Читать книгу The Reasons to Stay - Laura Drake - Страница 11
ОглавлениеTHE GOOD NEWS was Bar None was less than a mile from her new apartment, on a side street off Hollister’s B & Bs, antique shops and art galleries. Priss stood on the cracked sidewalk under a tree full of gossiping birds, trying to convince her feet to carry her inside.
There had to be another way. But if the Yoda of Widow’s Grove didn’t know of any other jobs, there probably weren’t any.
You could try Solvang.
But the cute Danish town was more of a tourist trap than Widow’s Grove. She’d be even less likely to find an office job there. Besides, after seeing Nacho’s tats and attitude, the closer she worked to Widow’s Grove the better. Nacho and unsupervised time probably didn’t mix.
Only an open door and one small window framing a neon Schlitz sign marred the redbrick exterior of the bar. She glanced through the branches at the cloudless sky.
I get it, God. But does it have to be this?
A bird-crap missile passed within an inch of her face and plopped at her feet.
“Okay, then. You don’t have to be rude about it.” Abandoning any hope of reprieve she straightened her skirt and crossed the sidewalk.
Odds are he’s not looking for a daytime bartender, anyway. And there’s no way I’m leaving Nacho alone nights.
She opened the front door and refrigerated air pebbled her skin, bringing with it the smell of spilled beer, old fryer grease and the ghosts of cigarettes smoked back when it was legal. It stirred memories of more than her bartending days—this scent was her mother’s signature perfume. Priss took in the smells again—mostly bitter with very little sweet.
A jukebox she couldn’t see through the gloom blared a “welcome home” tune. Booths commandeered the wall to her right; tables filled the floor space. On her left, a long bar took up the rest of the room. A television high in a corner broadcast a baseball game to patrons parked on every stool.
Priss unclenched her fists, her jaw, and her attitude. She put on her friendly bartender face and strode to the bar like she owned it.
The little man who stood behind the long dark wood barrier looked like Tweedledee. Or maybe it was Tweedledum—she always got them confused. His gray hair pulled into a messy ponytail was at serious odds with the bald dome rising above it. He was short and round, but sure didn’t look jolly. Jowls and thick features didn’t cover the pugnacious thrust of his chin. Even the butt-end unlit stogie in his mouth tilted up—like it was giving everyone the bird.
He swiped a wet rag over the bar. “You’re full of crap, Barney. The Giants are gonna wipe the floor with those losers. I got your Tigers hangin’—” His hand headed south to demonstrate but he looked up, saw Priss and froze. “The Antique Emporium is on Hollister, missy.”
She put a hand on her hip. “Fernandez has a 2.1 ERA, two saves, two quality starts and it’s only April. I’d say the Tigers have it hanging this season.”
The lunch crowd’s heads swiveled.
The man behind the counter made a growling sound—a predator’s warning. “You came in here to talk baseball?”
Only one way to handle a bully.
She laid a hand on the bar and leaned on it. “I came here to be your new bartender.”
The cigar bounced with his chuckle. “Come back when you’re twenty-one, little girl.”
She opened her wallet, pulled out her Colorado driver’s license and flipped it onto the bar.
He picked it up and squinted at it. “Humph.”
A patron spoke up. “Floyd, you should hire her. A lady would be a welcome change from seeing your ugly mug every day.”
Barney, the Tigers fan, pointed at Priss. “Yeah, we want her!”
Floyd stared them down. “You don’t even know if she can pour a beer.”
Priss waited until he turned and glared at her. “So? Try me.”
He harrumphed again, leaned against the back counter, and crossed his arms over his considerable chest. “Have at it, missy.”
She lifted the opening in the bar at the waitress station and stepped in. Glancing around the setup to get oriented, she smiled at the pale faces bathed in the light above the mirror at her back. They didn’t look quite as excited to see her on this side of the bar. A few looked like they wanted to play—like a cat plays with a cricket.
She dusted her hands. “Okay, gentlemen. Help me out and tell me your name when you order. That way I’ll get to know you faster. Now, what’ll it be?”
“A pint of Guinness,” a thin man with a slight Scottish burr said. “I’m Ian.”
