Sketches (14 page)

“Not to mention lots of cigarettes,” Brent added. “And enough to buy something else . . . something to help us forget about being out on the streets, if you know what I mean.”

“I know what you mean, but I have a different idea,” I said.

“What did you have in mind?” Ashley asked.

“We need to eat and have cigarettes,” Brent pointed out.

“I know, but do we need to get a motel room tonight?” I asked.

“You don't want a room?” Brent asked in amazement. “You're always the one who wants a room.”

“He's right,” Ashley agreed. “If we have enough money, why wouldn't we get a room?”

“But what if we don't get a motel room tonight,” I said, “and instead we save the money?”

“Save it for what?” Ashley asked.

“For an apartment.” I'd heard some of the kids at Sketches talking about going together and renting their own place. I couldn't believe I'd never thought of it before! But then, I'd never figured I had a steady source of income before, either.

“An apartment?” Ashley and Brent asked at the same time.

I nodded my head. “Nothing fancy . . . one bedroom, or even just one room. We'd have a
bathroom and a shower and a kitchen . . . we could buy groceries and cook and—”

“Who's going to rent an apartment to us?” Ashley asked.

“Isn't Brent old enough to rent an apartment?” “Technically, but get real, who would rent a place to me?” Brent asked.

“I don't think that would be a problem if we had the rent money.”

“Yeah, so where are we going to get enough money for first and last?” Ashley asked.

“First and last?”

“They only rent if you can give them the first and last months' rent in advance,” Brent explained “That would take at least a thousand dollars.”

“Probably more,” Ashley added.

“I didn't know it was that much,” I admitted. I tried to think things through, to readjust for the higher amount. “Do you think we might make a hundred and twenty bucks today?”

“Easy. I was thinking more like one forty.”

“Okay, so if we spend forty dollars on food—”

“And cigarettes,” Brent added.

“And cigarettes, then we'd have a hundred dollars.”

“Which would leave us nine hundred dollars short,” Brent said.

“But if we did that ten days in a row, then we'd have a thousand dollars, right? So we could have a place to
stay . . . a
real
place where we wouldn't have to worry about being beaten up, or kicked out, or arrested, or have rats crawling all over us. We could do it.”

Neither of them said anything for a while. I wasn't sure if it was because they were thinking over my idea or because they thought it was so ridiculous that it wasn't worth commenting on.

“You know,” Ashley said slowly, “it would be something to have our own place.”

“It would be,” I agreed.

“That would be like a dream,” she said wistfully.

“An impossible dream,” Brent said under his breath.

“Why is it impossible?” I asked. “Why?”

He scoffed. “How long have you been on the streets?”

“You know how long.”

“Do you know how long I've been out here on my own?” he asked.

“A long time,” I said.

“Over two years, and do you know how many kids I've met who talk about getting a place?”

“I don't know,” I said, with a shrug.

“Lots. Lots and lots. And do you know how many actually do something like that?” he asked. “Do you know how many actually get off the streets?”

“I don't—”

“It just doesn't happen,” he said, cutting me off.

“Come on, Brent, that's not fair,” Ashley said, jumping into the conversation. “Some people get off the streets.”

“Sure, some people go back to wherever they came from, or end up in a group home or a foster home, but that's not what she's talking about. Do you know anybody who actually got their own apartment?”

Reluctantly she shook her head.

“We could be the first, then,” I argued.

“What's the point in trying for something you can't get?” Brent asked. “You just get your hopes up to have them crushed.”

We all stood there silently, nobody knowing what to say next.

“You kids have done a wonderful job.”

I turned around. There was a man—a businessman in a suit—standing there.

“It's a real work of art,” he said.

“Thanks,” I mumbled.

“I really mean it. It's a shame that something this nice will only be here until the next rain.”

“Sometimes the famous masters had to paint over their old paintings because they couldn't afford to buy new canvases,” I said.

“I didn't know that,” the man said.

“And despite the fact that the original of this painting is worth millions of dollars, Van Gogh didn't
get a cent for it. Nobody wanted to buy it. He sold only one painting in his whole life.”

“You're joking, right?” Ashley asked.

“He died penniless, alone, never knowing the value of his work,” I told them.

“What a tragedy,” the man said, shaking his head sadly.

I shrugged. It was a tragedy, but life was filled with them.

The man stood there staring at the painting. He seemed to be lost in thought. He then reached into the inner pocket of his suit jacket and took out his wallet. He pulled out a fifty-dollar bill and dropped it into the hat!

“I hope that helps,” he said, “and I hope it lets you three know that
your
work is appreciated.”

“It will . . . it does . . . thanks!” I sputtered.

“Yeah, thanks a lot,” Ashley said.

“You three have brightened my day. Keep up the good work!” The man started to walk away.

“Thanks!” I called out after him again. “Thanks so much!”

He kept walking but turned slightly around and gave a small smile.

Brent reached down and picked up the bill from the hat. “It isn't good to leave it there,” he said as he folded it up and it disappeared into his hand.

“Do you believe what that guy did?” Ashley asked.

“If I wasn't holding it I wouldn't believe it,” Brent said. “That makes at least one hundred and twenty bucks today already.”

“We could make two hundred bucks today,” Ashley said.

“That means we'd have enough for an apartment in five days instead of ten,” I said.

“It's not possible!” Brent snapped. He opened up his hand to reveal the fifty-dollar bill. He looked at it, and then at Ashley, and finally at me. “But if the two of you want to try . . . then . . . what the hell . . . let's give it a shot.” He paused. “You know, the biggest problem is how we're going to hang on to the money. What are we going to do with it to keep it safe?”

