Peas and Carrots (17 page)

“Can we go look?” Austin asked, finally interested in something other than his own misery.

“Um…” Hope glanced at Jamaira, then at Dess, who was still fully occupied with her phone. Hope tightened her lips and made a snap decision. “Yes. Let's go see. Pull up your hood, though, or your ears will hurt even worse. Come on.”

Hope grabbed Austin and smacked the button for the automatic door to close, then splashed across the parking lot toward the seasonal costume shop and the little pumpkin patch adjacent to the drugstore parking lot. Austin clung to her neck and peered around happily.

Behind them, Dess wailed in a panicky voice, “Wait, Hope! Don't— Where are you going? Don't leave me with—”

“Oh, for—” Hope turned, impatient. Dess was standing next to the van, clutching her open coat at the throat.

“Just a minute, little man,” Hope said, and headed back toward the van.

“You didn't even ask!” Dess complained as Hope came within earshot. “What if she, like, woke up or something? I don't know what to do with her!”

Hope, knowing Dess was right, shrugged instead of apologizing. “Okay, okay. Take Austin, then. I'll stay with Jamaira.”

Dess zipped her jacket. “Fine,” she said, holding out her arms. “Come on, Baby.”

Austin transferred easily between the girls and pointed in the direction of the scarecrows. “Over there,” he directed his mule, who sighed and carted him off.

Hope fiddled with Jamaira's blanket, but the baby was dozing, oblivious to the commotion. Hope slumped back into the seat, arms crossed, and watched a little girl in frayed shorts stick her fingers in the change-return slot on the pay phone and then into every single newspaper kiosk and soda and snack machine. The girl came away with a handful of forgotten change from a soda machine and gave a happy skip as she walked away. Hope wondered idly if the girl ever worried about getting her fingers caught. Maybe Dess had done that, trolling for change in soda machines, those two months she lived on the street. Hope twisted in her seat, looking to see where the little girl had gone, but she had vanished.

Hope settled back into her seat to wait. “Come
on,
Mother,” she muttered as the minutes dragged. She stretched her arms toward the ceiling of the van and tapped her heel, transferring all of her nervous energy to her bouncing knee. She considered digging in her bag for her book, but she'd just get started and then Mom would be back, and she'd be at the part where something good was happening and she wouldn't want to quit and it made her nauseous to read in the car. Sighing, she tipped her head back and closed her eyes.

The opening of the door and a rush of cold air jolted her from her doze. Her mother settled into the driver's seat and looked around. “Sorry. Only one pharmacist working, and there was a line. Where's Dess? Oh.”

Hope sat up as her mother pushed the button for the automatic door. Across the parking lot, Austin, free of his sister's arms, streaked away, splashing through puddles to get to the van. Dess followed at a less interested pace, still fiddling with her phone.

Hope got out and stood aside to let Austin clamber up to his seat, only halfway listening as Mom scolded him for running across the parking lot. She leaned in to check his seat belt, then climbed in herself as someone called sharply, “Miss!”

Hope turned.

“Miss! Miss, stop! That's not your car! Miss!”

During fourth-period study hall, Rob and James sent me a single from some group called Manticora. First I couldn't find it. Then it screwed up the playlist I already had.

Sometimes I hate this phone.

Trudging across the parking lot to the van, I glance up to make sure Baby didn't do anything else but get back in his car seat. Jeez, he's such a pill when he's sick. First, he's all whiny, then he—

A hand lands heavily on my shoulder, and I jump.

It's the Felon! Oh, God—

My arms flail. My elbow jars into someone's ribs, and I hear a cry as I jerk away. From inside the van, I hear Hope's exclamation, but Manticora is roaring in my ears. I fumble to jerk out an earbud.

Wait,
what? It's some old dude in a suit—rubbing his chest, spitting mad. A Rent-a-Cop from store security? Aw, not this BS again. I didn't even go into the—

Both my earbuds are out now, and I back toward the van. The guy is still talking to me. He grabs my shoulder, scowling. “Missy, that's not your car.”

Missy!?
“Don't touch me.” I jerk away, my heart accelerating. It's not the Felon, but some guy who thinks I'm jacking a car? What is his problem?

Foster Lady is out of the van, and into his face. “Take your hand
off my daughter
!”

Daughter?

God, what is going on? I have an instant, pounding headache as Foster Lady starts repeating, “What do you think you're doing?” and he's saying,
“Miss! Miss!”
and trying to grab my arm. He grips my sleeve and shakes, demanding my attention.

“Young lady, answer me, please! Miss! Is this woman your mother?”

