Barefoot Pirate (2 page)

As his glance fell on it, he remembered having seen Nan
Choate hanging around by the side of the admin building, glaring at him, when
he’d climbed onto the bus at three. Weird, he thought. If she thought he’d
break his promise, what good would nasty looks do? But then he remembered Mar
Tee’s fits about her need for privacy, and her threats that she’d run away if
she didn’t get her own room, yet it seemed to him that ever since she got it
she was never in it. She was either hanging around the den watching idiot TV
shows on the bigscreen because her laptop screen was too small (she said), or
else harassing Benny, or fighting with Maria, or else listening to their
mother’s phone conversations on the sneak. Girls are just plain weird, he
thought. Nothing they do makes any sense.

He dismissed Nan from his mind. She’d get the book
tomorrow—no big deal.

The next morning, Nan was in her seat early, as usual, in
order to escape roaming gangs in the hallways. McKynzi was the worst of any of
the many bullies, but luckily Nan only had three classes with her. Could be
worse, she always told herself after she’d been caught—usually daydreaming—and
had to endure being called Nanny Goat and the rest of the stuff. At her last
school, the class bully had been not only been with her all day, his last name
also started with a C so she’d had to sit next to him. Life had been a nightmare
when he wasn’t in detention or the principal’s office.

Well, only two hours to go until morning break, and today
she had some money, because she’d lied last night when Mrs. Evans asked how
much she’d earned from babysitting the neighbor kids. She’d only had to hand
over the four dollars she’d claimed. The other three were now hers.
As long
as she doesn’t ask Mrs. Nelson how much she paid me.

Her mouth watered as she thought of hot buttered bread and
hot cocoa.
Or if I just have one thing, then the money will last all week
.
Only which one should she give up? She loved the bread, and the cocoa—but she
also loved the thought of something hot at break, and why did she have to be so
hungry? She was as angry at herself as Mrs. Evans was when she tried to make
two sandwiches for her lunch
. In my day, we brought a sandwich and a piece
of fruit, and we got a carton of milk. There was no food at morning break,
except for the spoiled rich kids. And we were grateful to get it
, Mrs.
Evans had stated. Then the usual song:
I didn’t agree to take in one more
child just to be eaten out of house and home
.
I would like to see some
gratitude, or you can just go back to the center.

A shadow at Nan’s shoulder made her scrunch down
instinctively—but instead of the sudden swoop of some bully, it was Joe Robles
who dropped something onto her books, then leaned down and muttered,

“Don’t do anything until we talk.”

Then he was gone, sauntering in typical boy fashion to the
front where the smart jocks usually sat. She closed her fingers around the
little brown book, whose spine lettering gleamed promisingly:
Barefoot
Pirate
. Again she felt that tingle in her fingers. Her gaze flicked forward
to Joe. She wondered if she’d heard right.

Did he feel it? He chose that second to look back at her. When
their eyes met, he jerked his head toward the door, mouthing the word
Later
.
Then he turned around again, as one of the other boys addressed some joking
remark to him. Joe let out a rude laugh, just like the rest of the guys, as
though nothing at all had happened.

Nan didn’t know what to make of this at all, and an odd
feeling started speeding up her heart. Like... hope?

Angrily Nan squashed it. She’d been betrayed too many times
by that feeling: nights when there was a spectacular sunset and she’d been sure
magic was in the air; days when fog had curled mysteriously around her as she
walked to school, and she’d hoped it would thicken abruptly then recede,
leaving her in a new and mysterious place. She reminded herself bitterly of the
hours she’d spent trying to
tesseract
, like Meg in
A Wrinkle in Time
,
figuring anywhere—even Camazotz—would be better than Earth. But nothing had
ever happened, except worse homes, worse schools.

Her fingers curled protectively around the little book.
Whatever that feeling really meant, it had something to do with
Barefoot
Pirate
. Wishing she could hide the book in her clothes, Nan slid it into
her notebook. Not that McKynzi and those types would ever be caught reading a
book—but if they knew how important it was to Nan, past experience dictated
they’d be sure to steal it just to be mean.

