No Place (14 page)

I wish there were something I could do for Meg. I’m getting tired of wondering how this happened to us. I’m getting tired of wondering what’s wrong with this country. Right now I just wish I could find a way to make things better.

 25 

A PHONE CALL

“Did you hear what happened to that kid? Is that what you were planning all along? Is that why you wouldn’t tell me what you were going to do? Are you out of your—”

“Calm down. It was a mistake. Things got out of hand.”

“Out of hand? He’s in a coma, for God’s sake!”

“I said calm down. Listen to me. It wasn’t supposed to happen like that. They were just supposed to scare him. Get him to stop.”

“Try telling
that
to his parents.”

“Enough. It’s terrible, but there’s nothing we can do about it now. Maybe things may have gotten a bit more complicated, but we can still make it work to our advantage.”

“ ‘We’? Are you insane? I won’t have anything more to do with this.”

“Oh, I think you will . . . unless you want your son to find out.”

 26 

On Sunday Uncle Ron picks us up and takes us back to his house for dinner. For the first time in weeks we all have a meal together. The twins seem really happy to see me, and everyone is on their best behavior.

Later, Ron drives us back to Dignityville. It’s silent in the car, as if no one can think of a safe topic to discuss. Not Ron’s business, not being homeless, not Mom’s garden . . .

We stop outside Dignityville and start to get out of the car. As I slide across the seat toward the door, Ron extends his clenched hand toward me. He waits until my parents’ backs are turned and then opens his hand. A bunch of $20 bills tumble out. I’ll give them to Mom later.

*  *  *

At school on Monday when I come out of the kitchen with my free lunch, Talia’s nestled cozily at the table, surrounded by a bunch of her girlfriends. Over the weekend
I texted and called a few times and always got her voice mail. So I backed off and gave her time to cool down. Obviously she’s still not ready to talk.

There are plenty of other places to sit. As I wander through the cafeteria with my tray, various people wave. But rather than join them, I pick a table by myself and start to eat. I guess I just don’t want to risk getting into an awkward conversation about what’s going on in my life right now.

But then the scraggly haired kid passes carrying a tray. Now it’s my turn to call to him. “Yo.”

He stops, frowns.

I clear my throat. “I owe you an apology.”

He cocks his head uncertainly. “Sure, thanks.” Starts to turn away.

“No, seriously, have a seat.”

“Why?”

“Let’s talk.” I pat the tabletop. “Come on.”

Looking doubtful, he sits.

“What’s your name?” I ask.

“Mason.”

“Sophomore?”

“Junior.”

“So here’s the thing,” I tell him. “I totally blew it the other day.”

He nods slowly.

“But I’m curious,” I go on. “Why me? You think that if I sign up, the other jocks will want to go too? And then all the cheerleaders?”

He leans back and gives me a puzzled look. “How can you joke about it? I mean, given your situation, don’t you want to do something?”

Why does it still feel like a punch in the gut every time someone points out that I’m homeless? Like I still can’t accept it. “Sorry, man, protest marches aren’t my thing.”

Mason leans forward. “They’re
everybody’s
thing. You know that nearly one-third of this country is living at or near the poverty level? That’s one out of every three people. More than a hundred million are either poor or close to it.”

“Not around here.”

“No, but ten miles down the road in Burlington they sure are,” Mason says. “If we don’t fix what’s wrong, this country’s screwed. Only nothing serious is being done because the politicians and rich people who fund their election campaigns aren’t the ones who are suffering. I’m not saying they don’t care, but maybe they don’t care
enough
. To them poverty is just another political football to kick around. Like global warming and health care and instability in the Middle East. That’s why we have to get their attention. Believe me, Dan, when they see a million people jamming the streets of Washington demanding change, they’re gonna notice.”

Can’t argue with that. “Okay, this won’t sound important to you, but there’s a baseball tournament Thanksgiving weekend.”

Mason sits back with a disappointed frown. “What if you miss it?”

“Pro scouts come. It’s a chance to get seen.”

