Violet Grenade Page 3

  The three of us pause. I imagine we all think something different in this moment.

  The cop: Thank God.

  Dizzy: That’s it, then.

  Me: Run.

  Chapter Five

  Visible

  An hour after Dizzy is taken into custody, I return to my wall. I’m terrified the social worker will show up, but I don’t know what else to do. It doesn’t seem right to go to the house without him.

  I press my back against the brick and slide down. Another pig could drive by any moment and arrest me for the same crime I just ran from. Maybe that’s what I want. Maybe I want to go where Dizzy is even if it means being locked up with my own head.

  With Wilson.

  I don’t know how long I sit there before I hear soft footsteps. They aren’t the cold, hard ones of police heels. These are gentle, like a cautious hand stretched toward a stray mutt.

  My head rises.

  A woman is watching me.

  “Go away,” I say. I know her type. The bored housewife who’s looking for purpose, who believes she can find it in rescuing people like me.

  “Did you do that?” she asks.

  I follow her gaze to my wall. “What if I did?”

  “It’s beautiful.” The woman holds her shoulders and head high. She has blushing cheekbones and pearls that dip into her cleavage. Her eyes are gray-blue and hooded, and her smile is a nice one, close-lipped without assumptions. She looks old Hollywood. Even her voice has a slow, regal tone.

  “It takes talent to do that.” She states it as a fact. “And courage.”

  I shake my head and roll my eyes, but the warmth of her words seep in anyway.

  “You don’t believe me?” she asks.

  I don’t respond.

  She gestures to my wall. “Most people spend their entire lives quietly. Never saying what’s on their mind. Sheep.” She says the last word with a hint of disgust.

  The woman takes a step closer. I glance up, knowing I should have scrammed before she ever said a word. But I remain where I am, still as death.

  “Not you, though,” she continues. “You don’t just say what’s on your mind. You scream it.”

  I’ve never thought of my art that way. I want her to keep talking, and I hate her for that.

  She moves toward me until we’re only an arm’s length away. “I’m going to ask you something directly. I don’t like a lot of small talk.”

  Her eyes seem kind and her skin looks nice and I like the way she talks to me, like I’m a human being, but not one she feels sorry for.

  “I run an establishment for girls.”

  “I don’t need charity,” I say.

  “I don’t provide charity.” She touches a hand to her blond, graying hair. “I run an establishment for girls with artistic abilities. Abilities like yours. It’s a wonderful, almost magical place people go to forget their worries.”

  I laugh. “Artistic abilities? I spray walls, lady.”

  The woman smiles, and the folds around her eyes deepen. I try to decide how old she is. Between mother and grandmother, she’s leaning toward the latter.

  “It’s not just walls you decorate.” Her eyes rake over my pink wig and the piercings in my face. “I’m offering you a place in my house. You will work with the other girls. And you’ll get a percentage of anything you earn.”

  “I don’t need a job.”

  Lie.

  “What are you even doing out here?” I add. “Shouldn’t you be at home drinking herbal tea or something?”

  The woman bends down, and I lean away from her. She smells nice, powder instead of perfume. “What’s your name?”

  I search her face and wonder why she cares. There isn’t anything to be afraid of that I can see. But who knows what lurks beneath. I’ve been surprised before. I don’t want to tell her my name, but then I decide it doesn’t matter. She won’t see me after tonight anyway.

  “Domino,” I say.

  She reaches out to lay a hand on me. I jerk back.

  “Domino,” she says, her words gentle as a cloud. “I don’t make this offer often. I’m asking if you’d like to get off the streets.”

  “I don’t need you,” I snarl. I don’t know why I’m reacting this way. She’s trying to be nice. But I don’t trust it. Moments ago, I was running from police, watching my person get hauled away. And before that, running from Manhandler. And Wilson.

  Now this.

  “I think you do.” She tries again to place her hand on me, and this time I let her. Why do I let her?