The rest of the day seemed to crawl by. The cocoa at break
was wonderful, though of course she’d had to sit in the frigid air outside to
sip it, wearing only her sweater
. When you’ve earned enough to replace the
coat you lost so carelessly, you’ll get another. Maybe that will teach you to
appreciate what people give you
. Nan didn’t dare tell Mrs. Evans what those
girls had done to the coat. Mrs. Evans would just march to the principal’s and
demand that they Do Something. Nan knew that whatever stupid thing the school
did would just make the bullies retaliate worse. In the meantime, she knew now
where the popular kids’ territory was now, and would never go near it again.

Three o’clock finally came, and she was able to get out of
one prison to go to the other.

But at least she had her book!

“Get those shoes off,” Mrs. Evans said when she walked in
the door. “The floor’s fresh waxed. Do you have any homework?”

Nan swallowed her strong desire to say
Yes
, and shook
her head. “Did it at school,” she forced herself to say. She’d made a promise
to herself long ago that she would only lie in self defense. Keeping money for
food was self defense. Lying to get a free hour was not.
If I give in, I’m just
that much more like THEM
.

Mrs. Evans gave her the usual list of household chores Nan
could do to “pull her weight around here.” Nan listened in silence, knowing
that anything she said would get her a long lecture about Gratitude and Duty,
and just how much it cost to keep a wasteful, selfish, bad-mannered child. It
was not her fault that she had a bad reputation in foster homes—but who’d
listen to her? The social worker who was supposed to be looking out for her was
always late, always looking at her files when Nan talked, and then always told
Nan what she was thinking. And if Nan tried to correct her, she was arguing.

That was the way it had always been: if she tried to be
heard, people just yelled louder.
Why are you arguing? Do you really think
the world revolves around YOU?
And the worst of all,
You should be
grateful
...

She worked fast, and steadily, finishing the vacuuming just
as Mrs. Evans called Mr. Evans and Nan to dinner. She daydreamed as the Evanses
complained about politics and the economy, and did the dishes. Then she got her
clothes ready for the next day, took her bath, and
at last
the moment
came when she slid into bed, her night light on, and the book on her lap.

Barefoot Pirate
splashed across the title page in
promising gold lettering. Beneath it, in smaller letters, it said,
by
Magister Kevriac
.

“Funny name,” Nan breathed. Her heart had sped up again.

The print was unusual—it almost looked like some kind of
script, except it was so neat it couldn’t possibly be. There was no such thing
as handwritten books any more. Even stranger, she didn’t see any publisher, or
copyright date, or any of the usual clutter of legal words.

She turned the page. Again in gold lettering it said: The
events detailed here took place upon another world. The people are real.

Nan grinned, liking the book already. That was quite a
change from that usual dumb thing about people and places being imaginary and
any resemblance to living persons, etc. etc. As if the publishers just had to
spoil your believing in the characters before the story had even started.

She turned the page and read:

Blackeye the Barefoot Pirate was the only daughter of
traders who, when the Regent took over the government, were forced to become
privateers. They were never lawless pirates, but they could not get an official
government paper because the enemy they attacked was the government, who tried
to control all shipping and trade so that the tariffs and customs duties all
went into the pockets of the Regent and his friends.

Named Bera at birth, before she was orphaned at nine,
she’d learned how to trim sail, how to navigate by stars and charts, and
because she was large for her age and quick on her feet, she was no stranger to
lessons with the rapier.

Her quickened reflexes probably saved her life on the
night her parents were betrayed and killed. She woke up to the sound of someone
stealthily opening her door. Whoever it was had sufficient disregard for her
age that he carried a candle as well as a knife. Bera flung the glass of water
her mother always left by her bedside—the candle went out, and the ruffian
stabbed at her and missed. Bera promptly tossed her bed clothes over his head.
Before he’d fought them off, cursing and threatening most foully, she had
opened her window and escaped...