“You think they don’t already know who you are? How many high school pitchers have an eighty-eight-mile-an-hour fastball and a nasty curve?”

I stare at him. Knowing he caught me off guard, Mason smiles. “You didn’t think I could be political
and
a baseball fan?”

I smile back, but mostly because I’m not sure what else to do.

He starts to get up. “I have to get to the table. I’m the only one out there these days.” He picks up his tray, then pauses and drops his voice. “So seriously, what’s it like at Dignityville?”

“Sucks.”

He thinks for a moment. “Listen, if things get bad? I mean, really bad? Let’s talk, okay? I think my parents might be able to help.”

He leaves. That’s the kid I grabbed by the collar and came about an inch from beating into a pulp.

Think about it.

*  *  *

We’re not
really
poor. Even if we’re homeless and have no jobs or money.

It’s just temporary.

Things will get better.

Not that I know how.

Mom seems happy as long as she has a garden, but it won’t make her a penny.

Dad’s miserable.

And I have a full ride to Rice. As long as I pitch well and keep my grades up, that should get me through college. But what will I do over vacations? Will I be able to afford to come home? And if I do, will I have to stay in a tent with my parents?

*  *  *

Meg isn’t in school today. Did she skip because of Aubrey? Has something bad happened? If I had one of our cell phones I’d text her.

School’s ending and Talia and I still haven’t spoken. We’ve never gone this long without talking before. Maybe she’s waiting for me to apologize, or just show that I care.

I look for her at her locker, but she isn’t there.

As I go around the corner I imagine her waiting at my locker.

No such luck. Okay, guess I can go over to her house later and attempt some kind of grand romantic gesture. Stand on her lawn under her bedroom window holding up a boom box playing some seriously syrupy love song. If that won’t win her back, nothing will.

Noah’s expecting me in the gym, along with Tyler and Zach, who want to take batting practice, but all I can think about is Talia, and my parents, and who might be behind Aubrey’s beating.

This is a problem. You can’t throw with garbage in your mind. It gets in the way. You’ve got to have that clear, well-lit tunnel straight from your arm to the catcher’s mitt. Somehow I know that throwing today is going to be a bust. I won’t be focused. I’ll be wasting my and Noah’s time.

I turn around and do something I never thought I’d do.

Head for the bus circle.

*  *  *

After asking a monitor which one to take, I board a bus and that old smell hits me—gym socks, vinyl seats, and diesel exhaust. It’s like going back in time. I half expect to see eleven-year-old versions of my friends waving and patting empty spots for me to sit. Instead it’s a sea of kids’ faces staring because they’ve never seen me on the bus before.

I take a seat near the front, next to a girl who looks like she’s in seventh grade. Immediately, she presses herself into the corner and looks back at the two girls in the seat behind her, who giggle, probably because they’re her friends and they’re completely amused that this senior is sitting next to her.

Even the bus driver’s looking at me in the rearview mirror like she doesn’t know what I’m doing there.

The bus can’t go until the five in front of it move, and there’s some kind of delay, so we sit. The girl next to me keeps glancing back at her friends, who keep tittering. She’s wearing a necklace with the name
STACI
spelled out in silver letters, and I’m starting to wonder if this is a mistake and whether I should get off and walk home . . . and that’s when someone raps on the window.

It’s Noah.

I get up, lean over Staci, and slide the window down. Noah’s got a
WTF?
look on his face.

“I gotta go home,” I tell him. Meanwhile, poor Staci’s cowering in the corner of our seat and the two girls behind her are practically gagging in near hysteria.

“You were just gonna leave me there?” Noah asks with a frown.

“I figured you could practice with Zach and Tyler. Zach can throw.”

Noah turns his palms upward. “What the hell?”

“Seriously, I gotta go,” I repeat. “We’ll work out tomorrow, I promise.”

He gives me an annoyed, frustrated look, and then the bus driver says I have to sit because we’re leaving. I take my seat. Staci and her friends have gone silent, like they’re breathlessly waiting to see what happens next. So I put my arm around Staci’s shoulders and turn to the two behind us. “I don’t know what’s so funny. I love Staci, and someday I’m going to marry her.”

