Less Than Nothing (21 page)

“I know. I’m beat too. But it’s important.”

“Why? Why right this second is it so important?” Now he’s getting defensive.

“Because I’m crossing the country with a guy and I have no idea what makes him tick. No clue about his past. That seems like a bad idea.”

“It didn’t stop you from coming, did it?”

Good point, but I’m not going to get defensive too. Calm, no judging. I pretend I’m Helen, and it helps a little.

“True, but that was then. I’ve had time to think about it, and I want to know. Whatever it is, you can tell me, Derek. I hope after everything we’ve been through you trust me enough to tell me.”

He shakes his head. “It’s not about trust, Sage. It’s about no sleep, my head splitting, and being surrounded by danger. Can’t we do this tomorrow?”

Derek sounds reasonable, and it’s a reasonable request. But I’m not known for being reasonable.

“Sure we can. But give me something, Derek. I won’t be able to sleep if you don’t.” I figure I might be able to guilt it out of him.

His eyes narrow, and when he speaks, his tone’s a little harder. “Fine. But you first. What happened four months ago that made you leave home?”

I so should have seen that coming. I’ve painted myself into a corner. I can’t hold out on him while asking him to spill his guts. I look away and draw a deep breath.

“My mom’s an alcoholic. She hardly eats, and she’s drunk day and night. Doesn’t leave the house, won’t go to the doctor, can’t remember where she is or what she’s doing, when she does anything at all. She’s been hospitalized three times for her stomach rupturing – the blood vessels basically explode, and she bleeds out. They told her if she keeps drinking, she’ll die, but she won’t quit. She’d rather drink herself to death and lose everything.”

Derek looks like he’s going to say something, but I stop him with a look.

“My dad bailed on me when I was ten and a half. She was already drinking hard by then, had lost her job and was doing temp work, but that never lasted because she’d show up reeking of booze and they’d fire her. Eventually word got around, and she couldn’t get anything, so we went on welfare. I guess my dad couldn’t take living with a basket case. I don’t blame him. Having grown up around one, there’s nothing worse. One minute she’s totally happy and manic and everything’s the most awesome possible thing in the world, and the next she’s furious and screaming curses. My most vivid memories are coming home from school and finding her passed out on the kitchen floor, a vodka bottle in the trash. I’d help her to the bedroom, and she’d swear she hadn’t been drinking, even though she was so wasted she couldn’t talk.” I choke up at the memories. There’s a special place in hell for parents that force their kids to be adults before their time.

“Anyhow, about a year later we’re living in a trailer, and she’s getting her master’s degree in boozing, and she meets Ralph. He’s got a few bucks and seems willing to take care of us, so he moves in. Within a few months they’re fighting every other day, shit’s getting broken, he leaves, comes back, leaves, comes back. Then the hitting starts. One day I come home from class and my mom’s sitting on the couch, watching TV, holding a bag of ice against her face. She’s got a black eye. I ask her what happened – she falls down a lot – and she says she said the wrong thing, and that I have to be careful around Ralph. That he’s a good man, but he’s under a lot of pressure.” I turn to Derek. “Ralph’s not a good man, Derek.”

I can’t continue. My throat’s so tight I can hardly swallow, and my eyes are burning. Derek pulls me close and hugs me wordlessly, his arms around me, sheltering me from the pain that’s always lurking on the periphery of life. I snuffle and feel awful, but I won’t cry. I’m stronger than that now, better than that, and when I walked out of my home for the last time, I swore I’d never shed another tear over what happened there, or for either of them.

“Oh, Sage…” he says, and his voice cracks. “Did he…?” He can’t finish the question.

I shake my head. “No. That’s about the only thing he didn’t do. He’s not about sex; he’s about control and anger and violence. I got tired of being hit all the time, so I left.”

His voice is so soft I can hardly hear it. “Didn’t you go to the cops?”

