No Place (8 page)

As I watched, I tried once again to make sense of what Mom was thinking. How was it possible that a home as beautiful as this, with its own swimming pool and tennis court, was filled with negative energy, while a tent camp of homeless people was filled with the positive stuff? And yet, if I was really honest with myself, I’d felt it too. Maybe because that Aubrey guy was so full of enthusiasm and hope, two emotions that were severely lacking in Uncle Ron’s household.

But I still couldn’t see myself living in Dignityville. Living in a rec room sucked, but it was way better than a tent.

While I couldn’t hear the conversation Mom and her brother were having, my uncle’s body language made it look as if he was arguing
against
Mom’s plan. Had I been asked to predict, I would have thought he’d pretend not to like it, but secretly be pleased to get rid of us (or at least rid of Dad). But Ron’s hands were on his hips and he kept shaking his head as if he absolutely wouldn’t hear of it.

Go Ron!
I thought hopefully.

Finally, Mom put her hand on his shoulder and said something that ended it. Ron hung his head, and Mom hugged him. I could almost hear what she was saying. Something like: I appreciate you wanting us to stay, and no matter what happens, you’re my brother and I’ll always love you.

Damn . . .

*  *  *

Later that afternoon we once again parked on the street across from Dignityville. Only this time the car was packed with clothes, camping gear, and supplies. The only difference between us and the Joads was that they’d had a beat-up old Hudson truck and we had a beat-up old Subaru.

Mom looked over the seat at me. “Ready?”

“No.”

In the front seat Mom and Dad shared a quick glance.

“We don’t have to do this today,” Dad said. “We probably have enough money to spend a few nights in a motel. The problem is, once we run through that we’ll still wind up here, only with nothing in our pockets.”

Mom looked over the seat at me again. “I know this is difficult, sweetheart. I know it’s not what you want. But I want you to give it a chance. I promise, if you still hate it after a week or two, we’ll try to come up with something else.”

“Seriously, Mom? Then why bother? I know I’m going to hate it.”

“Maybe not. I’m just asking you to try.”

I wanted to argue, but there was no point in it. Mom was going to have her way.

Our new address was site number thirty-seven, a square plywood platform raised about six inches off the ground. Aubrey wasn’t around, so we were assisted by Wade, rail thin and scruffy with a red bandana around his forehead and long graying hair in a ponytail.

“We don’t have a lot of rules,” he said as he helped us raise the tent and secure it to the plywood platform. “You probably saw the board when you came in. The only thing I’d add is no loud music or talking after nine o’clock. A lot of folks have to get up early for work. Aubrey told you about the hot dinner every night, right? As far as other meals, you’ll have to fend for yourselves.”

“What do people do?” Dad asked.

“The regular things. Some prepare their own on camp stoves. Some go to Subway or the diner. The hard-luck cases’ll eat at the church or the food pantry. And if you do prepare food here? Don’t forget to separate out your recyclables just like you did at home. Oh, and you get these.”

He handed out three small booklets of bus passes. “Two free trips a day for work or appointments. And don’t forget to sign up for kitchen detail. Everyone volunteers at least once a week to either serve or clean up. Of course, you’re welcome to do it more often if you feel like it.”

Wade left. To be honest, I felt paralyzed by the numbness of disbelief. My parents had both gone to college, and I was on my way next year. We’d had a house. They’d had jobs. This wasn’t supposed to happen to people like us.

Mom and Dad rolled out their sleeping pads and bags. Having done a lot of camping in the past, we had our own gear, but we hadn’t used the tent in years and it smelled unpleasantly musty. My parents shot quick looks at me. I still hadn’t moved.

Dad said, “There’s no rush, Dan.” Which basically meant,
There’s no point in standing around.

Despite the smell the tent was pretty spacious and had room for plastic shelving for our clothes, and stackable plastic bins for our personal stuff.

“I wouldn’t leave anything valuable lying around,” Dad said, glancing at Mom to see if she agreed.

She nodded.

“Like my laptop?” I asked.

“Can’t hurt to keep it out of sight,” she said.

