Little Peach (5 page)

I feel so stupid. I pictured something beautiful, something pink and clean and safe. This is just another hood. Like Strawberry Mansion but with buildings, not houses.

“Unless you got an apartment number,” Devon continues, “I don’t think you’re gonna find your girl.”

“Maybe we could ask somebody. Someone in charge?”

“All right.” Devon strides across the patchy grass toward the group of men outside Building 1. Two of the guys walk over to meet him, one short with droopy eyes and a red T-shirt, the other one taller, a baggy white T-shirt tucked into his sagging jean shorts. They tap
fists and look in my direction. He waves me over.

“She’s lookin’ for her friend,” Devon explains in a low voice. “She came down from—where you from?”

“Philly,” I say, stepping closer. “Her name’s Erica. She moved here a couple months ago.”

“You got a picture?” says the short one with droopy eyes.

“Nah,” I answer. “She’s fourteen. Kinda heavy.”

He shrugs at Devon. “No idea.”

Someone’s gotta know where she is. She gave me this address. She told me I should come here. She wants to see me.

Devon’s car keys jingle in his hands. “So, what now?”

I don’t know.

“Look. This place got a couple thousand people living in it. You don’t even know what building she’s in.”

I cover my ears. I don’t want to hear this. The smell of dinners being cooked and strangers walking and music creeping out of places I can’t see; the little girls run by again, the shopping cart squealing like a tortured animal. My legs shift beneath me, threatening to cave in.

Devon puts his arm around my shoulder. “Easy, girl,”
he whispers. “Easy.”

I push him away. What am I gonna do now? I can’t go home. Even if I wanted to, all my money’s gone and Mom don’t want me there anyway. I don’t even know how to get back to the bus station. I don’t think we’re in the city anymore. I don’t know where we are. I don’t know anything.

“It’s all right,” he whispers.

“No, it ain’t,” I snap. “You don’t understand.”

“Yeah, I do.” He turns me toward him and lifts my chin with his finger. “You all alone. You got nobody. You got no place to go. You thought you’d find your girl here, but you can’t. You scared and you don’t know what to do.”

His words pour into me like a secret. “Listen. Don’t you think it’s kinda crazy that I found you today? That I knew where this place was? Don’t that seem strange to you? Like maybe we was supposed to meet. Like maybe I’m supposed to look out for you, ’cause I been where you are.”

I wipe my nose with my hand and look up at him. He’s right: it’s crazy that he found me, it’s crazy that he drove me all this way. He don’t even know me. My own
mother don’t want me, but here he is, helping me out. He steps closer and puts his arm around my shoulder.

I freeze for a second. He’s a big guy, bigger than Calvin. Big like Grandpa. He smells like soap and vanilla. Like laundry and clean socks. I feel a kiss on my forehead, warm and friendly. Safe.

’Night, Punky
.

I lean into him.

“You can crash at my place tonight, all right? Me and my roommates—Kat and Baby. You’ll be safe there. You can borrow some of their clothes if you need ’em.”

Safe. Inside
.

“Ain’t none of us got family,” he continues, gripping my hand like I might blow away, like I’m something important he won’t let go. “So we make our own. C’mon. Let’s get up outta here.”

He leads me back to his car and I glance, once more, at Pink Houses—the place I came all this way to find. An older woman with her head wrapped in a scarf hurries by the guys who still stand outside Building 1. She lowers her head as she passes them, the metal doors slamming her inside. I shiver until Devon takes my face again and looks inside my sore, salty eyes.

“I got you, all right? I’m gonna take care of you, ’Chelle. I swear.”

We drive onto a parkway that runs along the water, the jagged New York skyline smaller and smaller in the distance—like a picture of a city, not the real thing. Devon hums and leans away from me while the car glides along and finally exits where a green sign says
SURF AVENUE, CONEY ISLAND
. A block later, we stop alongside a large subway station with trains rattling on overhead tracks. A large crowd of passengers crosses the street in front of us, then we turn right onto a wide four-lane road. On the left side of the street, behind a flimsy chain-link fence, is a tremendous Ferris wheel, turning like a fluorescent moon.

I sit up.

The entire block is full of rides: small ones for little kids with boats and trucks for them to ride in, and bigger ones, too, like bumper cars. Across the street, at a window underneath a yellow-and-green sign that says
NATHAN’S FAMOUS HOT DOGS
, a line of customers wait to get food. Moms with kids. Couples. A group of girls, probably my age.

