Almost Home Page 6

  13

  I STEP OUT into the roar and rush of Chicago. Trucks crash by on Congress Street, cars zoom past. This city has a beat. Everything feels in motion. Shush shakes in the green bag.

  “It’s okay, boy. This is the biggest place we’ve ever been, huh?”

  Tall buildings push to the sky. I walk tough like I’ve got places to go and people to see.

  I’m really good at faking it.

  I walk past the Panera restaurant that’s not on my food budget, past a sign on a store that reads, STOP AND THINK.

  Then, WHAT YOU’RE DOING.

  The next sign, HOW YOU CAN MAKE A DIFFERENCE.

  I’ll have to think about that later; right now I’m trying to hold myself together. I walk next to a fancy building, through a covered walkway with big ceiling lights. I’m not sure Chicago has a king, but if they do, he might like to hang out here. I look in the window of a little restaurant. There are apples on the counter. I could use an apple right now.

  I pat the green bag. “Behave yourself.” I walk inside.

  I’m studying the apples. The guy behind the counter is watching me. I point to a little red apple that has a bruise mark. “You’re probably not going to sell that one,” I tell him.

  He doesn’t look too happy I mentioned that, but I’m not done.

  I point at a slightly bigger apple with a gash in it. “I don’t think you’re going to sell that one either. Tell you what. I’ll give you twenty-five cents for those two apples. I’d say that’s a deal.”

  I hold out a quarter. He shakes his head. That’s when Shush moves in my bag.

  “Whatchu got in there?” the guy asks.

  “My little brother.”

  The guy steps back. Shush moves again.

  “It would mean the world to him to have an apple.” I hold out a quarter and say into the green bag. “It’s okay. He’s a nice man. Don’t do anything . . . you know?”

  “Take ’em,” the guys says fast.

  I give the man the money, grab the two apples, and head out to the street. I hear a loud cranking, shrieking sound, like metal against metal, look up, and see a train going past high above the street. I wonder where it’s headed. I’m thinking about what Reba said when we got off Big Bob’s Budget Bus earlier today. “Right here, right now, Miss Sugar, things are going to turn around for us. We’ll be on Sweet Street before you know it.”

  You should have seen her marching off today in her new shirt from the Salvation Army. She’d fixed the big rip in her flowered skirt with clear nail polish. Reba says just about anything can be fixed with clear nail polish, except a man.

  A homeless man sits on the sidewalk with a sign, HUNGRY. People pass by, ignoring him. I nod at the guy and he nods back. I can’t give him money, but I hand him my extra granola bar.

  “I hope things turn around for you, mister.”

  He says, “God bless you.”

  Yeah, I’ll take that. What people don’t usually think about is this guy had a life before this happened to him. He had a before, like me.

  I wrote a poem about my before. I was going to send it to Mr. Bennett, but I never did.

  Before all this happened

  I wasn’t brave like I am now.

  I didn’t know I could take care of my mother

  Or pee by the side of the road and not get my underpants wet.

  I didn’t know that there’s family that will help you

  And family that won’t.

  I didn’t know,

  But I know now.

  Before all this happened

  I had a room that didn’t change.

  I had a grandpa who was alive.

  I had keys on a chain.

  I had cookies cooling on a counter.

  I had a porch and neighbors and a butterfly named Fanny

  Who would fly away and come back to visit.

  I had my place in the world.

  That was before.

  Before is no more.

  14

  I’M WAITING FOR Reba in a place called Millennium Park; she’s late again. This is one big park, let me tell you. I don’t think Chicago does anything small. The problem with this park is I don’t see any dogs. A man in a brown uniform walks by checking things out. I pat my green bag and look down. Dr. Dave said being in this bag was a safe place for Shush. I always have it opened just a little. I wish I could be in a safe, snug place.

  I’m standing by what looks like a giant mirrored kidney bean. I’m not kidding.

  People are moving around it, taking pictures, looking at the mirrors that show the big buildings and the trees and the crowd. You can stand underneath this thing. I walk to the center of it and look up. It’s like a giant kaleidoscope of people just waiting for some huge hand to shake it and change the pattern.

  I see my face with all the other faces.

  HOMELESS GIRL.

  Everyone probably knows that.

  I stretch back my neck to look. Is this the girl I am?

  My hair is shoulder length and brown and needs cutting. My eyes are light blue. I’m wearing my favorite shirt. It reads GOT SUGAR? I’ve got freckles across my nose, like Reba. I sure look tired.

  There are two blonde girls in beautiful clothes, laughing and jumping up, watching themselves in this crazy mirrored bean.

  Glowing girls.

  I look away, because I don’t want to see myself now. I look at the green picnic tables with umbrellas. People are sitting there talking. I sit at one, too, put my green bag on my lap and the duffel on the ground.

  Homeless people get real good at waiting.

  I’m thinking I was smart to go to the bathroom at the library and get cleaned up. I carry soap and a toothbrush wherever I go.

  A man in a brown uniform walks by and looks at me. Maybe I should move to another place. If they know I’ve got a dog in here there’s going to be trouble.