She checked the beer taps—not there. She squeezed past Floyd and found a flat of mixed-brand stout bottles at the other end of the bar. She snagged a bottle, opened it, then upended a clean glass. Tilting it, she poured about half a glass, then set it down so the head wouldn’t get out of control.
She grabbed Ian’s empty glass and set it in the sink. “Who’s next?”
A bald guy with a half-empty beer, said, “I’m Porter. I’ll have a martini.”
Priss wiped the bar in front of Ian, and laid a new napkin. “Neat or dirty?”
“Always dirty, hon. It’s how I roll.”
Looking at his wrinkled shirt and fingernails, she had no doubt he spoke the truth.
She poured the rest of the Guinness and placed it in front of Ian, with a perfect thumbs-width head. “Floyd will have to collect from you all—I don’t know the prices yet.” She glanced around to locate the ingredients. “Vodka or gin, Porter?”
The man reared back on the stool as if she’d slapped him. “What kind of bartender would pollute good vermouth with strained potato offal?”
She raised her hands. “I come in peace.” She snatched the shaker from where it sat drying on a towel. “I had to ask. Some groundlings drink it that way.” She found the ice, scooped some into the shaker, then gathered the ingredients. Grasping the gin bottle by the neck, she silently counted the measurement and did the same with the vermouth; martini drinkers were notoriously picky. While she shook it, she collected a martini glass and speared two olives on the plastic sword she found next to them. She poured the drink, the last drops filling it to the rim, and set it in front of Porter.
He sipped, then sighed in bliss as his eyes rolled up.
Yes!
“I’m Barney, and I want a mojito.” The Tigers fan moved his half-full beer aside.
Another patron hooted from the other end of the bar. “Who you trying to kid? I’ve never seen you drink anything but Bud.”
Barney stuck out a two-day-whiskered chin. “Well, I saw it on a TV show and I want to try it.” His rheumy eyes held challenge as he straightened the collar of a shirt that looked dingy, even in dim light. “With two olives.”
She hid a smile and turned to Floyd. “Do you have mint leaves?”
“What the hell would I need those for? This ain’t the Holiday Inn—this is a workingman’s bar.”
“Never mind.” It was not like Barney would know the difference, anyway. She mixed the lime juice and sugar in a highball glass, stirring until it dissolved. Then she added rum and club soda and split a lime wedge on the rim. She placed it on a clean napkin in front of Barney, leaned over to whisper, “I’ll just put the olives on the side, okay?” No way she was putting olives in that supersweet drink.
He nodded, frowning at the glass.
“Well, you gonna drink it or stare at it all day?” Floyd was enjoying this too much. He’d probably sold more high-priced drinks in the last few minutes than he had in a month.
Barney took a sip. His lips twisted and his eyes got big. His Adam’s apple quivered—then he swallowed. His lips turned down and his tongue protruded, just a bit. “It’s good!” He choked out.
Floyd chuckled. “Glad you think so. That’ll be seven bucks.”
“Seven bucks!” Barney’s eyes bugged. He moved his Bud back, front and center.
A couple wandered in off the street, arm in arm. Summer people, by the looks.
A gray-haired woman in a black rayon waitress uniform with a dowager’s hump and wearing orthopedic shoes emerged from a doorway in the back to lead the pair to a table.
“Hey, we don’t even know your name.” A comparatively younger man halfway down the bar spoke up. Of course “younger” was a relative term. He appeared to be in his forties.
“I’m Priss.”
“A bartender named Priss? That’s funny!”
Barney had caught his breath from the drink and the price. “Is that like Priscilla?”
She winced. “Yeah, my mom had a crush on Elvis.”
“I had a crush on Priscilla!” Porter said.
“She was beautiful, and so sweet,” Ian said. “Didn’t deserve the crap The King dished out, messing around.”
Priss patted her hair spikes. “Well, don’t expect me to go all big-hair. Ain’t happening.”
The patrons laughed, and an argument broke out over which Elvis movie was the best.
Floyd asked, “What’s your last name?”
Priss dried her hands on the bar towel she’d tucked into the waist of her skirt. “Hart.”