Where is Erica? Does she come here with her cousin?

The air is busy with smells: hot dogs, salt, sweet crispy dough. And something else.

The ocean.

“Are we near the beach?” I ask.

“Yeah.” Devon smiles at me. “Back in the day this used to be the spot right here.”

Five blocks later, the noise and lights are gone and the streets look like home: deserted except for the boys outside a bodega on the corner. Devon pulls into the parking lot of a tall apartment building, even bigger than the ones at Pink Houses.

“Lemme carry some of this shit for you.” He takes my bag, and I hurry behind him through a heavy black door. The lobby walls are dirty yellow tile. There’s an elevator, but he walks right past it and we climb up seven flights of steep cement stairs and sticky hot air that smells like pee and smoke. There are two locks on the door. He slides a key into each, and then we’re inside. There’s a big living room with a large flat-screen TV and two dark-blue couches. On the coffee table is a bag of potato chips and a two-liter bottle of orange soda. There are pink Converse sneakers on the floor.

Girls live here.

I step inside.

He leads me to a small room with two single beds. Real beds—not just a mattress on the floor. One has bright-red sheets with white flowers and a purple blanket that looks brand-new. The other is bare.

“You can sleep there,” he says, pointing to the empty one. “Baby sleeps in the other. She ain’t home right now, obviously. Tomorrow we’ll get you what you need—if you decide to stick around.” He disappears for a moment, then returns with a thick blanket. “You can use mine tonight. You hungry?”

I shake my head no.

“A’ight then. Rest up, girl. You must be tired. I’m right outside if you need anything.”

I’ve never slept anywhere but my house. I change into Grandpa’s T-shirt and keep my jeans on. I wish I had my pajamas. I pull out red bear blanket and hide it under my pillow.

Then I peek down the hall. Devon’s sitting on the couch, the TV glowing all soft and blue. His eyes shine in the dark.

“You straight? You wanna watch TV?” He pats the
cushion next to him. “C’mon.”

Things like this don’t really happen, do they? To meet someone who takes you in like this even though you ain’t family? Who don’t mind having you around?

I sit down next to him—but not too close, and he doesn’t try. Girls live here. That’s good. I picture Grandpa shaking Devon’s hand.

Thank you
, he’d say.
For taking care of my Punky
.

I lay my head on the cushion. Devon moves down to make room for me. I stretch out and he rests his hand on my foot.

I can hear my own heart go
thump thump thump
, the words
thank you thank you
like a song in my head until I slide into a soft, snug sleep.

9

2700 SURF AVENUE, APARTMENT 6B

Coney Island, New York

The next morning, Devon drives me to a mall.

“You need supplies, girl,” he says, and we stride into a clothing store with blaring lights and music pumping like a club. “Let’s get you some clothes. It’s on me.”

“You don’t gotta do that,” I say.

“Go ’head. You can’t be livin’ in that T-shirt all the time.”

My cheeks get hot. Grandpa’s shirt hangs off me, three sizes too big. I look stupid. I pick out two tops,
both black, like the ones on the mannequin standing next to me.

Then we head to a department store.

Devon smiles. “So, Michelle from Philly. Wanna get some sheets and a blanket? You might as well stay for a couple more nights, till you figure out what you gonna do.”

“Really?” I ask. “You don’t mind?”

“Why would I mind?” he says.

Brand-new sheets. Bright yellow with pink dots, and a blanket soft like a kitten. A hundred and seven bucks. Devon doesn’t blink.

Then we go food shopping at the bodega by his apartment. It sells everything, even fruit—not like the corner store back home. I get chicken cutlets, eggs, bread crumbs, rice, frozen peas, and a giant bottle of fruit punch. Devon pays for everything, pulling out money from a thick wallet like it will never run out.

“I’ll pay you back,” I say, but he just smiles and carries the bag of groceries all the way back to the apartment building. “Don’t worry ’bout that now,” he says, nodding at a guy with bright-red sneakers who stands inside the lobby.

I change into one of my new black shirts, careful to fold Grandpa’s tee under my pillow. Then I get to work. I clean up the small kitchen, wash the dishes, and begin to cook.

Dip the chicken in eggs. Then bread crumbs. Put them in the pan with butter. Don’t leave them too long or they’ll get dry. Save the extra eggs.