I shake my head. “It’s a small town. He’s friends with the sheriff. There was no point.” I clear my throat. “My mom defended him. She’s so dependent on him she chose a violent scumbag over her own flesh and blood. She would have denied anything I said if I’d gone to the police – said I did it to myself, or fell, and that I make up stories since my deadbeat father bailed on us. The cops would believe what they wanted to believe. It would be my word against theirs. Guess who’d lose in that situation?”

In spite of my best intentions, a tear rolls down my cheek and soaks into Derek’s shirt. He strokes my hair and rocks me slightly, and the pain recedes. Not entirely – it never completely goes away – but enough so I don’t think I’m going to completely fall apart.

When he starts talking, his voice is barely a whisper.

“My mom died when I was fifteen. She was a user – a heroin addict. Had been since I was a baby. It’s all over Seattle – back in the nineties apparently you couldn’t go to a club without being offered scag – it was part of the culture. My dad died in a car accident when I was eight. He was also using, but held down a job with a software company. A whiz programmer, my mom said, but with the Seattle flu – black tar heroin.” He hesitates. I don’t say anything. But it explains why fifteen was a critical year for him. We’re both familiar with heroin and the damage done – a lot of runaways are on the street because of it, turning tricks, many of them with AIDS and hepatitis from sharing needles or unsafe sex.

He hugs me closer, and I can feel his breathing get shallower.

“She had a lot of boyfriends over the years, and some of them were like Ralph. I got good at protecting myself as soon as I was big enough to fight back. My brothers helped, but they weren’t always around. My older brother joined the army when I was fifteen, just to get away. Mike. He was seventeen. I haven’t spoken to him since. My other brother, Patrick, was a year younger than me, but he wasn’t a fighter. So I wound up being the one who had to protect him.” He trails off, his voice breaking on the last words, and then continues. “Anyway, when my mom overdosed, I cleared out with Patrick, and the rest is history. But when I see someone hitting…”

I find my voice. “I get it.”

“That creep reminded me of every prick who ever laid a hand on Patrick or me. I guess I lost it. When I was hitting him, I was hitting all of them. Does that make any sense at all?”

It does. Complete sense. And it explains a lot.

“Do you ever hit people when you get angry?”

He stiffens. “Is that what this is about? No. I only fight when I’m attacked or someone I care about is threatened. I spent my entire life being a punching bag and watching Patrick take lumps. The last thing in the world I’d do is hurt someone I lo…that I care about.”

I feel like I have to say something. “It’s just that after Ralph…”

“Sage, you don’t need to explain. You saw me go off on that guy, and now you’re wondering whether you’re going to New York with another Ralph. I…I’m sorry I upset you. But for the record, I’m like the anti-Ralph. The polar opposite.”

“What happened to Patrick?” I ask in a small voice.

“I haven’t talked to him for a year.” His tone says that’s the end of the questioning, and I suddenly feel drained. But better.

Helen was right. Honesty and tackling things head-on is the best way. Now instead of worrying whether Derek’s going to go mental on me, I can rest easy.

He’s damaged, all right. But no more than I am.

And maybe two broken people can somehow fix themselves together.

He’s cradling me, and my eyes are getting heavy. I want to kiss him, but now isn’t the time. I close my eyes, just for a second, and barely feel it when he gently lays me down on the sleeping bag and takes his arms from around me. I’m asleep before my head hits my backpack, and this time, when I dream, it’s not nightmares.

The next morning we blow ten dollars getting to a decent location for hitching a ride, and score – an older hippie couple in a dusty crew cab truck bound for New Jersey, which they assure us is just a train ride from New York City. Shanti and Jonathon tell us about the old days, when they hitched all over the country following the Grateful Dead. We explain about the talent show, and they insist on hearing us sing.

“You need to practice, don’t you?” Shanti asks.

Derek graces her with one of his smiles, and I hide my smirk behind my hand. “You know what? You’re right,” he says, and at the next pit stop we get Yam from the camper shell and serenade them all the way to Hoboken. It’s only a little after 4:00 when they drop us off, and we find a PATH train headed for Manhattan. We’re both excited beyond belief – we crossed the country in four days, half the time we allowed, and have no plans other than seeing the sights and getting ready for the audition on Monday at Radio City Music Hall.

