I followed Satch and Rico across the dark living room and into the kitchen. A fluorescent light buzzed overhead and reflected off Irwin’s old-fashioned aviator glasses. He stretched latex gloves over his hands before he sat on a stool, his knees sliding under a cot covered with a white sheet that smelled of bleach.
Satch and Rico set Ariel down while Irwin broke a plastic stick. The scent of ammonia bore into my sinuses.
“Smelling salts,” Irwin explained, waving the stick under Ariel’s nose.
Her chest rose in a sharp breath that she coughed out in a blood-tinged spray. Groggily, she glanced around, and when her gaze settled on me, she smiled. “Blaise, you look like raw meat.”
“I can’t look as bad as you do,” I said, keeping the mood light, though I wanted to fall on my knees and offer a prayer of gratitude that Ariel wasn’t dead.
“You both look like road kill,” Irwin said without any humor in his voice. He swabbed something orange over Ariel’s forehead, then covered the split skin with gauze and pressed his hand over it. The bleeding stopped.
“My anesthetics were stolen, so I don’t have anything to give you for the pain,” Irwin apologized.
I glanced at the medicine cabinet where he had pointed and a face startled me. I almost screamed before I realized I was looking at my own reflection. My right eye, swollen shut, bulged out in an ugly knob. A sludgy mess of lumps and clots covered my forehead and cheeks. Blood had dried on my neck, caking in hard scabs. I looked like something that had crawled out of a grave.
“Maybe I’ll need to give you a few stitches, too, Blaise,” Irwin said before he scrutinized Satch and Rico, who crowded the kitchen, ash and bits of blackened leaves flaking off their clothes, their sooty tracks a mess across the floor.
“You two go on,” Irwin said. “Blaise and Ariel are going to spend the night here so I can keep an eye on them, but there’s no reason for you to stay.”
Rico and Satch lingered anyway, looking worried.
“Are you waiting for a kiss good-bye?” I teased Rico, to let him know I’d be okay.
To my surprise, he gently placed his lips on mine. “Congratulations, Blaise,” he whispered after he pulled away. “You’re now one of the elite.” He pressed my cell phone into my hands along with my earrings.
“We’ll check on you tomorrow,” Satch said as Rico nudged him toward the door.
After they left, Irwin opened a small packet that read surgical suture across the front and pulled out a curved, eyeless needle with an attached length of thread. “Ariel, I’m going to have to rely on your grit to keep you steady while I sew you up.”
“All right.” Her bruised fingers clenched the sides of the cot.
As I stepped closer to Ariel, a scrape at the back door distracted me. The doorknob jiggled slightly. Someone was working the lock. I glanced at Irwin, who hadn’t noticed the sound. He was busy swabbing alcohol across Ariel’s forehead.
“Blaise,” Irwin said, looking up at me. “This might be hard for you to watch. Why don’t you wait on the front porch? I’ll get you when I’ve finished with Ariel.”
“He’s afraid my screaming will make you run,” Ariel joked bravely.
“That’s a definite possibility,” Irwin said grimly.
I nodded, but the sound at the back door had made me suspicious—not of Irwin, of course, but of the person who had been following us in the park. I walked through the living room, opened the door, and clomped out on the porch, pretending to leave, then soundlessly eased back inside. I let the door close and waited.
Soon after, I heard the back door open.
“You can’t barge in here,” Irwin protested, sounding annoyed but not alarmed.
“I need to see Ariel,” a voice replied.
“Danny,” Ariel whispered with too much happiness.
I listened to Danny murmur sweet things to Ariel. Though my heart longed to hear such words spoken to me, I pushed aside any romantic fantasy and settled on my apprehension. Ariel was going to get herself killed.
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10
As the sun was rising, I walked Ariel home. Her mother screamed when she saw us, her shrieks a mix of horror and anger and, finally, relief. She locked Ariel into her arms and, as Ariel’s dried blood rubbed off on the white uniform that her mother wore to the beauty shop, a memory leaked into my thoughts. In my mind, I was four years old again, lying on the backseat of my father’s car, unable to swallow the blood pouring into my throat fast enough to breathe.