“That is a problem,” Ashley said. “Some people out here would kill you for a few hundred dollars.”

“Maybe we could open a bank account,” I suggested, and they both burst into laughter.

“We're okay during the day, especially if we stay out of back alleys,” Brent said. “The problem is at night. We can't be sleeping in a squat with eight hundred bucks in my sock.”

“But we can't afford to sleep anywhere else if we want to save up for the apartment,” I said.

“Let me think about it,” Brent said. “I'll figure something out.”

Funny, I knew he would.

CHAPTER TWELVE

“
HEY
,
MCKINNON
!”

I stopped and spun around at the mention of my name. Ashley stopped and turned around too. We saw Brent jogging toward us, waving an arm in the air. We waved back.

“McKinnon!” he yelled out again.

“McKinnon?” Ashley asked.

“That's my last name,” I explained.

“I didn't know that.”

“I didn't think Brent knew it either.”

He slowed his pace down to a jog and then to a walk. He was carrying something in his hand. It looked like a bunch of papers. Not newspapers, though.

“Hello, Ashley. Hello, Dana McKinnon.”

“Hello, Brent Whatever-your-last-name-is,” I said. “I don't even know your last name.”

“Actually, neither do I,” Ashley said.

“And I don't know yours,” he said to Ashley.

“That's because I never told you,” Ashley replied.

“And I never told you mine.” He looked directly at me. “And neither did Dana.” He handed me a piece of paper and then handed another one to Ashley. I almost dropped it. I felt my legs get weak and my stomach did a flip. There on the paper in gigantic letters was my name. Under that was my picture, and below that it said “Help Us Find Our Daughter.”

“I wasn't even 100 percent sure it was you, at first,” Brent said. “Not until I yelled out your name and you turned around.”

“It's me,” I mumbled. “I have to sit down.” And I slumped to the curb.

“It looks sort of like you, but not really. When was this picture taken?” he asked.

“Last fall. It's my school picture. I've changed a lot since then.”

“Especially your hair,” Brent said.

“Where did you get this?” I asked, finally regaining my composure enough to think of a question.

“I got the first one from a street light. It was taped up. And another one was on the side of a newspaper box. And then there are all these,” he said, holding up a stack of ten or fifteen more flyers.

“You pulled all of these down?” I asked.

“No, I got them from some lady,” he explained. “She said she was your mother.”

“My mother! You were talking to my mother?” I gasped.

“Yeah, about thirty minutes ago.”

I looked around, anxious, terrified that she was right there, that she'd see me.

“I've got to get away. I can't let her find me.” I jumped to my feet.

“It's okay,” Brent said. He reached out and grabbed me by the shoulders. “She isn't here. She was more uptown and headed away from here. Okay?”

I nodded my head dumbly and he took his hands away.

“What did she want . . . what was she doing?”

“Isn't it obvious? She wants to find you, and she was putting up these notices so if somebody knew where you were they'd call her.”

I looked at the paper again. Down below all the big stuff there was a phone number—my home phone number—where people could call if they knew anything about where I was or how to find me. Anybody who saw these flyers, anybody who'd seen me on the street, could just call, and my mother would know . . . and my stepfather would know.

“I have to get away from here,” I said.

“Don't worry, she's headed in the other direction.”

“But the flyers aren't! People will see them and then call her and—”

“People barely give these poster things a second look,” Brent said.

“You did.”

“It doesn't even look like you,” Ashley said, pointing to the picture on the flyer.

“Brent recognized me.”

“But I know you.”

“Lots of people know me . . . at least know what I look like, and some of them know my first name.”

“None of that matters if they don't see the flyers.”

“But they
will
see the flyers! You said she was posting them all over the place.”

“Well, nobody is going to see
these
flyers,” Brent said, holding up the sheaf in his hand.

“Why did she give you all of those?”

“I told her I'd hand them out.”

“You can't do that!”

“Dana, relax,” Brent told me.

“He's not going to turn you in,” Ashley said, and when I calmed down for a second I realized she was right.

“I just figured that if they were in my hands they could go straight into the garbage can where nobody would see them.” He stood up and walked a few feet to the large metal bin and deposited the flyers inside.

“Thank you . . . thank you so much.”

“It's the least I could do.”

“And we'll go back right now and take down all the ones she posted,” Ashley said.

“That's right,” Brent agreed. “We're here to take care of each other, like family.”

“
Better
than family,” I said.

“Speaking of family, I have to say, your mother seemed really nice,” Brent said.

“Lots of people can
seem
nice, but that doesn't mean anything,” Ashley said. “Right, Dana?”

“I guess so.”

The funny thing was that my mother really was nice. All my friends liked her, and she never had a bad word to say about anybody—well, anybody except my father. She was the sort of person who brought home injured birds, lent money to total strangers, and did volunteer work for the Red Cross. I remembered a time when she almost always seemed happy. That was a long time ago. Before the fighting, before the separation, before the divorce, and before I started to cause problems. When I pictured her now—and sometimes she was even in my dreams—I saw her with that hurt look in her eyes . . . hurt that was put there by something my father had done—or worse—something I'd done.

I wished there were some way for me to tell her that I was okay, to tell her that none of this was her fault.

“Let's go and get those posters down before anybody else has a chance to see them,” Ashley suggested.

“Sure, we can go and—”

“Not you,” Brent said. “The last thing we want is for anybody to see you and those flyers together. Somebody might make the connection.”

“Yeah, we'll take care of it,” Ashley said.

“No, leave it to me. I don't think Dana should be alone, so Ashley, you stay with her.”

“She doesn't need to babysit me,” I protested.

“Yes she does,” Brent argued.