His eyebrows shot up. “No relation to Cora Hart, are you?”
Her hands stilled. “My mother. Why?”
He smiled for the first time since she’d walked through the door. “Because she worked here. Until she couldn’t anymore.”
Priss shot a glance at the ceiling. Oh, very funny, God.
“Your mom was a stand-up gal.” He pushed away from the back bar. “You can start tonight.”
She swallowed. Winning the clientele over was the easy part. This was the hard part. She twisted the towel in her fist. “I can only work the day shift.”
“I work the day shift. The job is to cover nights.”
“I can’t work nights.” She was not saving Nacho from the clutches of the county only to put him back into his old life. Or her old life.
Nacho, hell, she wasn’t putting herself back in her mother’s old life.
She swallowed her fidgets and foreboding along with her spit and stood awaiting dismissal.
Floyd stared her down. “You came in here for a bartender job and you don’t work nights?”
She stared back, hoping he couldn’t see her fists shaking in the towel. “That’s right.”
“What the hell? Why’d you waste my time?”
Barney broke in. “Ah, give her the job, Floyd, you grumpy old fart.”
When Floyd shook his head, his jowls flapped. “Why did I become a barkeep? No one wants to listen to my problems.”
Ian called from the other end of the bar, “You covered nights before, Floyd.”
Porter said, “We want her.”
He ignored the peanut gallery. “No.” His cigar wasn’t lit but the fire in his eyes was. “Go home, little girl.”
A blast of disappointment blew a hole in her chest. All her air whooshed out.
This job would have been an answer to her problem. Maybe not the best answer, but she’d learned long ago that poor girls didn’t get the best. She bit the inside of her lip and checked her facial muscles to be sure they didn’t telegraph emotion. Another lesson she learned early—predators only took down the weak.
But wait. The only time he’d smiled was when he realized Cora was her mother. For some reason, the misguided dude thought a lot of her mom. A trickle of hope oozed down the edges of the hole in her chest, sealing it so she could breathe again. She wasn’t above using guilt, or her innocent looks, to manipulate.
You utilized whatever skills you were given to survive in a jungle.
She’d grown up being tucked in a corner booth of bars, sipping free endless sodas and doing homework. Surely Nacho had, too. She let the corners of her mouth drop and lowered her eyelids in a slow blink—once, then again. “You must have met my half brother, Nacho.”
“Yeah.” Floyd’s cigar tilted higher. He wasn’t dumb. She’d have to be careful.
“Well, I’m trying to spring him from Social Services.” She let out a sigh, carefully moderated to just short of theatrical. “If I don’t have a job, they won’t release him to me.” She lowered her eyes, tortured the towel in her fists and waited.
And waited. Conversation died. The bar held its breath.
“Oh, what the hell.” Floyd grunted in disgust. “I’ll take the night shift—for now. You’re not gonna last more than a week, anyway.”
The old barmaid walked up to the waitress station. “Floyd, I’ll get their BLTs. I need a strawberry margarita with sugar, no salt, and a Coors. With a lime.” Her eyes flicked toward Priss.
The animosity in the woman’s laser stare practically singed the skin off Priss’s face. Then she turned and shuffled back through the door she’d emerged from.
What the hell?
Floyd pointed a finger at Priss. “You. We open at ten. Be here at nine tomorrow. I’ll show you around. Now, scram. I’ve got work to do.”
She gave a cheery wave to the patrons, and walked out. Happy, yet unsettled at the same time.
Had her mother just helped her get a job?
* * *
ADAM LEANED HIS elbows on the outfield chain-link fence, watching the T-ballers. He’d been on his way home but couldn’t resist watching the next generation learn America’s game.
He pushed his heels into the grass and felt the muscles in his calves tighten. Being in charge of the senior softball league meant he was the first to arrive on game day and the last to leave, but fitting players onto teams, teams into schedules, schedules into play-offs—he loved it.
Pitching with the Widow’s Grove Winos wasn’t what he’d hoped for in college. Even if he’d made the majors, he’d be retired by now anyway. He rested his chin on his forearms and sighed.