“Get off me!” Ugh, I can see the little hairs growing in his ears. Foster Lady moves in front of me to get right into the guy's face, and I straighten, peering around from behind her.
That's it, geezer, step off.

“Who's that man, Mama?” Austin's high-pitched voice is curious, innocent.

The old dude is blotchy, red. “Your
daughter
? I see a little black boy getting into a car, and a black at the wheel—”

The nasal way he says “a
black,
” like it's something offensive on his shoe, annoys me. I move from behind Foster Lady to confront him. “I was with my brother!”

The man darts a glance at Austin, then back at me. “Well, I
am
sorry, but you can hardly blame me.” He continues, “You don't look— Well.” He gives me what he must think is a kindly geezer look and rubs his chest again. “No harm done, right? You had your head in the clouds with those headphones, and I just didn't want you to get into the wrong car, my dear.”

Ugh. I am
so
not his dear anything. I hope I broke his ribs.

I met guys like this after I left Granny Doris's house. Guys like this geezer with his oh-so-sympathetic hands, patting me on the head, telling me to go find my mom. Some of them gave me money or a piece of gum if I smiled right. And some of them said I should come and sit in their car, where it was warm.

They thought I was stupid, just like this man does.

“I appreciate your concern, sir, but I advise you to keep your hands to yourself next time,” Foster Lady says in a low, cold voice. “If you'll excuse me,
my children
and I will go home.”

Ten or twelve people hover on the edges of the store walkway, taking in the drama wide-eyed. They murmur audibly as the man stomps off toward the supermarket. His splotchy face and the skin wobbling under his chin make him look like a pissed-off turkey. Foster Lady gestures me back toward the van. She still looks…intense.

I rub my arms. I hate it when strangers touch me. But he didn't leave bruises or nothing, like the time mall security caught me when I was eleven. It could have been worse, I guess. Hope is full of
Are you okay?
and
That freaked me out
and a lot of other things. Baby just wants to tell Foster Lady about the scarecrow and
Can we have one, Mama, please?
Foster Lady's barely paying him attention. She'll be surprised later when he tells her she promised him two.

My head is full of static. Buzzing. I'm not Baby. I'm not shopping for a mom or nothing, but it's kind of funny. Foster Lady thinks of me as her kid.
Daughter.

That is straight stupid.

In my bedroom, doing my Spanish, I sneeze as the acrid smell of nail polish remover burns my nose. I look up to see Hope at the bathroom sink with a cotton ball.

“Sorry.” She tugs the door pull, ready to slide the pocket door between us.

“No, it's fine,” I say, and get up from where I've been lounging on the bed, reading about Diego Rivera's murals. “You're done with homework already? Lucky.”

“I'm not done, but the chips in my polish were distracting me from finding the area of a polygon,” Hope says, and waves a hand. “Manicure emergency.”

“Oh, yeah. I'm sure Ms. Mallory will understand.” I watch as Hope cleans up the last of her glittery aqua polish and shakes a bottle of dark navy. “I can't believe how long your mom went off on that guy.”

Hope twitches her shoulders. “And I can't believe you're so calm. Dess, he touched you. Like, hands. On person. Eww.”

“What, he had old-man cooties?” I lean toward the sink and reach for a cotton ball. Might as well change up my own polish. “You know how sometimes Ms. Aiello sort of directs people into her office with her hand on their backs? It was like that. Old dude thought he was helping me out.” I don't tell Hope that I was thinking of breaking his nose.

Hope gives me an odd look. “Yeah, but…it would be one thing if you were Austin's age. Nobody should lay hands on you to ‘help' you do something. Ms. Aiello shouldn't even do it.”

“Try telling her that.”

Hope snorts.

I swipe away the last of the silvery Diamond Crush on my thumbnail. “So, does that mean your parents never ‘laid hands' on you? Never even smacked you?”

Hope tilts her left hand and admires the deep blue gloss slicked over her nails. “Mmm, not really. I mean, you saw Dad the other day—he was pissed, but he barely even raised his voice.” She grins. “He dragged me kicking and screaming out of stores a couple of times because I wanted stickers or some crap, and Mom would've smacked my hand away from the stove and stuff, but…” She shrugs and meets my eyes in the mirror. “Mainly she and Dad talked, and talked, and talked—just like they do now”—she sighs—“till I got desperate enough to do what they said, just to shut them up.”