  She turns my hand over and offers my forearm as evidence. There are slashes across my flesh as if someone forgot the hugs in their Xs and Os. I stare down at them and then up at her. She thinks I’m a cutter, I can see it in her face, but she’s wrong. Those marks are a souvenir from my past, and I’d be wise to remember that. I yank my arm away and rise to my feet. She clutches my wrist as I’m about to go. It feels like an embrace and I hate myself—I hate myself—for relishing her touch.

  “Take this.” She hands me a neat ten-dollar bill and a cream-colored card. “I could help you. I could give you what you want.” Her eyes flick toward my wall, the one with fresh paint cast across its gut.

  I shove the money and card into my pocket and walk fast.

  “You have to call by tomorrow evening, Domino,” she says from behind me. “Or my offer will be retracted.”

  That’s all she says. She doesn’t try to follow me. I hate her for approaching me at all, and I hate her for not following. As I near the end of the alley, I see a tired gold sedan with tinted windows. It’s hard to see inside, but not so hard that I don’t recognize the guy I saw on the street earlier today sitting inside, the one with the big nose and white shirt.

  He waves, and I freeze.

  Is he with the woman?

  Standing outside the car is another guy, one I’ve never seen before. He’s closer to my age and is built like a stone giant. Bronze skin, hair shaved close to the scalp, lips pressed tight like he hasn’t spoken in months and doesn’t plan to ever again. His eyes are brown with two layers, one he shows the world and a second he hides at great expense. I see both.

  He straightens, and when he realizes I’m staring, his gaze drops. He’s built like a soldier, a king without a throne, but he doesn’t want to be seen.

  I’m intrigued. Maybe more than I should be.

  I force myself to move and wait until I’m sure I’m out of sight before I withdraw the card. It has a phone number and a name, Ms. Karina, written in cursive. I want to throw it away. I have to worry about bailing Dizzy out of jail, not the woman in the alley. But I can’t stop thinking about what she said. That she could give me what I want.

  Anger boils in my stomach. I’m furious that I wrote that word on the wall. Furious that she knows what I dream of every night.

  HOME.

  A home of my very own. Four strong walls that will never fall.

  It isn’t until I’m lying in bed, painfully aware that I’m alone in the house, that I allow myself to search my mind. To look for any trace of Wilson. I breathe a sigh of relief when he doesn’t surface.

  Clutching my pillow to my chest, I cinch my eyes shut and silence my spinning mind. I’m in that twisty place between awareness and sleep, when my body grows heavy, and Wilson’s voice returns, a lullaby on his tongue.

  Hush little baby, don’t say a word.

  Wilson’s gonna buy you a mockingbird.

  And if that mockingbird don’t sing,

  Wilson’s gonna burn the world to the ground.

  Chapter Six

  Mad Money

  I wake the next morning with Ms. Karina’s card wrinkled in my hand. I worked it between my fingers until the lettering smeared, but I can still read the ten-digit number. It doesn’t matter whether or not I want to call, I have to bail Dizzy out of jail and that’s that. Even if I spent half the night looking out the window expecting to see the social worker. Even though I’m so exhausted it’s hard to
think straight.

  I stand and stretch on Dizzy’s mattress. I slept in his room last night. Sometimes I do that. If he stays out too late or crashes at a girl’s place he’s sure will one day bear his last name, I sleep in his room. I always move if he returns, and neither one of us ever mentions the shuffling.

  Sometimes I wish he’d mention it.

  Dizzy and I have never hooked up. I guess I’ve never hooked up with anyone, really. Not in the no-turning-back, you’re-a-woman-now way. Still, it seems like we should talk more, even if we don’t share a pillow. But he says talking is overrated.

  I dig through my wigs until I find a green one, chin length. And I don’t bother with makeup, which is saying something. After grabbing a stale bagel, whose origins are unknown, from the kitchen, I head out. I don’t have extra cash for a cab. Even if I did, I’d never spend it when I’ve got two perfectly good legs.

  Rogers County Jail is four miles away, and I’m praying Dizzy is there. By the time I arrive, I’m dripping sweat from the July heat and feeling good about my decision to forgo foundation. I even left out most of my piercings. Look how civilized that girl is who’s come for her friend, is what they’ll say.