The bantam batter pushed his too-big helmet back and, tongue between his teeth, frowned at the ball on the tee.
The infielders started the chant, “Hey, batter-batter...”
The kid hefted the oversize bat on his shoulder and swung. The whiffle ball sailed off the tee and over the infielders’ heads, into the grass of the outfield. The yells of his teammates woke the batter from amazement and he took off, little legs pumping for first.
The entire outfield, plus the shortstop and second baseman, swarmed for the ball, all yelling, “I got it!”
Despite all the waving gloves, the ball landed in the grass.
The coach stood at home plate, face florid, yelling the batter around the bases. The parents in the stands cheered loud enough to raise a flock of mourning doves from the power lines.
The little kid jumped onto home plate with both feet. The dugout emptied and the coach swung him high.
Carley Beauchamp walked up, hands cupped around her mouth, yelling, “Way to go, batter!” She rested her forearms on the fence and gave Adam a shoulder bump. “Better watch it. You’re looking at those kids like you want one.”
“Not me. Kids are like puppies—adorable, but also unsafe, uncontrollable and messy. When I have the urge, I’ll just come borrow yours. I’ll get my cute fix, and a solid reminder of why I’m never having any.” He leaned over and bumped her shoulder.
He and his best friend Daryl had double-dated back in high school. Adam brought whoever, but the other half had always been Daryl and Carley. Still was.
Her brown eyes held concern, and a few milligrams of pity. “You are a sad case, Preston.”
“What are you talking about? Life is good.”
“Oh, please. I’ve known you since second grade so I feel obligated to point out a few things.” She lifted her hand, and started ticking points on her fingers. “You live in your mother’s house, alone. You dispense corn plasters and Viagra to the over-sixty set during the day, then fill your off-hours running a softball league for potbellied wannabes.” She took a breath.
God, he hated when she counted on her fingers. She had so many.
“Your last girlfriend just came out of the closet, and you’re down to DatesRUs.com, or recommendations from Jesse, at the Café.”
He winced as the darts hit home. They were small but Carley always had dead aim. “Why don’t you just fillet me, and have it over with?”
Her fingers encircled his biceps. “Roger’s gone, Adam. But you’re still here.” He’d seen eyes like that behind chain-link fences at the pound. His jaw locked. “We are not discussing that.”
“Okay, okay.” Her fingers slid off his arm. “Only because I’m such a good friend, I’m here to save you from a long, lonely future.”
“Why am I afraid?”
“A big, strong guy like you, afraid of a date?”
“What date?”
“Well, working in the office at the school does have its advantages. The replacement for your—um—the teacher who left—”
“No.” The chain-link twists dug in his forearms when he pushed off and straightened.
“Adam, just listen. Her name is June Sellers, and she’s just your type.”
“And what, exactly, is my type?”
She rolled her eyes and unholstered those fingers. “Blonde and classy, quiet and ladylike. The type a guy could take home to his mother. You know, a good girl.”
The air quotes stung. “Why do you say that like it’s bad?”
“It’s not. If that’s what makes you happy.” She dug through her purse a moment and came up with a crumpled Post-it note in hot pink. “I told her about you and she gave me her phone number.” She handed it over. “She’s expecting your call.”
He avoided what looked like peanut butter on the edge and squinted at the smeared writing.
“I just think you deserve more than what you want.” She held up a hand to ward off his protest. “I’m only trying to wake your ass up. Life isn’t safe, or neat and tidy. I’d think you’d have figured that out after what you lived through.” The pity was back in her stare. “When are you going to take off the gloves and live life out loud, Preston?”
“I’m happy as is, thanks, Carley.”
* * *
THE NEXT DAY, Adam unlocked the glass front door of Hollister Drugs, stepped in, locking it behind him. He followed the scent of freshly brewed coffee to the soda fountain, where Sin stood in her uniform, reading the Widow’s Grove Telegraph, and sipping coffee from a mug that suggested doing something to oneself that was physically impossible.
With effort, he pulled his eyes from the multi-colored tattoos that twined, full-sleeve, down both her slim arms. “You need to cover those tattoos, and I asked you to take that mug home.”
