Peas and Carrots (13 page)

Oh,
crap.
Hope took a step backward, her pulse thudding in her throat. Nobody liked an audience when they tripped over their own feet and spilled chocolate down their arm, but this was worse. She'd only meant to mock Dess's use of a fake name, but the way Dess had cringed and held her arm over her head, as if she thought Hope was going to hit her—

Crap, crap,
crap.

Hope took another big step back and rubbed her forehead. Dess was just standing there shaking. What were the chances that Hope could just walk around this…like, cross the street and pretend she didn't see?

Crap. This was like what soldiers got, after war, post-traumatic shock or whatever. She couldn't just walk away. She sighed, and shifted her weight. “Um, Dess?”

Nothing.

She tried again. “Your Danish didn't fall out of the bag, but if someone makes a right turn, they're totally going to run it over.”

Dess brought down her arm and scrubbed it across her face.

Hope shifted her weight from foot to foot. Dad was the funny, friendly one, and Mom was the organized, patient, Zen one. But Hope was
useless
with stuff like this. Should she ask what was wrong? Should she give Dess a hug? No, Dess would probably bust her lip. Dess probably wanted that Danish, right? Hope should get it. And she'd gotten napkins when she'd gotten her pierogies; maybe Dess wanted to wipe her—

Dess stalked into the road, picked up her bag, and brushed past Hope, stomping down the sidewalk in the right direction this time. Torn between resignation and relief, Hope shrugged and followed.

At the next corner Dess stopped and waited. She glared straight ahead, not looking at Hope. “Where next?”

“Depends. If you want to go walk around the lake—”

“Where's the van?”

Hope sighed. “Two blocks to the left, and she probably parked in the back.”

Dess grunted and started walking again at a fast clip. The top of her pastry bag was crumpled in her fist, and she swung it like a weapon. Every time a car came by, she stiffened and whipped her head around, her blond ponytail making a sharp arc.

Hope stayed a wary half step behind Dess on their march to the van. She didn't like drama and she didn't like confrontation, but something clearly—seriously—was wrong with the other girl. She hoped Dess would talk to Mom, because Hope wasn't asking, no way.

At a distant intersection, a motorcycle opened its throttle and roared toward them, barely pausing at the stop sign.

“Seriously, Dess, what's up?” Hope asked as Dess seemed to freeze. The motorcycle roared down the road, and in the quiet Hope could hear the hitch in Dess's breathing. Her shoulders were shaking.

“Are you okay? Dess—”

The foster girl's voice was ragged. “I spilled on my arm. No big.”

The obvious lie squatted, bare, in the air between them. Hope hesitated, then dug into her own bag and pulled out a wad of napkins. “Here.”

Dess was clumsy and dropped half the napkins, trying to sponge at her sleeve with shaking hands. Hope leaned to pick them up, narrowly missing knocking heads with Dess on her way back up. Around them the autumn morning went on. A woman walking her black schnauzer gave them a careful smile as she edged past them on the sidewalk. The schnauzer sniffed the pavement and gave the sidewalk a few experimental licks before the woman jerked on his leash and scolded him with a quiet “No.”

Dess wiped her sleeve one last time, head down, then dropped the wet napkins on the sidewalk.

“Jeez, Dess!” Hope picked up the napkins in her fingertips.

Dess ignored her and kept walking.

Hope's face heated. “I guess a ‘Thank you' for the napkins is too much to expect. And you're not going to say what's wrong with you, either?”

“I'm fine.” Dess clearly had gotten her equilibrium back.

Hope finally found a trash can on the corner next to the bus stop. She quickened her pace and passed Dess, dumping the sodden paper as she gave the other girl a narrow look. Dess was actually peering into her bag now, picking at her Danish with a reasonably calm expression on her face. It was as if nothing had happened.

What
had
happened?

“What scared you?” Hope asked before she could stop herself.

Dess's glare made Hope flinch. “I'm not scared of shit, freak. You got that?”