The day had started out happy, with chocolate ice cream and coconut macaroons for breakfast while my mother laughed with one of the men who came around while my father worked. They had left me alone, which she frequently did and, by lunchtime, she had returned wearing a new white blouse that he had bought for her.
Later, when I had awakened from my nap, she was setting up the ironing board. I had scanned her face for warning signs, because sometimes the men who visited her left her with a craving for a different life.
As she’d picked up the iron, her expression had become too still, her cold stare alerting me that I should hide, but then she’d said, You’re in my way, Blaise.
The sweetness in her tone had confused me. I’d smiled as the iron swung into my face.
By the time I had drifted back into consciousness, my father had come home from work. I heard him yell, Are you trying to kill her?
It was an accident! My mother had screamed. Blaise is always in the way.
My mother had refused to hold me while my father drove us to the hospital. She hadn’t wanted to get blood on her new white blouse. My father had heard my struggle and stopped the car, picked me off the backseat, and forced me into my mother’s unwilling arms, which remained stiff, even after he’d told her that I would drown in my own blood if she didn’t hold me upright.
After the surgery, two police officers had questioned me. I told them that I had gotten in my mother’s way and was sorry for ruining her blouse.
With that memory drifting behind me, I sloshed through the wet ash that covered the park and tried to call Melissa again. She still didn’t answer and I left another message. Though I needed to find her, I had to see my grandmother first.
I slammed through the front door. “I’m home!”
“I was just going out to look for you!” my grandmother shouted from the kitchen. “Where have you been?”
She charged into the living room. Her anger flared and vanished, the car keys tumbling from her hand when she saw my bloodied face. Her mouth fell open as she took in air, and then she screamed.
“Lord have mercy, what happened to you?” She petted my face, soothing my skin with her cool palms before she pulled me into her arms, my dried blood soiling her clothes.
I exhaled, relaxing, and repeated the lie I had practiced on Ariel’s mother. “Ariel and I had an accident on Dante’s motor scooter. We spent the night at Irwin’s house so he could watch Ariel, who was hurt worse than I was.”
“I thought I told you to stay off that contraption.” My grandmother didn’t question my lie, because she wanted to believe that I was a good girl who thought daring was a ride on a rickety scooter. “You can’t take such risks. Promise me you’ll be more careful!”
“I promise,” I said, breathing in the traces of Pine-Sol that clung to her. She had once worn a sweet honeysuckle fragrance, a luxury she had given up for her dream of seeing me in college. “Life is going to get better for you, Grandma,” I whispered. “You’ll see.”
“What I want to see is you cleaned up and in bed.” She held my face, her smile gentle, forgiving me for my stupidity. “I’ll call the school right now and tell them you’ll be out for a couple of days.”
In the bathroom, I sat on the edge of the tub, my muscles too tender to peel off my clothes. I took the scissors that my grandmother used to trim he
r hair and cut off my T-shirt, jeans, and underwear. I had hoped a shower would ease my pain, but when I stepped under the spray, the water stung like nettles. My raw skin couldn’t bear the heat that my knotted muscles craved. I dried off and spread the ointment that Irwin had given me over my face and the tiny stitches on my scalp.
Exhausted, I needed to sleep but, after pulling on my sweats, I dragged myself downstairs, back to the kitchen, and found my grandmother sitting at the table, her Bible open to 1 Corinthians.
I touched her arm, startling her. “You don’t have to stay up and take care of me. Go on to bed.”
She stood, then drew me to her and kissed my forehead. “You better eat something,” she said wearily, leaving the room. “And get some rest.”
I choked on the little bit of cereal that I tried to swallow and then washed out my mouth with salt water as Irwin had instructed. My lips stung, but my tongue felt better, no longer gluey.
The moment I heard my grandmother’s fan, I grabbed my purse and left.