I text Melody. She’s predictably laser-focused on did we or didn’t we. The girl’s got sex on the brain. I send back a cryptic message that could mean anything. Other than entertaining Shanti and Jonathon, Derek’s been quiet all day, and I assume he’s digesting my story, just as I’ve been doing with his. I’m still not certain how I feel, but it’s definitely leaning in his favor, and the sensation of being distanced from him is slowly fading.

The train’s surprisingly clean and modern, but there aren’t many travelers on it. I’m wondering why – New York is supposed to be packed with people, and this isn’t what I expected.

Derek must be wondering too, because he turns to me and whispers, “All the traffic must be going out of the city at this hour. I bet the morning trains are sardine cans.”

A couple of kids our age get on at the next stop and glare at us, but I avoid their stares. Nothing can sour this moment, and as we pass through the tunnel that runs under the Hudson River, I feel a thrill of victory. We made it, against all odds, and now all we have to do is survive until Monday.

I turn to Derek. “You said you had someplace we can stay while we’re here?”

“That’s right. I did say that.” His eyes twinkle with amusement, and I note there’s discoloration on his cheek from where he got kicked. It’s a reminder of the close calls we’ve had on this trip, and if I never see Tennessee again, it’ll be too soon.

“Well, we’re here.”

“I was kind of holding off telling you about it, so you wouldn’t be pissed at me.”

“What? Why?”

“It’s not going to be the Ritz.”

“I wasn’t expecting that.”

“Bull knows a guy who runs the same kind of flop operation he does.”

He sees my face fall – I still remember my shower. Then again, I still vividly recall his, too, although I can’t mention it. I haven’t thought about that for a few days, but now that it’s in my brain…

Derek looks at me quizzically. “I didn’t expect you to smile like that,” he says. I wipe the grin off my face.

“What, is there like a secret society of homeless people running pay-as-you-go shelters in abandoned buildings that nobody told me about?”

“Kind of. Some of the punk bands that tour on a shoestring use them. Bull’s place is famous all over the country, so he knows everyone.”

“Where’s this one?”

“All I have is directions. But it’s on the lower part of the island, around Second Street.”

That means nothing to me. “Where do you want to go first?”

Derek grins. “I think we have to see Times Square, don’t you? Let’s get a little tourist fun in before we head for our luxury hotel.”

I wrinkle my nose at the word ‘luxury,’ remembering the splendor of Bull’s place. “Times Square, definitely. And the World Trade Center.”

“Kinda gone. But the Empire State Building’s still standing.”

“I want to go up to the top. Ooh, and the Statue of Liberty, too! And Broadway!” I’m afraid I sound too eager, so I pause. “You know what I really want to see?”

“What?”

“Radio City Music Hall.”

“I looked it up. It’s at Rockefeller Center. We may not get there today, but definitely tomorrow.”

I frown. “Why not today?”

“Because today’s going to be tonight pretty soon, and New York’s a big place. Think of it like San Francisco. It would be hard to see all the sights there in one day, even with a car. Here you can spend a week doing the tourist thing and still not get to everything.”

“I don’t mind walking around at night.”

“I know. But first things first. This train lets off at 33rd Street. That’s only ten blocks or so from Times Square.”

I nod. “Okay. As long as we get to everything before we go home.” The thought stops me, and a stab of melancholy quashes my excitement. I have no home. It’s a disorienting sensation. Most people lay down roots. Not me. Or Derek.

We arrive at the 33rd Street station and get off. It’s filthy and smells like a combination of electrical fire and sweat. We shoulder our way up to the street, where we’re assaulted by the tide of people I was expecting.

New York is like every movie I’ve ever seen that’s set there. A throng of rushing humanity surges toward us, and as we join the flow, I hear at least six or seven foreign languages. Everyone looks busy and smart and important, and I feel like a grain of sand on a beach. I resist the impulse to grab Derek’s hand – I’m not a child – but it’s a powerful urge. The sheer number of people is daunting, and I feel dizzy as we cross a street, with what looks like a million vehicles all trying to get someplace at once.