Nan bent over the book, reading faster.

The story went on to detail Bera’s escape from the burning
house, the sounds of screams and shouts echoing in her ears. The next morning
she saw the same masked louts who’d attacked the house and killed everyone in
it board her parents’ ship and sail it away.

She’d thought their cove safe from attackers, for a magic
spell had protected the entrance. Still, she’d grown up with the crew, and her
first instinct was to seek out those crewmembers who did not live at the cove.
She picked the very crewman who, she figured later, had betrayed her parents
and the other crew members by revealing the cove’s Entrance Spell: Mursid was
very nice to her when she showed up at his cottage, crying. But he gave her
some tea that made her go to sleep, and when she woke up she was on her way to
the capital, as an official Ward of the Principality.

Later, she figured Mursid hadn’t dared to kill her only
because others saw her enter the village, crying, and dirty.

She was put under the charge of two grim men in green and
black tunics, who would not let her speak until she was handed over to two
equally grim women in a tall, dark, ugly house in the noisy section of the
capital.

It was here, Nan read, that Bera found out that she was now
a Ward, and that she was in a Workhouse. She was told by the keepers that, as a
child of pirates, criminals, she could not leave until she had learned a
respectable trade—and then served as a journeyman until she had earned back
what had been expended on her bed, board, clothing, and training.

No one would listen when she protested that her parents were not
criminals—that they had been killed! They just said that because she was a
pirate’s child,” Nan read with growing indignation, “but was being given a
chance to learn to be a respectable citizen, she was supposed to be Dutiful and
Grateful.

Like me, like me
, Nan thought, turning a page
rapidly—

Her door opened right then, and Mrs. Evans stood there,
frowning. “It’s late,” she said. “What are you reading there?”

Nan forced her face to stay calm, and her voice to remain
quiet. “It’s a biography. Got it for the English assignment.” And she forced
herself to hold the book out to Mrs. Evans, knowing that to hide it or put it
aside too quickly would make the woman curious enough to take it away from her.

Sure enough, Mrs. Evans just said, “Lights out. I’m not
having you getting sick from lack of sleep.”

“Okay. Lights out,” Nan said, reaching over to flick the
light off.

Mrs. Evans shut the door and left.

Nan counted slowly to 500, and when no one reappeared, she
pulled a tiny pencil flashlight from under her mattress, and made a tent with
her knees to keep any light from spilling. She opened the book and went on
reading.

The book went on to describe Bera’s life in the Workhouse.
In an establishment run by strict Keepers who did not favor “spoiling” their
charges by spending much on them, Bera soon found she was nearly always hungry,
and frequently cold.

Bera was not intimidated by the harsh rules and the
unforgiving environment. The Keepers were prone to address her, whenever she
got into trouble, as the Penniless and Worthless Child of Lawless Pirates, who
should count herself lucky that the government was willing to invest good money
into seeing that she grew up to learn a proper trade. And the trade they
selected for her was sewing. Not the making of sails, but fine, decorative
sewing, which called for nimble fingers, artistry, and a great deal of
patience. She’d learned a certain amount of nimbleness working on board her parents’
ship, but artistry and patience she had little of. Especially for something as
tedious as embroidery.

Bera would have rather done almost anything else, as she
tried to point out when she was punished, which was frequently, for messing up
a good length of cloth. Brick-laying would have meant she’d be outside. Cooking
would at least have afforded a warm kitchen and plenty to eat. As for
prenticing out to a ship in any capacity, she begged for that, until she saw
that the Keepers enjoyed her misery and had no intentions of changing her
trade. Misery, they felt, was a good start toward the proper humility and
obedience they desired from their charges.

When she realized this she stopped begging, and outwardly,
at least, became resigned to her fate. Inwardly, though, she resolved to escape
as soon as she could, revenge herself on her parents’ murderers, and then steal
back the ship she knew to be her inheritance. That was when she was eleven.