I cook up a big pot of rice, then straighten up the living room. Clothes are everywhere—a pair of red jean shorts, a tank top, black boots, a shiny black skirt. They must belong to Kat and Baby—Devon’s roommates. I remember what he said about them, about how they don’t have family either. I want them to like me. I fold the clothes in a pile on the couch. In the bathroom, I wipe down the sink. There’s lots of makeup—glittery lip gloss and dark-black mascara. I put some light blue eye shadow on my lids, just to see how it looks, but quickly wipe it off. I don’t want to look stupid, not in front of Devon and his friends.

I bring Devon a plate of food in his room. He’s lying on his bed, his eyes glued to his phone, his fingers moving fast across the small keyboard. “Damn, girl, you can cook? Baby gonna be happy.”

“I cleaned up too,” I say quickly. “I can do the laundry if you want. Just tell me where to take it.”

Devon smiles and takes a big bite of rice. “Maybe later. I got some friends comin’ over tonight. We havin’ a little party for you.”

“For real?” I say, my face flushing.

Suddenly the door to the small bedroom opens. A girl emerges. Not a girl. A woman. Or something in between. She’s older than me, tall with long braids that fall past her slim shoulders, down across her red tank top. She has sharp edges: elbows, breasts, cheekbones, hips that fill her black sweatpants. Her eyes are messy with black eyeliner, sleepy and puffy, but it doesn’t matter. She is beautiful. So pretty that I have to look away.

“There’s my girl,” Devon says, putting his phone down. “Michelle, this here’s Kat.”

Kat smiles, but her eyes are hard. “Hey,” she says, and climbs into bed with Devon, draping her long body across him. “This is where I sleep. Just so you know.”

“Oh,” I say, staring at the floor. “Sorry.”

Devon laughs, his hand on her thigh. “Easy. She didn’t know. ’Chelle, why don’t you go make your bed? My boys gonna be here soon. Take a shower and borrow
some of Kat’s clothes. Make yourself look nice, a’ight?”

I hurry to the small bedroom, suddenly nervous. Is Kat Devon’s girlfriend? Who else is coming over? I’ve never had a party before. Not just for me. I want Kat to like me. I go back to his room. “There’s food if you want some,” I say to her, then hurry back and open my new sheets and comforter.

A young girl’s lying in the other bed, buried under the dark purple blanket. Her face peeks out, chubby and dark—darker than Kat, whose skin is a warm brown.

“You my new roommate?” she asks.

“Yeah.”

“Yay!” She sits up, bouncing on her knees, and grins at me—a grin so huge that I can’t help but smile back. “We can share the dresser. And the closet too!”

“Thanks.” I laugh, relieved that she seems so nice. “I don’t have much, though.”

“You will,” she says, her eyes twinkling, like she knows something wonderful is about to happen. “I’m Baby. I like your blanket.”

I smile and spread it out on the bed. It’s perfect. Clean and brand-new. I lie down on it, almost afraid to touch it.

“Daddy gonna buy you all kinds of stuff.” She smiles. “What’s that smell? It smells good. Like a restaurant.”

“I made chicken. Who’s Daddy?”

Suddenly I hear voices in the living room. The front door closes, and moments later, music pounds the air. Devon sticks his head in the door. “You need to take a shower, ’Chelle. Baby, show her where the towels are. And give her somethin’ to wear.”

I shower quickly and comb through my hair in the mirror, trying to make it smooth. Baby leaves me a tight pink tank top and shorts with a silver sparkly star on the front. I put them on, but they’re too snug so I put Grandpa’s shirt over them. There are more voices outside the door. Guys’ voices, deep and loud. I peek out and see one of them sitting in a chair, his arm shiny and muscular, his black hair buzzed short and neat. I smile, my stomach flipping, and hurry across the hall into my room.

I don’t want to go out there by myself.

And then Kat walks in, holding a big glass of fruit punch. She looks at my baggy T-shirt, sighs, and hands me the glass.

“Here. D made this for you. Drink it,” she says.

I take the glass. “Thanks.”

“Drink it.”

I watch her. “Why?”

She sighs again. Then Devon sticks his head in the door, flashing a smile at me. “Come on out, girl. Everybody waitin’ on you.”

I take a deep breath and stand up, but Kat blocks the door, pressing her hand into my chest.