Stupid,
Hope told herself, and shrugged tightly. If she hadn't seen Dess pale and trembling only minutes before, she might have been convinced. She held up defensive hands. “All right. I was just trying to help.”
And that's the last time I'm going to,
she thought firmly. Dess was
Mom's
project. Hope was just the foster sister. Wasn't it enough that she'd done what Mom had said? She'd taken Dess to the stupid coffee shop. She'd been patient. She'd been “nice.” And now she was
done.

She picked up her pace, and soon the church was in sight. Cutting past the flowering bushes planted along the sidewalk, she headed into the steeply sloped parking lot. The Y-shaped building enclosed a sunny cobblestone courtyard, and its brick planters would make a great place to soak in the sunshine while she waited for Mom and Austin.

Hope made sure to keep an eye out for the van. Once she spotted it, she lifted an arm to point it out. “Van,” she announced, and continued toward the courtyard. The van was probably locked, but that wasn't her problem. She'd done what Dess wanted.

“Hey.”

Hope rolled her eyes and kept walking. “Silver van, right there. Can't miss it,” she said, pointing again in the vague direction.

“Hey!”

At Dess's shout, Hope stopped, hands on her hips, eyes wide. “What?” she said through gritted teeth. In spite of her anger, she kept her voice down. Mom would have a
fit
if the church people got upset, and it would look horrible if anyone saw Hope shouting at a foster kid.

Dess was leaning against the van, her arms crossed. The crumpled pastry bag was still clutched in her fist. “I want to talk to you.”

“So
talk.
” Hope bit off the words. If Dess was just going to insult her some more, she was going to…“What?”

“Are there a lot of gangs around here?”

Hope blinked for a slow second. “Gangs? Seriously? That's what you want to talk about? Gangs?”

“Yes,
seriously,
” Dess snapped. “Gangs. Like, who's in this area?”

“Gangs,” Hope said flatly. “In Walnut Hills. No.” She turned on her heel and stared toward the church again. Whatever game Dess was playing, Hope wasn't interested.

Dess caught up. “Um, excuse me, but
yes.
There are gangs everywhere in California.”

“In cities, yeah.” Hope shrugged. “Near big cities, like LA, yeah. But here? Dess, we're two hours from decent shopping and high-rises.”

Dess shot her a sidelong glance. “Motorcycle gangs are
everywhere.
”

“Not in Walnut Hills,” Hope repeated. “In Walnut Hills, people drive fancy Japanese motorcycles to work, not chopped-out Harleys. In Walnut Hills, you might get run over by jogging strollers, not gangsters. Trust me, Dess.” Hope shook her head. “This is boring old suburbia. There aren't gangs.”

They had reached the courtyard. A few nicely dressed people stood in groups and chatted. Under an awning, an Asian woman was setting up plates of cookies and a coffee urn. An elderly man sat on the edge of a planter, his pale, wrinkled face tilted to the sun. Hope chose a spot close to the beginners' room, where Austin was, and sat, carefully placing her cup of cider on a flat patch of dirt between flowering bushes. She rummaged in her bag and took a bite of a pierogi, glancing over as Dess sat beside her.

Hope swallowed. “So what's with the gang thing?”

Dess leaned in, her voice low. “Did you see that guy at the coffee shop?”

“Which guy?” Hope asked, checking her teeth for spinach. She took another bite, savoring the flavor.

“The guy with the spider on his jacket and the tattoos all over his hands. He was right behind that guy with the stupid pants.”

“Oh, him I saw. They were, like, red-and-black plaid? Fashion
don't.
Anyway, I didn't think he had any tattoos.”

“No. I said, the guy
behind
him, stupid.” Dess sounded impatient. “You couldn't miss him—he was huge.”

Stupid?
Hope felt a flare of hurt indignation. She gave Dess a cold look. “Sorry.”

Dess made a sound of frustration and crumpled her bag. “I'm going to the van.”