  You’ve got to know the rules of the places you’re at.

  There are places you can sit and places you can’t.

  Places you can stand and places where they tell you to get a move on.

  I taught myself to sleep in real noisy places.

  I taught myself to sit and rest with my eyes open.

  If you’ve got a place to live and money in the bank, you can sit anywhere. If you’re homeless, it’s called loitering.

  x x x

  I’m looking up at a huge wall that’s got water coming down it. A man’s face is on the wall, I don’t know how many feet high. Mr. B. said there’s no telling what a mind can create when it’s having fun. Whoever thought this up was definitely having fun. I walk around it and there’s another wall just like it. Between the walls of water and faces, there’s a pond with kids jumping in the water; people are laughing and taking pictures.

  I’m too busy surviving to play.

  I find a bench away from the crowd, put the green bag on my lap, put my face in the bag, and say, “Hey, it’s me.”

  Shush wiggles a little.

  “This is a non-dog park, so we have to be careful.”

  I reach my hands in the bag and give him my special peace massage, which consists of me rubbing the curly brown fur around his neck and moving slowly down his back to his tummy. I created this massage myself. Shush purrs.

  A bus screeches to a stop on the street and Shush starts shaking. “Good boy. That noise you heard? That was a bus. You’ve heard them before. We got here on a bus, so you’re already on top of that.” He looks up at me with his big eyes and twitches his little black nose. “Time for trust training. Even if you were kicked around when you were little, it doesn’t mean that everyone is like that.” I stroke him under the chin, which he loves. “Okay?”

  Shush
closes his eyes, which means yes.

  “Good. And you’ve got to know that you can count on me one hundred and fifty percent.” I rub him around his neck and he settles down a little. “That’s good. And now I want you to know that even though you were a pre-owned dog, you were always supposed to be with me and Reba. The girl, Jenny, who first had you, she loved you, but not as much as me. I was getting ready for you and I didn’t even know it. How cool is that?”

  Shush wiggles in the bag, I can feel his little stub of a tail wagging. That’s how he says, Pretty cool.

  “And when we get a house,” I whisper, “and I’m talking a good house now, with a yard for you and a room for me, and it will have blue walls and a kitchen where I can make an omelette. It’s going to have a cookie jar, too, and your dog treats will be in a bowl by the back porch—all the normal stuff. But when we get there, we’re going to remember these times when it wasn’t so great, because like King Cole said, when you go through hard times you might as well pay attention and learn something.”

  A man on another bench is writing on his laptop. I bet he takes that thing for granted. Only once did I ask someone if I could borrow their laptop just for a minute to get Mr. Bennett’s e-mail. The woman I asked said, “Get away from me. Who do you think you are?”

  “I’m Sugar Mae Cole,” I told her. “That’s who I am.”

  I take out my folder that’s got some of my writing. I’d like to send this poem to Mr. Bennett.

  Here’s what I wrote about being homeless.

  I’m in front of you, but you don’t see me.

  I’m behind you and you don’t much notice or hear my voice.

  If my dreams were shouts you’d probably call the police saying, some girl is screaming on the street and I can’t sleep.

  Make her stop.

  But I wouldn’t dare shout out my dreams because they’re too young to be out on their own.

  So I write some of them down and the others I carry in my heart.

  I can tell you the places I’ve stayed, but that doesn’t mean I’ve lived there.

  I can tell you the people I’ve talked to, but that doesn’t mean I knew them.

  I can tell you something that all homeless shelters have in common—they’ve got people inside them that are holding on to their dreams as tight as they can, but feeling like they can’t hold on forever.

  I give Shush a biscuit. A man at a pet store gave them to me for free. Of course, I had to ask him if he would make a donation to the Cutest Dog in America Fund.

  Reba’s now two hours and fifteen minutes late. I hope she’s not going for the record.

  People walk by talking on their phones, staying connected.

  I wish I had a phone.

  I wish I was in a cozy kitchen eating warm cookies, surrounded by people who thought I was something.

  I wish I was just starting sixth grade so I could go back to Mr. Bennett’s class.

  But I’m twelve years old, sitting on a bench in Chicago, waiting for my mother, and hoping like crazy she shows up.

  15

  I’M LUGGING TWO bags and walking Shush on Michigan Avenue, which isn’t easy, but I find a place for him to pee. A huge truck rumbles by; Shush freezes in fear. He looks at me like, Is any place safe in this world?

  I don’t know if it’s safe here, but when you’ve got to go you’ve got to go. “It’s okay,” I tell him. He does his business. I pick him up and cuddle him gently. “It’s going to be okay,” I say again.

  I wish somebody would say that to me.

  He won’t drink the water I have for him. He’s looking at the green bag.

  “You want to go back in?” I make the click click sound and he crawls inside. I hoist the bag over my shoulder and walk back to the park.

  “Meet me by the two crazy fountains with the faces,” Reba had said, and she drew me a map. She was here two years ago with Mr. Leeland when they remarried after getting divorced. She kicked him out two months later when his gambling debts went through the roof. She still loves him bad, though.