I smile a little and toss my cotton ball in the little plastic garbage can on the counter. Yeah, I remember my first dinner with the Carters, when Baby whined. Nobody cared. I mean, not as if Foster Lady plays that whining thing for long—she always tells Austin he can whine in his room—but nobody hollered. Nobody hauled off and popped him one. I remember.

I've seen Baby being talked to until he's stomping his impatience, his fat bottom lip poked out in rebellion. When the Felon was pissed, he didn't talk—he swung. No talking from Trish, just me crying. Crying and ducking and saying,
No, Daddy, please, Daddy, stop—

I force myself to move again, touching the brush to my thumbnail, thrusting the memory down and away. “Must be nice.”

Hope's voice catches. “Oh. Dess—”

Crap. That didn't come out right. I wave my hand in front of Hope's sad face, hoping to distract her with my China-red manicure. “I meant…I was just saying…” I shrug again. “It's nice they try and explain shit instead of popping you in the mouth, that's all. You have nice parents.”

“They are. They're amazing. Who would I be without them, right?” Hope clears her throat and fiddles with her cuticle. “And, um…I'm okay about sharing them, you know. My parents, or whatever.” Hope gently bumps her shoulder to mine. Our arms, one wiry and pale, one rounded and brown, look alike as they rest against each other.

For a moment, I stand still, then I shrug, discomfort prickling the nape of my neck, my skin both warm and calm and tight and itchy. Right. Enough togetherness.

“Yeah. You think it's time for dinner yet?”

“He put his
hands on her.
” In the kitchen, Foster Lady's still all revved up. She's talking to Mr. Carter. I eavesdrop from the hall outside of Baby's room. “He put his hands on her, like he had a
right.
It was
that
important to make sure a Caucasian girl didn't get into the same car an African American boy was running to—and he's
only four
!”

A slam—probably the knife drawer. She's been slamming things ever since we got home and chopping stuff like she's decapitating people. At least it smells good, whatever she's making.

Mr. Carter says something in his much quieter voice, and Foster Lady answers him. “No, I didn't report him. He thought he was being a good person, I'm sure, but I tell you, Russell…” Her voice drops, and I can't quite hear—something about almost taking a pop? Taking him
out
? I shake in silent laughter, shoulders twitching. Foster Lady
does not play.
She got up in that man's face like a fierce black Amazon, and she was just about ready to slap the crap out of him. I should ask her if she was being
kind
when she got in his face. Heh.

I don't know why I'm skulking around, listening. It's just…funny, that's all. She's pissed,
still,
and we've been home for a couple of hours. Not gonna lie—I don't want some stranger touching me, either, but it's not like I'm a little kid who doesn't know better. If he'd kept ahold of me, I'd have bashed his nose in with my head—he'd have let go fast then. I did it when I was eleven. I know not to let some bastard grab me. I wasn't going to let him
hurt me
or nothing. But Foster Lady's like one of those little birds at Granny Doris's house—they make their nests in the carport and then get all pissy and dive-bomb you every time you get in the car. Foster Lady acts like that guy tried to steal me out of her nest.

Drama.
Who the hell knew Foster Lady was gonna get all crazy just from some man grabbing me? She would've hit the roof if she'd seen the soccer coach at Stanton. He always was grabbing people.

Granny Doris wouldn't never been able to pinch me, not with Foster Lady around. Foster Lady probably would kick the Felon's ass, too.

I wish.

“Hope! Dess! Austin! Somebody needs to set the table!”

“I'm on it, Robin,” I say, coming from around the corner.

She jumps a little and gives me a sharp look. “You're right here,” she says, which really means,
How long have you been eavesdropping and how much did you hear?

Mr. Carter gives me a look, too, but his look has a lot more smile to it, around his eyes. “Prompt and cheerful, Ms. Dessa. You must be feeling all right, then?”

I duck my head from his look. “That old man didn't bother me. I'm good.”

“All right.” As I go by, he lifts his hands for a high five, like he does when Baby puts his toys away.

Jeez,
really? I roll my eyes. Weak. Totally weak. But I slap his hand anyway.

Driving home from my dental appointment after school the next day, Mr. Carter pulls into a turning lane. A loud engine makes me look at the turning lane to my right, and as the motorcyclist nods to me, my heart stutters.

It's one of the Brotherhood—one of the Felon's friends.

He's wearing gloves, so I can't see his hands, but I know. I know it's one of his. I've seen that bike.

“Mr. Carter,” I blurt out. “That's the guy! The one from the coffee shop!”

And Mr. Carter, thank goodness, doesn't need me to explain. “The motorcycle club guy? Are you sure?” he asks, peering across me and out the passenger window.