Hope closed her eyes and sighed. “Wait. Look, I'm not trying to be difficult, but you can't keep calling me stupid, okay?
What
guy? He was huge…? Huge like fat? Huge like tall? Was he white? Black? Asian? Latino?”

Dess hesitated, then settled again. “He was…white. Big. He had on a leather jacket. His jeans were all stained. He had tattoos on his hands, between his fingers.”

“Huh.” Hope gnawed on her lip, trying to think back. “Between his fingers? A picture?”

“A spiderweb between his first finger and his thumb,” Dess said in a low voice.

Spider tattoos? Hope frowned. “Well, I did see a kind of scruffy guy with stubble and a leather jacket, but I didn't look at his hands, really. I mean, I didn't see tattoos.”

“Well, he had one. It matched the spider on his jacket.”

“So?” Hope raised her eyebrows encouragingly.

“So he—he's in a gang. And whatever you think you know about your little town here, you're wrong. There are gangs here. There are gangs
everywhere.
Like I
said.
”

Hope swallowed and wiped a smudge from the corner of her mouth. “
Okay.
So, is he from your old gang or something? Did you want to, um, contact him?”

Hope cringed back as Dess's face went from milky pale to blotchy red.

“You
are
kidding me? I came from a group home, so now I'm in a gang?” Dess threw up her hands. “Why do I bother talking to your idiot self? I'm going to the van.” She stalked off, her passing noted by the people in the courtyard, who turned concerned looks on Hope. She bent her head over her cider with an embarrassed grimace.

No matter what Mom expected, Hope apparently couldn't do “kindness” with Dess, even when she tried her hardest. She couldn't get the words right or the patient voice the way Mom did it. She couldn't make Dess like her, no matter what.

Nice job, Carter,
Hope thought.
You're the best foster sister ever.

“The library doesn't hold police records.” The librarian looks across the counter at me, her gray eyes flicking up from the computer screen in front of her. “Are you looking for a specific crime or a specific criminal or—”

“I…um…Just some information about gangs,” I say, and back up from the counter. This library has three of those self-check machines, so the librarians must get bored. This one's way more interested than the one at Stanton High School.

“I have plenty of nonfiction books on the topic,” the librarian says, moving from behind the counter. “If you'll follow me to the 300s…”

“That's okay. I just…wanted to know something.”

“Well, you're in the right place, at least.” She smiles, and I look away. I don't want her looking me in the face, trying to recognize me. She said hello to Hopeless when we came in, but she doesn't know me. I'm surprised she didn't say something about “appropriate” reading topics, like that social worker at the group home. Rena said information is free and knowledge makes you powerful. Everyone has the right to find out things.

“There are plenty of books, statistical records, and that kind of thing on the shelves if you want to browse around by yourself,” the librarian says. “You can also find this on the Internet. Crime statistics are listed by cities. If you research ‘Walnut Hills city data,' you'll find police reports and the sorts of things they give to people who want to buy a house. There's a lot of information—”

“Thank you,” I interrupt. “I'll look on the Internet.”

I back away. The librarian's eyes follow me. I think she wishes I would let her help, but I can't. I don't even know what I'm looking for.

There's one computer left, and I head for it at the same time some guy does. He looks at me like I'm going to back off, but he's got another thought coming. Fortunately for him, a lady gets up from another computer and leaves. Good. I don't have the time to beat down some loser who's probably going to try to look at naked pictures on the Internet.

Using the search function, I leave the library system and find the Internet. If the Felon's motorcycle gang is here in Walnut Hills, they're selling drugs, probably. Maybe it will be in the local newspaper. That's what they did before, I think—drink beer, sit around, and get money from all the people who came to the house late at night. It's hard now to remember. When the Felon was there, he made Trish go out and get food, and he'd sit on our saggy couch—where was this?—and watch TV in the dark. Sometimes, Trish made food in a pan. Once there was a pan. And a kitchen. He hit her, and I remember a pan came off the stove and burned a black half circle on the rug. And I screamed. Then he hit me, and she screamed, “Don't, Eddie! No!”

