Nothing But Blue (4 page)

My legs feel like old, hard rubber.
Stop, stop, stop!
they scream.
Let us rest.
But I am afraid to stop because if I do, I may never get up again. I tell my legs to shut up and just keep walking, but they don't obey. Instead they take me to a shady spot nearby, and I sit. First my right thigh begins to tingle, then my left, then the sensation jumps to my right knee, and finally migrates around my entire body. It's like my legs are still walking on the inside even though I am motionless on the outside. I knead my calves with my fists, telling my body to calm down. It helps a little. I have one apple left. I eat it.

Every time a car passes, my body tenses. Since the guy in the truck, which was so long ago already, no one has stopped, and I count on the fact that most people don't care about anyone other than themselves. It's an easy world to slip through unnoticed. I've done it all my life already, except maybe once when I felt like I mattered to someone. My mind goes to Jake. Is he waiting for me? Expecting me? I rub my bracelet and get up again.

I walk until it's dark and I come to a sleepy town that is already shut down for the night. I am on a good old-fashioned Main Street. I can see the marquee of an old movie theater at the end of the block. Some letters are missing, so it reads
MA N STR ET THEATRE
.

I scan the street for a bearable place to lie down. I don't relish another night in a box or on a bench. I pass several antique stores, a hobby shop, an old-time pharmacy, a barber with a real red and white pole, and an Italian bakery. There are back-to-school posters in the windows. On the lawn of the library is a pumpkin patch and a scarecrow. Signs on the shops all say
SHOP DOWNTOWN
or
SUPPORT LOCAL BUSINESS
. There is something a bit surreal about this place, as though it's a town that time forgot.

With some luck this town is so old-fashioned that no one bothers to lock anything, but there is no such luck—all the doors I try are bolted. I reach the Ma n Str et Theatre. It looks like they used to actually have live theater here—there are some old, torn posters of
The King and I,
Guys and Dolls,
and
The Pajama Game.
But it's all boarded up now. I rattle the chains on the door. Nothing budges. I walk around the side looking for an open window or crawlspace. Nothing. All the windows are nailed shut with wooden boards.

I sigh. I guess it's outdoors once again. I don't know how much more of this I can stand, but then I don't know what other choice I have. I push through some bushes to see if I can find a soft spot of dirt.

There is a rustling in front of me. There is something already in these bushes. I step back. As the shape emerges I see that it is a dog. I shine my flashlight and its eyes are all glittery and glowing. It is
the
dog.

“You,” I say. “Why are you following me?”

The dog whimpers and raises his snout. I follow his gaze with the flashlight. On the second floor right above the fire escape is a window that is not boarded up. Part of the glass is smashed.

I look down at the dog. “How did you know?” I ask.

He just sits patiently staring at me with those spooky eyes and giant ears. In spite of myself, I smile. I am starting to think maybe this is not your ordinary mangy mutt.

“You really don't have any better place to go?” I ask.

He gets up and shakes his body, then nods his nose at the fire escape nearby, as if to encourage me to climb it.

“All right, I see it.”

I have to stretch my arms to reach the first rung. Bits of rust fall on top of me. I wipe my hands, then try again. The ladder creaks as I hoist myself up. I wait to see if it will hold my weight. It seems okay, so I climb the rest of the way to the window.

The broken part is too small for me to fit through. I jiggle out a piece of the pane and gently place it on the sill. Even though the pane is already broken—some kids goofing around with a ball I'd guess—I don't want it to look like it's been vandalized.

I remove enough of the glass to crawl inside. Before I do I look down, wondering if the dog is climbing after me, and if should I help him. But once again the dog has disappeared.

Jake called the day after we met, or, rather, re-met.

“There's this thing tonight,” he said. “Of my father's. Do you want to come?”

Not the most romantic way to be asked out, but still, a date's a date, even if an unromantic one. I didn't know for sure if Jake was single. There was this girl at school, Adrianna, who used to talk about him like they were an item, but apparently they weren't or else he wouldn't be asking me out, right?