“Under your dirty underwear,” Dad suggested with a wink.

That reminded me: “Where do we wash clothes?”

“There’s a Laundromat about a block away,” Mom said.

Right. I’d seen Meg with that laundry basket. Looked like I’d be joining her. I reached for my sleeping bag and unrolled it. This move was real. It was happening. And there was nothing I could do about it.

For now.

*  *  *

“So,” Mom said once we’d settled in, “shall we go for a walk?”

Dad and I shared an uncomfortable look. All along I’d sensed that while he was trying to be supportive of Mom, he wasn’t completely stoked about Dignityville either.

“Remember what Aubrey said,” Mom reminded us. “Don’t look at this as a place for the lost and disenfranchised. Imagine a day when there are hundreds of Dignityvilles, and all kinds of people live in them not because they
have
to but because they
want
to.”

I felt myself wince inside. It sounded like Mom had taken a big gulp of Aubrey-flavored Kool-Aid. Dad put his arm around her. “You’re right.”

They both turned to me. “Coming?”

“I have to do some reading for school,” I said.

“It’s a little dark in here,” Mom said. “Why don’t you go over to the dining tent?”

“This is fine,” I said, thinking,
No way am I going over there
.

Dad turned on the LED lantern. The tent filled with light. “That better?”

“Thanks.”

“See you in a bit,” Mom said with forced cheerfulness as if telling me to feel better.

They left. Feeling completely bummed, I sat down in one of the camping chairs. The tent may have been big, but it was still way smaller than my old bedroom. The low, slanting ceiling made me feel claustrophobic, and I kept getting distracted by the conversations of people as they passed outside.

Mom had promised that if, after a week or two, I still really hated it, we’d try something different.

I couldn’t wait.

 12 

At dinnertime I convinced my parents to let me treat them to Subway with the money I’d made working with Uncle Ron’s neighbor. They knew exactly why I was doing it, and I guess they went along because they sensed I could take only so much of Dignityville on our first day.

It was dark when my alarm went off the next morning. I woke with the kind of confused jolt you feel when you think you’ve only just fallen asleep. But there was no confusion about where I was. I’d spent too much of the previous night lying awake, staring at the ceiling of the tent, to have any doubts. It was Monday morning, and today, for the first time, I would make my way to school . . . from Dignityville.

Sleeping pads are okay for camping, but they’re not mattresses, and I felt stiff. I’d laid out my clothes so that I wouldn’t have to turn on a light when I got dressed. I knew
the alarm would wake my parents, but I was hoping they’d just go back to sleep.

I was half-right.

“Where are you going?” Mom whispered from her sleeping bag.

“School,” I whispered as I sat up with my back to her and pulled my pants on.

“This early? What about breakfast?”

“I’ll pick up something on the way.”

“And a shower?”

“At school.”

I waited for her to say more, but she didn’t. Pulling on a jacket, I went outside. The air was dark and chilly, but I wasn’t the only one up. Light peeked out of other tents, and a few people were already out and about. A guy wearing a robe and flip-flops carried a towel and a toilet kit toward the showers. A dog trotted past. Heading down the path toward the exit, I found myself behind a construction worker with an orange hard hat and a lunch pail.

Even though I had the booklet of tickets for the town bus, I wasn’t sure which to take and decided to walk the two miles to school. The sun was just starting to come up when I got there and the sensation of hunger had awakened in my stomach. The front doors were locked, but I knew the janitors used the side entrance behind the Dumpsters. Inside, the halls were empty and dim. My footsteps echoed on the tiles as I headed to the gym.

With shampoo, soap, and deodorant already in my gym locker, I showered.

A little while later I was leaving the locker room when Coach Buder came in. When he saw me, a scowl etched its way onto his narrow, lined face.

“Here early,” he said.

I nodded, not feeling like I had to explain. After being coached by him through four years of baseball, I still felt like I hardly knew him. He was retiring after this year and sometimes I got the feeling that he’d had enough of high school sports.

“Everything on track for Rice?” he asked as he unzipped his athletic jacket.