“Well, Happy Monday, Sin.” She put down the paper. “We’re not open yet. I’ll put on the arm warmers when we are, and I don’t drink coffee in front of customers, you know that.” She set a clean stoneware mug on the counter and poured him a cup. “Aren’t you just a ray of sunshine this morning?”
“Good morning, Sin.” He reached for the coffee, noticing again how badly her hot pink hair clashed with the uniform. “You sure I can’t talk you into a different hair color? Blue? A nice lavender?”
When she smiled, the crystal set in her tooth flashed. “Nah, but thanks, boss.”
He saluted her with his cup. “Thanks for the coffee.” He noticed his new tenant sat at one of the tables, reading the Widow’s Grove Telegraph. The paper rustled when she turned a page. He raised an eyebrow at Sin.
She shrugged. “If you trust her enough to live across the hall from your mother, I thought it was safe to invite her in for a cup of coffee before we opened.”
He nodded. I should have thought to do that myself.
Priss wore a closely fitted pink button-down shirt and dress pants. Her short dark hair had that just-fell-out-of-bed look that had him imagining things he shouldn’t.
Her too-big green eyes held a warning that he’d been staring.
He slapped on his “trusted pharmacist” smile to cover his gaffe and carried his coffee to her table. “Morning. Mind if I join you?”
She put down the paper, pulled a phone from her large tapestry purse on the floor and checked the time. “Okay, but I only have a few minutes.”
He slid into the fancy wrought-iron chair. “I just wanted to officially welcome you to Widow’s Grove. I realized I hadn’t done that yet. Are you finding your way around?”
“So far, so good. I’m enjoying the apartment, but I wondered what passes for fun around here.”
“Well, the tourists go on wine tours, and there’s shopping—”
She waved a hand. “I mean the locals. What do you do for fun?”
“Baseball.”
A spark of interest flared in her eyes. “Tell me about that.”
“We have little league for the kids and a senior league for adults.”
“Women allowed on the teams?”
“They’re not banned. But only one team has a woman. It’s pretty competitive.” He leaned his elbows on the edge of the table. “Do you play?”
She nodded. “High school. And I played first base in a summer league in Boulder.”
Enchanting and she played baseball? Too good to be true. “Slow-pitch?”
She made a pfft sound of dismissal. “I said I played.” She leaned an arm over the back of her chair and flashed him a card shark’s smile. “Hard ball, baby.”
He could talk smack. He just never had, with a woman. He narrowed his eyes. “You any good?”
She held her hand up and blew on her nails. “Point nine two fielding percentage, no errors.”
“How many games?”
“Fifteen.”
“Nice.” A woman on the Winos? Why not? Pete Gilmour sucked at first base. Plus it would give Adam the opportunity to get to know Priss better.
On the other hand... He studied her stand-up hair and the stubborn line of her chin. She was hardly his type. And about as far from safe as it was possible to be.
Still, he’d sure love to see this little dynamo run bases. “You interested in playing?”
“Maybe. Who would I talk to if I was?”
“I run the league, and pitch on one of the teams. I might have a slot. If you can hit.”
“Two seven five average.”
“Not bad for a girl.” He didn’t let his lips quirk. But he wanted to. She stuck out her chin. “Pretty good for an infielder. Even a guy.”
Cute, competitive, and the stats to back it up. This could be love.
She folded the paper and slipped it in her purse. “Well, thanks for the tips, and the conversation.”
He wanted to keep her here, talking. This lady tugged at his attention and he wanted to understand why. “You never said what brought you to Widow’s Grove.”
He couldn’t say exactly what changed. She didn’t move, but she changed, lightning-fast, from a pretty, young woman to a jungle cat—motionless, crouched, wary.
Her fingers tightened on her cup. “Does it matter?”
“It doesn’t.” He took a slow sip of coffee. “I would guess you’re not from a small town.”
“Nooo.” She said the word as if he’d pulled it from her. When she shrugged, her shoulders lost their firing-squad tension. “I got tired of the big city and decided to slow down for a while.”
