and cover myself with the newspapers. “You don't have anything to lose,” I mutter.

“What's the theme?” Nicole asks.

“Can't we drop it today?”

“The rules were one theme per day.” Nicole rubs her hands together and puffs on them.

Yeah. And my original method didn't include either Nicole or Klondike or living on the streets or the cold or the hunger. I hate that Nicole's rules are easier to follow.

“Okay,” I say. “Something we wish we did before. Something we regret.”

Nicole fidgets with her coat buttons. “I don't regret not being able to read. So get off your My Little Pony and stop looking down on me. You're such a fuckin' snob.”

“I'm not a snob.”

“Yeah, you are.”

“I am not.”

“You think you're better than me. So you can vomit science facts. Big deal. So your daddy's a ‘white collar' criminal.” Nicole shoved her hands up the coat sleeves. “He's no better than me shoplifting hot chocolate at the convenience store. He just wears a tie doing it.”

I want to defend Dad. I wish I could tell her that's not the way it is. But it is. I've known it all along. And I like the nice house and clothes anyway.

I lean my head back against the cement wall.

“I tell you,” Nicole says, “you gotta be pretty fuckin' smart to get through school not knowing how to read. Plus who needs it? Capone didn't get through school, and look where he ended up?”

“Um. Dead. I figure.”

“Yeah,” she sighs. “But he was untouchable. He never got killed in all those years. He died of a heart attack, at his home. The greatest mob leader of all time died of a heart attack. In his home. Brilliant.”

“A bit anticlimactic,” I say. I was hoping for something more mobster-like. Pablo-like.

She shakes her head. “That's the genius of it. Simplicity.”

Her knowledge of how mobsters have died is slightly disturbing. “So what does this have to do with him not finishing high school?” I ask.

“He was making over one hundred million dollars a year at one point. In the nineteen thirties. Who needs high school?”

We sit in silence. I rub my arms and ask, “So how do you do it?”

“Do what?”

“Get through school without reading,” I say.

“Memory,” she says.

“Memory?” I ask. “Like how?”

She pauses, then says, “The Bodele Depression. Billions of grains of sands are moved by the wind all around the world, blown across the Atlantic on trade winds. It's a place where all travel begins.”

I stare at her.

“Close your mouth. I told you I'm not stupid.”

“No kidding,” I mutter. I feel a pang of jealousy. If I had that memory, I wouldn't have to study so hard. “How do you do that?” I ask.

“What?” she asks.

“Remember. I only said that once. When I thought you weren't listening.”

“I dunno. I just do.”

“But I don't get it.
How?
”

“Okay. When I listen, I picture my brain opening up. My brain's one of those nineteen twenties bars. You know, filled with flappers and smoke and jazz music. The golden Mafia age, okay?”

“A bar? Your brain is a bar?” I ask.

“You wanna hear it or not?”

I nod.

“So anyway, each person in the bar holds information for me. So when somebody says something, I create a new person depending on the information. The Bodele Depression is a cleaning lady, sweeping up the dust, peanuts, and trash. She's a descendent of slaves but sings blues and jazz when everybody leaves the speakeasy at dawn. Maybe later on she'll become famous. I just need more facts to build her up.”

I stare at her. In awe.

“But I have to be interested in the topic to make up the person.”

“You were interested in the Bodele Depression?” I ask.

“Yeah. Hitchhiking sand.” She smiles. “You oughta see the ones I cooked up in sex ed—especially when we went through the venereal diseases. Real characters.”

“I'll pass,” I say. “You know. Technically nothing is ever forgotten, physiologically speaking. It's just a matter of recall and retrieval from the wrinkles of the brain. It's like you're a master. Think of what you could do if you could read.” My voice fades. Part of me likes having the upper hand there.

If Nicole learns how to read, she won't need me. My stomach burns more than my throat for a second. Isn't that what I want, though?

Nicole wipes her nose and leans against the cement building. I watch as she gnaws her fingernails down to the nub. In a weird way, I'm glad Nicole is here. It makes everything less lonely.

“So do you want to learn?” I finally say.

“To read?”

“Yeah. To read.”

“What? So you can save me from myself? So you can feel good about stooping to my level? Maybe you can even
put it on your college résumé in bold letters: TAUGHT RUNAWAY TO READ THE NEWSPAPERS SHE WRAPPED HERSELF IN DURING THE NIGHT. Yeah. That's way Nobel-worthy. For sure. At least I can read the headlines and stock reports before I freeze my ass off and die. Real useful.”

“Look who's got a chip on her shoulder now,” I say.

“So what's it to you whether I can read or not?”

“I just don't want to eat another piece of colon cleaner jerky. And I want to learn how to shoplift.”

Nicole doesn't say anything for a while. “Okay. Deal.” She pauses and pushes up her sleeves to scratch on a scab. “So what's the theme of the day?”

“Regrets.”

“I don't like that theme.”

“My choice,” I say.

Nicole leans back against the building and closes her eyes. Her jaw tenses. “Do you have any sisters or brothers?” she asks.

I shake my head. “Not that I know of.” I rattle the box. “Maybe something here will tell me otherwise.” I laugh.

Nicole doesn't.

“I did,” Nicole says. “And now I don't. That's my regret.”

“How?” I ask.

Nicole looks away. “Crackhead mom in Yerington. Brought all sorts of freaks home. Stupid whore.”

I don't say anything for a while. “I'm sorry,” I finally say.

She says, “Kids are supposed to have normal, you know? Macaroni and cheese and lemonade stands and all that shit. Not what we had. Not what she had.”

Normal. That would be nice. “Yeah.” I pile another bunch of newspapers on top of me. At least I've never felt unsafe with Dad. He might be a con, but he never hurt me. Not really. Does it count that I was sometimes his decoy? So I fell down a few times on slippery floors at banks and office buildings. Four fractures and one serious break—all ending up in cozy settlements. Does that make him a monster?

I look at her arms and remember the cuts she has—two big ones on her wrists—lengthwise.

I wonder who found her. In time.

Will she find her dad after I get to Aunt Sarah? Will she be safe?

“And you, Jeopardy. Your big regret?” Nicole interrupts my thoughts.

I pick at a hangnail. “Five minutes of chasing Jimmy Sanchez around for a hair ribbon.”

“Huh?”

“It was satin. Pink. I remember my mom had braided it into my hair that morning, and he yanked it out.”

“A hair ribbon?” Nicole sneers.

“So I came home late after kindergarten. Five minutes too late. And they couldn't bring her back. Science,” I say, “like magic, is all about timing.”

“Oh.” Nicole looks in my eyes and looks away.

We sit in the cold alleyway. There's a pizza restaurant around the corner. Garlic and tomato sauce almost cover the smell of cat crap and pee. Maybe someone will throw out a half-full box. I'll go look later. I shiver and lean against the wall, trying to find a way to get warm.

“It was cool of you to give Klondike your coat,” Nicole mutters. “We can share mine.”

I move to her side. “You got paper and a pencil?”

“Yeah.”

“Are you tired?”

She shakes her head.

“Tonight we can start,” I say.

“Start what?”

“Reading.”

“And stealing?” she asks.

“Tomorrow.”

“Deal.”

“Deal.” I guess this will be our normal.

Klondike lies next to us curled in a ball. His hair is matted and flops down over his face, covering the leathery skin. His chest rattles when he breathes.