  “I keep seeing him changed,” she told me. “I know there’s a fine gentleman inside that man.”

  I’m trying to picture Shush as a mighty guard dog helping the helpless, but that’s as big a reach as Mr. Leeland being a fine gentleman. I sit away from the crowd, eat the apple with the bruise mark, and save the bigger apple for Reba. I’m trying not to drink water so I won’t have to pee, but it’s hot and sticky. Not like Missouri, but still. I pour water into a paper cup, take a sip.

  It’s seven at night, not dark yet because it’s June.

  The flowers in this Chicago park are everywhere. I’m hoping Chicago is going to be as good as Reba said it would be.

  “Well, Miss Sugar.”

  I turn around and Reba’s standing there, but not in a good way. Not in the way she walked out of the bus terminal today when she went to get that job. All her makeup was just so, and her hair pulled back and shiny. Now her dark hair is mussed and she’s got the give-up look on her face.

  My heart starts racing. “What happened?”

  She takes her pack off her back like it weighs a thousand pounds, drops her other bag onto the bench, and sits down with a dead thump. “Nothing whatsoever.”

  My mouth feels dry. “What do you mean?”

  Shush pokes his head out of the bag to greet her. She touches his head. “Nothing. No thing. There is no job.” Her voice sounds far away.

  That’s not possible. We came all the way up here for this job.

  “Did you see the lady?” I ask.

  “I just told you.”

  “That’s not telling me anything!”

  Reba lowers her head, her hair falls over her face. “When Mr. Leeland comes . . .”

  No! You’re not going to do that here!

  “Mr. Leeland,” she says like a Southern belle, “will be coming directly for us—”

  “He’s not coming, Reba!”

  Shush is looking at me. People walking by are looking, too.

  “What about Evie? We’re supposed to stay with Evie!”

  She just sits there like she doesn’t hear me.

  “What about Evie, Reba? Where’s her number?”

  I grab her purse and look inside. A case with soap and a toothbrush, an old brush, mirror, tissues, underwear in a plastic bag. I find a printout of an e-mail. It’s ripped and folded, and the date is January 14. It’s from Evie to Reba.

  Hi Reba,

  How are U? I’ve found a good job with Maggie’s Maids in Chicago—nice pay and everything. Maybe you could come and visit and get an interview. Let me know.

  Evie

  312-555-6464

  I stare at the e-mail. Today is June 3. “This is five months old, Reba!”

  “Oh . . .”

  “Did you tell her we were coming?”

  Reba looks down.

  “Did you tell her?” I scream. “And I mean recently? Did you call Evie when you got in?”

  She looks at me, confused. “Her phone . . . it was disconnected.”

  I grab her arm. It has no strength in it. “Are you sure you called this number?”

  She doesn’t respond.

  “What are we going to do, Reba? Where are we going to go?”

  16

  I’VE GOT TWENTY-NINE dollars in my pocket, a mother who’s given up, and a dog who needs to pee.

  I take Shush over to a street lamp on Michigan Avenue. It’s dark now. I look down the wide street to a big bridge and tall white buildings with glowing lights.

  A man across the street is playing a saxophone. His case is open for people to give him money. I feel like screaming.

  Will someone please tell me what to do?

  Reba
is sitting on the bench rocking back and forth. A guy walks by, looking at her. He stops.

  I don’t like this. I scoop Shush up and run over.

  He sits next to Reba on the bench. “Well, I’ve been watching you, honey . . .”

  “Show’s over!” I scream.

  He turns his creepy smile on me. “You’re pretty cute yourself.”

  “Get away from us! Get away!”

  Shush is whining. The guy spits on the ground and puts his arm around my mother.

  “Get away from her!”

  “Mr. Leeland will be here presently . . .”

  “Now, who’s that, honey?”

  I scream, “Help! Somebody, help!”

  I keep screaming it until a man and a lady run over. The creep grumbles something and leaves.

  Shush is shaking bad. Me, too.

  “Are you all right?” the lady asks.

  No. I take Reba’s hand. “My mom, she’s sick, I think. I don’t know what’s wrong.”

  The man tries to get Reba to talk, but she’s hugging her duffel bag, shaking her head. . . .

  “She’s scared,” I tell him.

  He looks at Reba. “Ma’am, can you talk to me?”

  I hold Shush tight. “She was supposed to get a job today. We were supposed to stay with Evie.”

  The lady takes out her phone. I hand her the e-mail with Evie’s number. “Could you call this number, ma’am? This is who we’re supposed to stay with.”

  The woman dials the number . . . waits . . . “It’s disconnected. Let me try again to make sure.” She punches numbers, listens, and shakes her head. “I’m sorry.” She punches in more numbers, puts the phone to her ear.

  Would somebody please tell me what to do!

  17

  A NURSE WALKS by in squeaky shoes; a phone rings. The policeman who brought us here talks with a man at the desk. We’re in a hospital, the kind for emotions.

  I’ve got the worst headache. I can’t think. I press my hands against my forehead. “I need to see my mother, okay?”