“Well, you’ll find people here friendly. They’ll want to get to know you.” He raised a hand in a universal gesture of peace. “In a good way. We watch out for our own.”
“I’ve been watching out for myself for years.” She stared into her mug long enough to divine the future in the dregs. “I’m from Vegas, originally.”
“Not much small town there.”
“You’d be surprised. Off the strip, it’s a lot like a small town.” Her pert nose wrinkled. “People get way up in each other’s business. It’s part of why I got out of there as soon as I could.”
He wanted to keep her talking. “Um, before you go, could give me some advice? You know, as a woman?” He leaned in to whisper.
She backed up.
“What color uniform should I order for Sin?”
Her face went blank a microsecond, then she laughed. It wasn’t the delighted tinkle he’d expected from a tiny thing like her. It was an all-in belly laugh, and he glimpsed for the first time, what she’d look like unguarded. Her smile outshone the sun pouring in the window. But what hit harder was her...he fumbled for a word to describe it.
Life force.
A vibrant woman lived inside that wary jungle cat. Her laughter echoed in his bones, making him want to reach out and catch her hand where it lay on the table. He stopped himself in time. What kind of background made a woman that young so wary?
She leaned in, her lips quirking. “A different color is not going to fix that problem.”
“I was afraid you would say that.”
She chuckled. “I wouldn’t worry about it. I like her just the way she is and I’ll bet your customers would say the same.”
He broke eye contact before it could become another stare. “Yes, but she’s just so...out there.”
The twinkle in her eye winked out. The jungle cat was back. “Oh, and conformity tops honesty, efficiency and competence in your book?”
“No. But I can dream, can’t I?”
A shade of a smile crossed her lips. “Dream on, dude.” She lifted her phone, and snapped to attention. “I’ve got to go.”
“Where you off to?”
“I’ve got to go...to work.” She slipped her phone in her purse.
“Great, you found a job. Doing what?”
“Um. Customer service.” In one fluid movement, she was on her feet. “Nice talking to you.”
He stood. “You have a good day.”
She turned and waved to Sin, who came from behind the counter with the keys in her hand. Though he couldn’t hear their words, they talked all the way to the door. Sin unlocked it, let out Priss and let in Susie, his checkout girl.
He grabbed his cup to leave but his gaze followed Priss until she passed the edge of the window.
* * *
“IGNACIO HART. Report to the office.”
The voice on the dorm loudspeaker was soft but Nacho still jumped. He shot a look around to be sure no one saw. Nope. The prisoners were all at breakfast.
They’d told him his half sister would be here to take him today. He’d been shocked, since it was pretty clear that day at the apartment that she didn’t give a shit. Besides, she sure didn’t look like the motherly type. That was okay by him. He’d already had a mother—didn’t need another.
He crammed the last of his T-shirts into his backpack and looked around. The sun hit the floor, crosshatched by the wire in the glass. They said it was there to keep the kids safe.
Yeah, tell me another bedtime story.
Neatly made cots stretched the length of the high-ceilinged room. His was the only rumpled one. Screw ’em. He was so out of here.
He tossed the backpack over his shoulder, his hands fisted so they wouldn’t shake. He couldn’t wait to escape this kid warehouse, with their rules, bad food and the wimps sniffling after lights out. The only good thing about this place was that a bus picked him up so he could keep going to the same school. Not that he cared about learning, but all his homies were there.
He walked to the door, wondering if he was heading from a pile of dog crap into an over-his-head shit pile. His mom was dead, his dad was in prison. They were handing him off to a chick he didn’t even know, just because half her blood was his mom’s. What did that have to do with him?
But the county didn’t care. They were happy to have one less body in the warehouse. No one bothered asking the only guy who might care—and he hated that.
He used to feel empty inside when his mom went to work at night. Now he felt empty all the time. He wished he had a big family, like his friend Joe. They were loud and yelled a lot but you had to care if you yelled, right?
He took a last quick glance around to be sure he hadn’t left anything. The extra weight of the iron cross felt just right in the bottom of the backpack. His teacher talked about how knights in old days had a family coat of arms on their shields when they went into battle. The cross was his. Maybe his mom was full of shit. Maybe all those dead guys back in Spain weren’t royalty. But the weight felt right, just the same.