  I’ve got sixty-four dollars and ninety-one cents heavy in my pocket. That includes the ten the lady gave me. If it isn’t enough to bail Dizzy from jail, I don’t know what I’ll do. We rarely have spare cash, because we’ve never stolen anything good enough to buy much outside of food and Band-Aids and maybe a pack of Marlboro Reds when Dizzy is anxious.

  I can’t steal like he can, so I need sixty-four dollars and ninety-one cents to do the trick.

  I push through a glass door, and a bell chimes. It seems way too cheerful for such a place, but I take it as a sign that things aren’t so bad. How scary could it be? There are happy little bells for crying out loud.

  A woman sits behind a glass wall. She isn’t dressed in uniform, and the knot in my stomach loosens. I’m terrified someone will recognize me from last night. Maybe they’ll throw me in with Dizzy. I thought I might want as much, but now that I’m here I know better. I want no part of this place. I want to go back to the house that isn’t ours, and I want Dizzy to come along.

  The woman slides the glass wall open and leans forward. “Can I help you?”

  There’s a row of chairs on my side of the wall. A girl sits in one of them with her legs spread wide. She’s picking a scab off her thigh, tongue between her lips in concentration. She doesn’t look up when the woman speaks.

  “I need to get someone out.”

  The woman cocks her ear toward me. “What’s that?”

  I clear my throat and speak up. “My friend got taken here, I think. I need to get him out.”

  “Name?”

  “Dizzy.”

  The woman raises her eyes. “Last name?”

  I shake my head. “I don’t know.”

  She sighs and types something into a computer. “Got picked up last night around midnight?”

  “That’s right.” I push against the counter, forgetting my fear. Dizzy really is here. He’s locked up, and people are probably invading his space. He’s going to drown in his own head.

  “He has a warrant out for shoplifting. Third offense. You want to pay that ticket for him?”

  Dizzy got caught shoplifting? Three times?

  “Can he get out if I do?”

  “Mmm-hmm.” She hands me a slip of paper. “Take this across the street to Quick Bonds. It’s next to the frozen yogurt place. Your friend will still have to appear in court.”

  The money in my pocket is worthless. It means nothing without Dizzy walking home next to me. Dizzy telling me how it stunk inside his jail cell. Dizzy suggesting we pawn a video game or two for some chili cheese fries and jalapeno burgers, even though I hate jalapenos.

  I glance at the paper she handed me. The total is filled in at the bottom.

  Pay to the order of Rogers County Jail: $423.52

  My heart ceases beating. My foot stops tapping. I’m going back alone. It would take me months of petty theft to save that kind of money. I’m nowhere near as good as Dizzy, and now that he’s gone I’ll be the one buying the things I need. It’ll be a miracle if I can keep myself fed.

  I meet the woman’s glare. She’s tired of me already. “How long will he stay in there if I can’t cover this?”

  “Until his court appearance, and then longer if he can’t pay the fines.”

  “He won’t be able to pay the fines.” My voice rises. I no longer care whose attention I draw. “And he can’t stay in there, either. He’s claustrophobic. He’ll go crazy.”

  The woman glances behind her like she’s got a live one.

  A second woman appears through a doorway. She’s in uniform. She doesn’t say or do anything, just leans against the wall and looks at me with authoritative eyes.

  I lower my voice. “Listen, maybe I can pay in installments. A little now, the rest later. Will that work?”

  The woman points to the sheet in my hand. “Just go to bonds if you come up with the money.”

  My throat tightens. I’m overreacting. I know I am. But I can’t leave Dizzy here, confined. I slam my hand against the glass wall, and the woman in uniform strides over. “He can’t take being in this place,” I yell. “If you just listened. He can’t stay here. He’ll die.”

  The officer grabs onto my arm, but I yank out of her reach. She looks angry at first, but then her face softens. “Look, kid. He’s fine. He’s just hanging out back there, chatting up the other detainees. Save your money, he’ll be out before you know it.”