“What kind of thing?” I asked.

“An art opening,” he said.

Jake's father owned some kind of high-end art gallery. He auctioned off estate art to superrich people, which in turn made Jake's family superrich. Though it was also said that most of their money was inherited and the art thing was more of a hobby. Either way, they were millionaires several times over.

“I thought you might like it,” Jake told me. “You're artsy, right?”

I laughed, feeling like a normal, popular schoolgirl. “I guess.”

People thought I was artsy because I always took art electives in school. In truth I sucked at art. I could barely draw a stick figure with a stick. The only artsy thing I'd ever done was paint a mural of trees on my bedroom wall when I was ten. I wanted it to look like the forest out of a fairy tale so fairies would come live with me. I even painted a tiny mushroom-shaped house underneath the trees especially for them.

Still, I signed up for art electives. No one really knew that you don't have to be good at art to be in an art class. As long as I looked like I was engaged in making marks on paper or pushing clay around, the teachers left me alone. Art class was a place where it didn't matter if you were cool or popular or smart or anything. It didn't matter what you were.

“Great, so you'll come?” Jake asked.

“Sure.”

We arranged to meet at his house at six forty-five. It was noon. I had six hours and forty-five minutes to find something to wear. I opened my closet. Even my nicest clothes were boring, not artsy at all.

I got my allowance and headed downtown.

I settled on a black dress. Nothing fancy or lacey, not like a cocktail dress or anything, but a long, slightly fitted stretchy material that didn't make me look too fat. It came to just above my knees with a flirty flare and had a tuck in the waist that actually gave me a little shape. There were three tiny buttons at the neck. I bought a light blue camisole to peek out when the buttons were open. It showed some cleavage.

I went home, bathed, and dressed. I felt good. I even thought I looked pretty good, too. Maybe this look suited me more than my usual baggy, comfort cotton. I left my hair down, slightly mussed. I finished it all off with a necklace with a tiny turquoise stone that rested in my jugular notch.

I tried to tiptoe down the stairs, but of course Mom caught me before I could get past her office.

“Where are you going?” She peered from her desk. “You're all dressed up.”

“Out,” I said, as if I always went out on Friday evenings.

She got up and stood in the doorway. “Really?” She smiled, suddenly all friendly. “Out? Where?”

“An art opening.”

“An art opening?” She was trying to sound casual, but she couldn't hide her excitement. “That sounds like fun. Who with?”

I sighed. She wanted so badly for me to be normal, to have a group of friends, to be all social and upbeat. Like she was. It was sweet in a way, but it wasn't me.

“Some kids from school,” I said. I didn't want to tell her it was a date. I especially didn't want to tell her it was Jake. She'd never liked Jake. She wouldn't understand that he had changed. It was easier to let her think what she wanted to think.

And she did. She clasped her hands. “Oh, honey, I'm so glad. See? High school's not so bad after all. But are you sure that's the right thing to wear? Can I just fix your hair a bit?”

“I've got to go. I'll be late.”

“Right, right. You go and have fun. Go out after if you want with the group. Just don't eat too much, okay? It's not ladylike to eat in front of others, and you don't want to get fat.”

My mother was a social magnet. But she wasn't big on dating—she thought a group was better. “Gives you a chance to be friends with girls and boys,” she had told me numerous times. “Then if you meet someone who might be something more, you'll know them as friends first. That's the best way. You're not ready to get too attached to just one person at your age.”

She was wrong about that. I was totally ready to get attached to just one person.

I wake to the smell of doughnuts. Fresh, warm, scrumptious doughnuts. There are sounds of a town waking up. Delivery trucks. Doors being unlocked. A few good-mornings are called out. The sun stretches through the window and lights up my sleeping spot in the old theater. I couldn't see much last night in the dark and was too tired even to take out my flashlight. I just crawled to a corner and stayed there.