If their eyes got any larger they’d pop out of their sockets. I remove my arm and sit back.

The girls don’t make a sound for the rest of the ride.

*  *  *

A loudly clearing throat wakes me. The bus has stopped and the driver is turned in her seat, giving me the hairy eyeball. I give Staci a peck on the cheek. “Until tomorrow, my love.”

And then get off.

*  *  *

There’s a paper cup lying on the dirt path between the tents. I pick it up.

Homeless pride.

Don’t want the place to look like a bunch of bums live here, do we?

Meg’s sitting at one of the tables in the dining tent with her school books. When I join her, she tells me she stayed with her dad today because her mom went to the hospital, where they ran some tests on Aubrey. “He scored a twelve on the Glasgow scale and a five on the Rancho Los Amigos. It’s good news.” If there’s such a thing as a sad smile, she gives it. “It means his brain is still working.”

“What happens next?”

“We see him whenever we can. We talk, play music, make noise. The doctors say it helps. But mostly we wait.”

It’s the middle of the afternoon, and except for the usual crowd around the TV, the dining tent is empty. I’ve stacked my books on the table, but don’t feel like opening them just yet. “I was thinking today what it would be like if my parents wind up here permanently. I mean, like coming back from college and having to stay in the tent with them. And what happens if my friends want to go out and I don’t have any money.”

“Don’t you go out with Talia now?” Meg asks.

“We . . .” I hesitate, lie. “Split stuff.”

The shame of poverty: I can’t admit the truth. In English
we’re reading
A Streetcar Named Desire
, and I can’t help thinking of Blanche DuBois and how at the end she becomes completely delusional. They’re taking her to a mental institution and she thinks she’s going away with her millionaire boyfriend.

And here I am, living in a tent, qualifying for free school lunches, sponging off my girlfriend, and still pretending I’m
not
poor?

Yo, Blanche, wait up! I’m right there with you!

Just as I feel my spirits really start to sink, Meg closes her hand on mine. “Dan?”

I know she wants me to look at her, but I can’t. I glance at the folks at the back watching TV. I gaze outside at the tents and the random junky bikes donated for the bike drive. Maybe I’m going to college next year, but what about my parents? Forget the part about
me
having to come back to Dignityville over vacation, what’s
their
life going to be like? Is this it? Is Mom destined to garden and Dad to collect bottles and cans for the rest of their lives?

It doesn’t have to be this way. I’ve read enough
Sports Illustrated
to know that guys who are drafted straight out of high school get million-dollar signing bonuses. I think back to the day Mom said if I really hated it here we’d try something else.
Hey, Dan, did it ever occur to you that maybe it’s not up to your parents to get you out of Dignityville? Maybe it’s up to
you
to get
them
out?
I start to gather my books.

“You’re going?” Meg asks, startled.

“I, uh, just realized I have to talk to Noah.”
A man got to do what he got to do.

Her eyes widen. I know what she’s thinking. I just sat down and already I have to leave?

“Catch you later, okay?” I promise emptily, and head back to my tent. We keep the phones on a small nightstand, and I pick one up and punch Noah’s speed dial. I hold the phone to my ear and wait.

It rings once, then a recording comes on telling me that this mobile number is invalid. That’s wrong, so I try again . . . and get the same recording.

I put that phone down and start to reach for the other one when I realize that neither of my parents is here, but both phones are. That never happens, unless . . . I try the other phone and get the same message—our phone service has been canceled.

It takes a while to find a ride that doesn’t have a flat tire. Finally I come across an old mountain bike. The handlebars, gearshift, and chain are brown with rust, but at least the tires are semi-inflated.

At one time it was an eighteen-speed, but now only two gears work, and the chain jumps and skips.

But, hey, beggars can’t be choosers.

 27 

Noah lives in one of the nicer parts of town. By the time I get there, dusk has begun to settle. The outside lights are on and I leave the bike on the lawn, climb the steps to the porch, and ring the bell.