I nodded. “Just have to sign the letter of intent.”

“How’s the arm?”

“Still there.”

He smiled. “You deserve it, Dan. You’re probably the most talented player to ever come through here, not to mention one of the hardest working.”

“Thanks, coach.”

“Stay on track now, you hear?”

“Definitely,” I replied, but at the same time I wondered why he’d said that. Did he somehow sense that I was in danger of falling off track?

Coach Buder nodded in a way that meant the conversation was over. He’d done his duty and dispensed his coachly advice. Now he could go into his office and dream about retiring to Florida or whatever his plan was. Some of the guys called him
Buddha behind his back because he had that detached way about him. Even though I’d only met Coach Petersen from Rice once, I’d spoken to him a lot on the phone, and already felt closer to him than I ever had to Buddha.

*  *  *

By lunchtime I was starving. When it comes to bargains the school lunch is pretty cheap, but the portions are small. On the menu that day was a chicken leg over rice, cauliflower and peas, and applesauce.

Being the best pitcher on the team, I’d been written about in the school and local papers, so the lunch ladies knew who I was. I always made a point of saying hello and asking how they were. When you play team sports, you learn that what a player does off the field can be just as important as what he or she does on it. You represent your town and school, and if you make it big someday, you’ll want the folks back home to say nice things about you. That day Lisa, a skinny blonde with a gravelly smoker’s voice, was behind the counter.

“Think I could have a little more?” I asked when I saw how skimpy that drumstick was.

“You can buy another main course, honey,” she said.

I knew I could, but that would nearly double the cost of lunch and Mom had portioned out the lunch money for one meal per day. So taking a second main course now would mean not having enough at the end of the month. “Thanks. I probably shouldn’t.”

Lisa looked puzzled. “It doesn’t cost that much.”

“Yeah, I know. Thanks anyway.” I slid my tray toward the cashier. They say it’s the little things that count, and I was beginning to see that part of being homeless was not being able to count on the little things, like an extra helping of school lunch. I’d just given the cashier my PIN when Lisa came over with a second helping of chicken and rice in a Styrofoam bowl.

“Here you go, honey,” she said, and gave the cashier a knowing wink.

“Hey, thanks.” My growling stomach appreciated it, but my head felt uncomfortable. Would this be my life from now on? Sneaking into school early to take showers, and depending on handouts at lunch?

As I headed for the table where the usual suspects were sitting, I wondered if it was possible that Lisa had given me the extra food because she’d somehow heard about my family moving to Dignityville. No, it wasn’t possible. Not yet. But how long would it be before the whole school knew?

“Looks like someone’s hungry,” Noah quipped when I put my tray down. Talia smiled at me and turned back to her conversation with Tory. She’d gone with her family to their lake house for the weekend. We’d stayed in touch, mostly texting, but I hadn’t been able to bring myself to tell her about our latest move.

One thing was certain: I wouldn’t be able to avoid it for long.

*  *  *

By the afternoon I’d really begun to drag. The combination of not getting much sleep the previous night and getting up so early that morning had caught up to me. Back in the day I’d kept a couple of Red Bulls in my locker for moments like this, but when money got tight, I’d let that lapse.

“Think it’s time to get the arm loose?” Noah asked in the weight room after school while we worked out with kettlebells. Every fall after summer showcase ball ended, I rested my arm for two months and focused on core and leg strength.

“Why?”

He cocked his head curiously. “Uh . . . because the Fall Classic is coming up and maybe you ought to prepare for it?”

“Oh, yeah.” I yawned and started another set of swings with the bells. To be honest, I hadn’t thought much about the tournament for the past few days. There’d been other things on my mind. Noah and I agreed that I should probably start throwing at our next workout, and then we went back to core training.

“Need a ride?” he asked later when we left the gym.

I’d known this moment was coming, but my sleep-deprived brain hadn’t figured out how to handle it. Now it was here. I probably should have made up some excuse for walking home, but I was so bushed that I really did want that ride.

When I didn’t answer, Noah frowned. “What’s with you?”

There was no way around it. “We moved over the weekend.”