A short walk later, my head throbbing, I steadied myself against the shaking in my legs and knocked on Melissa’s door. When no one answered, I stole the key from a tin box hidden under the steps and let myself inside.
A scattering of cockroaches fled in front of me as I passed a closed door that most likely led into a pantry. I set the key on the kitchen counter, the quiet unnerving until the refrigerator cycled on in a loud hum that rose and fell in an annoying rhythm.
Though I had often watched Melissa take the key from its hiding place, she had never invited me inside. Seeing the emptiness in which she lived filled me with sorrow. There wasn’t a table or even a chair in the kitchen. The only color besides the graying yellow of the walls and linoleum came from the velvet seams of black mold that lined the windowsill and tiles behind the sink.
For a moment, I wondered if I could have broken into the wrong apartment. I saw nothing of my vibrant friend who, as early as seventh grade, had dazzled the boys with her flamboyant style, wearing pink and purple ribbons around her wrists to draw attention to herself. She had painted a star beside her eye, sometimes silver, sometimes blue, a beauty mark to let everyone know she was destined to become a celebrity.
I crept into the living room where Melissa’s mother, a day sleeper like my grandmother, slept on the couch, orange foam plugs in her ears. I did a complete turn, but the only door I saw opened to a bathroom. Maybe Melissa didn’t have a bedroom and, like Rico, slept on the floor. If so, then she hadn’t come home last night.
My stomach churned. I started to leave when I passed the pantry door again. This time, I turned the knob and stepped into the long, windowless room.
A nightlight glowed in the socket, the light falling over Melissa, who lay curled on a thick gray blanket, the kind given to the homeless in winter. Her hands pressed against her abdomen, the yellow dress she had worn earlier barely covering her now.
“I tried to call you,” I whispered, not sure if she was awake.
“I lost my phone last night,” she said dully.
She lifted her head, her eyes flat. A chill passed through me. I sensed no life behind her gaze. Without looking at her, I sat on the edge of the blanket. I didn’t want her to see my tears. She seemed more beaten than Ariel.
“I was worried about you,” I said, trying not to breathe the awful smell that came off her, of fear and sweat, and something worse.
Her misery crowded the silence between us. I touched her back and felt her flinch, her shoulders and back stiffening. I pulled my hand away and waited.
After a long moment, she whispered, “They watched.”
Revulsion shot through me. Dear God, please, no. I didn’t want to hear.
“All of them,” she rasped. “They stood in a circle waiting their turn and watched.” Her vacant gaze left me and focused on the wall. “It wasn’t anything like I’d imagined . . . it wasn’t like loving someone.”
I wondered if Trek had told her that it would be.
Her face squinched and she drew her knees up to her chest. When her body relaxed, she said, “Some of them came at me twice. They must have, because—”
“Can I get you something?” I interrupted, suddenly a coward who wanted an excuse to leave the room, grab four aspirin, and escape into sleep.
Melissa said nothing, but when I looked into her deadened eyes, I sensed her accusation and disappointment. She needed me. I couldn’t fail her like I had last night.
“Go on.” I sat stock-still, powerless to hold back my tears, as Melissa continued.
“Trek never came into the room,” she said, her eyes focused on the wall again. “I kept thinking he’d stop them.”
Anger seethed inside me. I hated Trek for not protecting her. I hated myself even more for abandoning her. I should have gone back with a gun.
“But I wouldn’t have wanted Trek to see me like that,” Melissa said, already making excuses for him. “Omar helped me dress. Then he carried me home because I couldn’t walk.”
“And now?” I asked, feeling the weight of my heart. “How are you now?”
“I can’t even pee, but that doesn’t matter, because I hurt too much to get up and walk to the bathroom. I told my mom I had cramps and was staying home from school.”
“We should go see Irwin,” I said.
“I don’t want him to know what I’ve done.” She tried to hold back a sob. “I’m so worthless.”
“You’re not worthless.” I stretched out beside her.