  “He’s not fine,” I snarl. “I know Dizzy.”

  I back toward the door I came through.

  Do you need me? Wilson asks.

  I startle in the doorway, because I’d hoped he’d vanished as I slept. But I know better.

  No, never, I say. Go away.

  After I leave the jail, I do two things.

  I try to swipe a camera from Wal-Mart and fail.

  I ask for an application at Electrobuzz.

  The application asks for my social security number and says I need two forms of ID. Dizzy was right. Electro-whatever doesn’t want a homeless chick greeting their shiny customers. And there’s no way I’m giving them a way to probe my background.

  Because worse than losing Dizzy, worse than Wilson waking up and staying awake, is someone finding out about my parents.

  Chapter Seven

  Ring, Ring

  It’s almost midnight, and I’m standing in front of a pay phone. There are few pay phones left in Detroit, but Dizzy taught me how to find them. This one has a booth, but I’m afraid to go inside. Even though I love pay phones with booths. Even though they remind me of old black-and-white movies where the hero sweeps a well-groomed girl off her feet after one fated call.

  Even then.

  I’m not sure what this woman wants with me, but I’ve spent ten months with Dizzy, and before that was an expanse of Nothing. I can’t think about the Nothing. I can’t let myself remember my life before I lived on the streets. Because remembering will make Wilson happy. And when Wilson is happy, bad things happen.

  Correction: I appear when bad things happen. Doesn’t mean I cause them. Well, not always.

  I shake my head, and an image comes to me as it has several times today. Dizzy screaming inside his cell. Dizzy rocking back and forth, people touching his hair, his face, his stomach. Greg can’t help; his store hardly makes enough to stay in business. And there’s no way anyone will hire me without transportation and identification and a second set of shoes. So I go inside the booth and salvage the card from my pocket.

  I insert fifty cents into the phone and push the buttons.

  My heart is in my ears. I can hear it beating louder than ever before, because it’s right there in my ears. I pray the phone will ring and ring, give me time to back out. But someone picks up right away.

  “Hello?”

  It’s her. It’s Ms. Karina.
>
  I don’t speak.

  I hear the sound of a lamp being flipped on. She takes a deep breath. I imagine the oxygen leaving her lungs filling me up. “I’m glad you called.”

  She must know it’s me, but I still don’t speak.

  “I know it’s frightening to leave behind the familiar for the unexpected, but you are so very brave. The girls at my home will adore you, and we’ll make sure you always have something warm to eat.”

  My stomach growls imagining these warm things.

  “As I said last night, you’ll have to work hard. This isn’t charity.”

  I like that. Does she know I like that? I should say something, but I can’t. Even though it’s ninety degrees outside, I’m frozen solid.

  “You are talented, and it’s a shame no one noticed how special you are.”

  That’s not true. My father noticed. I can’t think of him, though.

  “Come and live with me, okay?” Her voice is honey, and I want to drink it down. “Domino?”

  That’s what seals the deal. Her saying my name like that. Like she’s heard a million names before mine but never spoken one so lovely.

  I swallow. “Okay.”

  “Oh, good. That’s wonderful.” She sounds truly happy, and I have to stop the twinge of hopefulness working its way inside. “I could pick you up near the same alley we met in yesterday?”

  “What about money?” I ask, remembering Dizzy. “How soon would I get paid after I started working?”

  Ms. Karina pauses. “That all depends on you. There are plenty of different jobs available. The longer and harder you work, the more you’ll earn. We can discuss the details of what will be expected of you when you arrive at my home, but you won’t be asked to do anything you’re uncomfortable with.”

  I have more questions for her but decide they’re pointless. I’m going. I don’t have a better choice if I want to bail Dizzy from jail. She says if I work hard and put in long hours, I’ll earn quickly. And that’s what I need. Because every day Dizzy is in jail is a day he’s suffering.

  And a day I’m alone.

  I squeeze the phone. “I’ll meet you outside the alley.”