I rub down the bumps on my arms. I hate thinking of this. I hate that, even locked up, he's still got power. He's like a big black spider, sitting in the middle of his web. I hate, hate,
hate
feeling that—

I don't care about Foster Lady or Hopeless or this stupid school. I only care about Baby. But I can't just up and run out of here with him. I can't take care of nobody who's only four years old. I couldn't take care of him when he was little enough to carry, and now I'd have to carry him and all his toys besides. And he'd holler. He thinks Foster Lady's his mama now.

What am I supposed to do?

Farris shouldn't have let me anywhere near Baby.

“Dess?”

I blink. Hopeless standing that close to me means she's said my name more than once. I didn't even see her.

“Dess?”

“What?”

She rocks back away from me like I knew she would. “Jeez, don't bite my head off. Mom's here.”

Oh.
I stomp out my frustration all the way through the library, stopping at the door to throw my postcard in the mail. I hope Rena appreciates hearing from me.

Hopeless trails after me, looking worried. “If you weren't ready to get off the computer, you can use the laptop at home. I just have reading to do, so I don't need it.”

I shrug. It doesn't matter.

“Look…don't stress, okay? If you're working on a project or something, we have the encyclopedia online at home, too.” She's walking too close to me, her hands balled up in her sweatshirt. “And, Dess, I didn't mean to— I didn't say I thought you were in a gang. I just…I don't know anything about gangs. I just…Did you think the guy in the coffee shop was someone who knows your, um”—her voice drops to a whisper—“your family?”

My foot lands on the rug in front of the automatic doors, and they open with a
swoosh.
I wince at the too-bright sunlight, then glare at my annoying companion. “You don't know shit about my family, Hopeless.”

She recoils at the name, and her mouth twists like she's bitten into an orange peel. “I know enough,” she mutters, and moves away from me.

“What's that supposed to mean?” I ask, but her fat butt has some hustle in it after all. Hopeless gets to the van first, and she takes shotgun, too.

Heifer.

“You girls have a good time?” Foster Lady asks as the van door slides open. From his seat by the window, Baby gives me a glassy-eyed look, half-asleep already.

“Fabulous,” Hope says, yanking on her seat belt.

“Yeah, it was great,” I say, climbing in to sit next to Baby. I touch his fat cheek without meaning to and pretend I don't care that it feels like peach skin. “Hope's helping me with a project.”

“Oh, is she?” Foster Lady glances from me to Hope, her expression tentative. “That's…great. If you two want to keep working, I'll make lunch. Maybe we'll do a nacho bar?”

Hope gives me a slitty-eyed look. “We're done with our
project,
Mom. We did everything at—”

I interrupt, “You mean bar nachos? Like, with cheese sauce—like you get at the bowling alley?”

“A nacho bar is like a salad bar,” Foster Lady says. “I make my own cheese sauce, and there are peppers and tomatoes and onions and olives and beans to put on top of the cheese and chips. It's
way
better than bowling alley nachos.”

My taste buds ache. Right now I could
kill
for some nachos.

“You don't have to make us anything,” Hope argues, but she sounds weak. “I'm not really hungry, and I'm
done
working with Dess.”

“We're not done yet,” I mutter, and Hope glares at me.

“We're
done,
I said.”

Foster Lady keeps talking, navigating through the half-mile trip home like she doesn't notice. “Well, the sauce is in the freezer, so I'll just put it in the Crock-Pot.” She glances over her shoulder. “Since it looks like the boy's having n-a-p time early today, your dad and I can manage the prep—you girls come make a plate when you're ready.” Foster Lady pushes the button for the garage door. “If you're inspired now, by all means, keep working.”

Hopeless gets bogged down with her library books—she checked out a stack of steampunk novels—so I'm right behind her when she slams her bedroom door in my face. I feel a little guilty for leaving Foster Lady with Baby, but I've got things to do. I go straight to my room, into the bathroom, and throw open the door on the other side.

“Now, where were we?” I ask as Hope freezes.