“I feel the difference,” she whispered, letting me pull her into my arms. “I’ve lost what I was. I’m nothing now.”
“Don’t say that. It’s not your fault. You did what you had to do to survive. That’s all it is. Survival. Nothing more.”
“Maybe,” she said, her tears warm on my neck. “But I have this feeling . . .”
“What?”
“. . . like the gates of hell have opened for me.”
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11
Melissa whimpered in her sleep, her hair wet and sticking to her face. I touched her shoulder, the skin feverishly hot and slippery with sweat. Her leg twitched as if she were trying to run from me. I drew my fingers back and pulled myself up. My muscles had locked and the simple movement of standing sent painful spasms through my body.
In the kitchen, I ran water and sipped it from my cupped hands. Since the jump-in, I’d eaten nothing, and my stomach gurgled around the liquid, which tasted of mold and old pipes. I stopped drinking when nausea became stronger than my thirst.
I filled a glass for Melissa and set it on the floor within her reach, next to the packet of antibiotics that I’d gotten for her from Irwin. She didn’t need to take another pill for two hours. Even so, I hated leaving her, but I was worried about my grandmother and needed to get home before she found my unmade bed. She might think I’d wandered off, delirious, and I didn’t want her calling the cops.
I stepped outside, the air suddenly fresh, and took in huge gasping breaths. After locking the door and hiding the key, I started forward, my body trembling from hunger.
Near my home, a sixth sense drew my attention to an old Chevy rolling down the street. Four girls inside wore a masquerade of sunglasses and pink baseball caps. I shuffled backward until I stood in dappled shadows, next to a rattling swamp cooler that dripped water. My feet sank into the mud as the car eased to the curb in front of my grandmother’s roses.
Gatita got out, her silver rings flashing in the sunlight, and left something on my porch. Though I couldn’t see it well from this distance, I guessed it was a toy wolf, like those sold at the zoo, to let me know the Lobos knew where I lived.
As soon as the car sped away, I plunged out of the shadows in a breakneck dash toward my house. I only had seconds before the car might return. I clasped the handrail and pulled myself up to the porch, jam
med my key into the lock, then stumbled inside, pain raging in my head. I closed the door and fell against it, resting there until the darkness pulsing in my vision slowed; then I started for the stairs.
The run across the street had strained my back and, when I lifted my foot, cramps twisted up my spine. I pitched forward and fell hard, forced to wait until the dizziness and nausea eased before I crawled up to the landing, where I clutched the newel post and pulled myself to my feet. I staggered to my room and passed out across my bed.
When I opened my eyes again, my grandmother was kneeling beside me, dressed for work. Her breath, flowing over me, smelled faintly like nail polish remover. The scent told me she hadn’t eaten. I listened to her prayer and wasn’t even aware of falling back asleep until a dank breeze roused me from my slumber, cold across my face.
I was shivering but in too much pain to get up and close the window. I started to pull the covers over me when a bolt of awareness shot through me. The pink curtains weren’t billowing; even the ruffles lay in motionless curls.
The draft had to be coming from the attic. Someone had used the passageway to break into my home. Anyone who lived in the row houses on this block could have crept through the old escape route. One home was vacant, a foreclosure. Police had driven out squatters months before. Maybe new ones had settled in, discovered the holes and—Gatita! Had she found her way inside?
Fully awake, I slipped my hand over the covers until I touched the hammer. I forced my stiff fingers to clasp the handle as the floorboards creaked beneath a prowler’s weight. My nerves hummed, ready to launch my battered body into an attack.
When a silhouette slid over the wall beside my bed, I took one last breath, my body buzzing with adrenaline, and sat up, pain exploding inside me.
Satch spun around, a gun in his hand, his startled face lit from the streetlight. “What are you doing, Blaise? You about scared me to death.”
“Why are you here?” I asked, setting the hammer aside. “Has someone been hurt?” My mind skidded from one catastrophe to the next. “Was Rico shot?”