His stomach rumbled, empty, but full of ice. He practiced a badass superhero scowl.
His shoelaces slapped the floor, but he imagined a pair of Avenger’s boots, thumping down the stairs. He was tough. His skin was leather. Ice was in his veins, not in his stomach. He was—
His sister stood at the bottom of the stairs, looking up at him. She was little for a grown-up—only a couple inches taller than him. Trying to look cool with her spiked hair and hipster pants, but she was scared. He knew scared when he saw it.
Cool—that made them equal.
He slouched down the last couple of stairs.
“Hi, Nacho. I signed you out of here for good. Have you got all your stuff?”
He glared hard and walked past her. No reason to make it easy.
“Hey, wait.” She trotted to catch up, and pushed the door open for him. “It’s not really warm enough yet, but I thought you’d like to ride with the top down.” She waved her arm at a huge beater Caddy parked at the curb. The paint was sunburnt and it looked like the white leather interior was split in places, but his stomach took a happy dive anyway. He’d look cool pulling up to school in a drop-top.
He followed her, scuffing his feet to act like he didn’t want to. The tall brick building loomed at his back, watching to see if he’d get in the car. Whether or not this worked out, there was no way he was going back to that place. He’d run away first.
She patted the door, then swooshed it open like it was a limo. “This is Mona. Mona, this is Nacho.”
He snorted and got in. Crazy ran in his family.
She walked to the driver’s side and got in but she didn’t crank the engine; she just looked at him.
“What?”
“I got us an apartment—a nice one, over Hollister Drugs. You know where that is?”
What, did she think he was an idiot? He nodded.
“I already talked to your school. I’ve got to work so the bus will drop you off about two blocks from the drugstore. I should be home about the time you get there, but if I’m not...”
When she didn’t say more, he had to look at her.
“You’re to wait for me outside, on the sidewalk. Got that?”
“Yeah.”
“I’ll have to take you in and introduce you to the landlord and his mother when I get home from work today. They don’t exactly know about you yet, so...” She chewed her lip. “Just wait for me when you get home from school, okay?”
He rolled his eyes. “I’m not retarded.”
When she smiled she looked a little like his mom and a little like one of those elf queens in the Lord of the Rings. “Noted. Buckle your seat belt.” After he did, she handed him a bag from the floorboard then cranked the engine. “I figured you didn’t get breakfast.”
He opened it. A McMuffin. Sweet. “Thanks.” He ignored the foil-covered cup of orange juice and dug in.
“What do you think of this town?” She talked loud, over the wind.
“It blows.”
“Don’t talk with your mouth full.”
“Then don’t ask me a question after I take a bite.”
She looked over at him. “So you’re not tied to this place?”
He snorted. “I want to go to a city. Like a real city—like L.A. or something.” They had real gangs there. He could take his pick.
She smiled. “Then you’re going to like living with me. I move around.”
It might be cool, getting to see places. “I can hang with that.”
“Great. Then when you get out of school in June, we’ll hit the road, okay?”
“Cool.” Actually, it was cold but he didn’t care. The wind whipped by, making it feel like they were going a hundred instead of thirty-five. People in other cars stared. He rested his arm on the door and squinted at them. This part might not be too bad.
Ten minutes later, Priss pulled into the circle in front of his school. Cars ahead and behind them dropped off kids. More kids hopped off the buses parked at the curb. Others milled on the sidewalk, yelling, running. A typical day.
He spotted Diego and almost waved like a butt-wipe second grader. He stopped himself in time. But Diego saw him, and elbowed Joe. Nacho took his time gathering his backpack so they could get a good look at his wheels. It was a beater, but it was a drop-top. With raised shocks and some painted flames—
“We’re clear, right, Nacho? You’re going to wait for me in front of the store after school?” She looked worried.
“I got it.” He hopped out and slammed the door, hard, to show her what he thought of her rules.
“Okay, you have a good day, Nacho. See you this afternoon.”
He crossed the sidewalk to his real family. The one he got to choose.