But now I can see that the ceiling beams are full of cobwebs and spiders. Some very large and creepy. Not too far from where I'd slept, the floorboard is so rotted that a hole has eaten through it. It's amazing I didn't fall through.

I stand carefully and stretch. I run my hands through my hair in an attempt to comb it. I don't know why, because it's not like there's anything I can do about it anyway, nor is there anyone to care. Still, I don't want to draw attention to myself by looking like a ratty homeless girl. I lift my arms and sniff. I stink. Not much I can do about that, either.

I ease myself down the fire escape and back into the world for another day.

I find myself standing in front of one of the bakeries with my nose in the air. I remind myself of the dog, and wonder where he came from and where he's gone to now.

“Excuse me,” says a woman from behind me. “I'm just opening.” She is large, with a wide roll of fat under her chin, the kind of woman you might expect to work in a bakery. She wears a hairnet, and a red and white striped apron peeks out from under her blue jacket, making her look like an American flag.

She jiggles the lock and holds the door open. “You coming in?” She glances at something near my legs. “No dogs, though. He has to stay out.”

I spin around and there he is. The dog. I feel a slight twinge of relief at seeing him again. I'm about to explain that he isn't my dog, but instead I shake my head and tell the woman I'm leaving.

She shrugs. “Suit yourself. Our doughnuts are the best. The baker's just about to take out a fresh batch, if you change your mind.”

I walk to the end of the block and think of how I can get some food. The dog follows about ten paces behind. I watch the woman put a sign on the sidewalk that announces
HOT COFFEE/FRESH DOUGHNUTS
.
I can almost taste those doughnuts. Even the dog licks his lips. The woman looks at me for a minute as though she wants to say something, but she turns back inside. The door jingles shut behind her.

I go to the alley behind the bakery and look through the garbage bins. There's nothing that looks or smells edible. I thought for sure there'd be some day-old baked goods. I could eat day-olds. Maybe she hasn't gotten rid of them yet. She'll probably throw them out soon and I can go back and get them. I'll have to wait. The dog sniffs around, too, but comes up empty-handed.

I go to the park across the street and sit on a bench in the sun. The dog dutifully sits next to me. I look at him and he looks back.

“I don't have any food,” I say.

He raises his paw in the air like a wave hello.

“Why are you following me? What do you want?” I know he can't answer, but I almost wouldn't be surprised if he could. There's definitely something peculiar about him. He wriggles closer and stretches his neck. This time I let his head rub under my palm. He is surprisingly soft for a stray, though my hand is kind of greasy when I take it away.

“You know, all you really need is a bath.” I wipe my hand on my shorts. “But then, so do I, so I guess we're even.”

There is a strange peace as the dog and I sit together. It's too early for shoppers. Most things don't open until ten, and I'll be long gone by then. I just want to get some of those day-olds. The thought of a doughnut only made yesterday is about like heaven.

Two curly-haired kids, a little girl and an older boy, head down the street in my direction. I watch them approach. The dog stands alert and wags his tail. When they reach me, the girl holds out her arms and squeals, “A cute puppy!” She's about six or seven.

The boy, her brother I assume, could be about nine. He stands back with his hand on his sister's shoulder, protective-like.

The dog does a full-blown wiggle, and the girl squeals again. “Can I pet him?”

“Sure.” I shrug.

She leans over and puts her arms around the dog's neck in a hug. At first I am worried that the dog might bite her—after all, I don't know what he's like. But he keeps wagging his tail, so I relax. I don't think I've ever seen such a friendly dog.

The boy steps closer. I can tell he wants to pet the dog, too, but he is hesitant. Maybe someone told him never to touch strange dogs.

“It's okay,” I say. “You can pet him.”

The boy eyes me suspiciously, but he taps the dog gently on the head. “He's a good dog,” he says. “We had a dog that ran in the street and got hit.”

The girl nods when he says this, and adds, “He died.”

“Our mom won't let us get another one,” the boy says.

The girl is scratching the dog under the chin now. He reaches his neck high and closes his eyes. His mouth turns up.