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“Why are you asking about all this?”
Gutsy took a breath. “I . . . I guess I’m just scared is all. What with Mama dying and being alone. Being a girl alone . . . you know?”
That did it. Karen’s expression softened and she gathered Gutsy in for a hug of the kind that could only be called “motherly.” Very tight, very long, with lots of pats and soothing words. Woman to girl.
“It’s all right, sweetie. We’ve doubled the guards and I have mounted and foot patrols round the clock. I’ll make sure they check on your house tonight, don’t you worry.”
“Gosh . . . thanks,” said Gutsy, disentangling herself and forcing a smile onto her face. She almost panicked when she realized that her attempt to defuse Karen’s suspicions might lead to a hastening of an official response to Gutsy being a minor living alone. She thanked Karen and got out of there as quickly as she could.
Doubts and fears seemed to nip at her heels as she walked through Cargo Town. Not just because of the risk of being sent to foster care. That was an issue, but not the biggest one at the moment. No, there was something strange about the guard thing. Very strange.
How had the Rat Catchers gotten past Trey and Buffy? How was that possible?
They stopped at a horse trough so Sombra could take a drink, and Gutsy leaned down to give his head a thoughtful scratch. People were moving around as they always had, attending to their own business, a few of them nodding or smiling at her. Where once that might have been completely normal, now every nod seemed to suggest a meaning, and every smile looked suspicious.
“I think I’m getting paranoid,” she told the dog, who raised a dripping muzzle and glanced up at her. Then an old line from a book she’d read occurred to her. Just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean they aren’t out to get you.
She shivered despite the afternoon heat.
“Come on,” she said, and they headed off in the direction of the school. Gutsy did not take a direct route, but wandered up and down streets, in and out of stores, glancing around to make sure she wasn’t being followed. Where, she wondered, was the dividing line between paranoia and practical caution?
It was a very important and extremely dangerous little question.
47
GUTSY AND SOMBRA DRIFTED IN the direction of the Home for Foundlings. She wondered what kind of trouble Spider and Alethea were in. So she headed that way. As she approached, she saw Vera Cuddly sitting on a beach chair outside, watching with a stern and unfriendly eye as Spider and Alethea sat on stools and peeled potatoes. A mountain of unpeeled spuds stood between her friends, and a large tub of peeled ones was at their feet.
Before Gutsy could say a word, Mrs. Cuddly growled, “You keep on walking, missy. There’s no one here needs to talk to the likes of you.”
Alethea gave Gutsy a guarded smile. Spider mouthed the words, Kill me now.
Sombra growled at the stern-faced woman, which made her flinch, but Mrs. Cuddly reached behind her beach chair for a shotgun and laid it across her meaty thighs. The coydog gave her an evil look and the woman gave it right back.
“Go on now,” she said—either to Gutsy or Sombra. “Git.”
Gutsy hurried on, feeling the weight of Mrs. Cuddly’s disapproval all the way down the block. At the corner, she looked back and saw that the mean old woman was still glaring at her. Gutsy rounded the corner and walked straight into someone. She staggered back and nearly fell, and the other person did fall. Hard. Into a big, steaming pile of horse droppings someone had swept against the curb.
It was Alice Chung.
The look of absolute horror and disgust on Alice’s pretty face tore holes in Gutsy.
“Oh God, I’m so sorry,” she cried, and grabbed Alice to pick her up. Gutsy tried for a good grip, got a bad one, and tore Alice’s lovely blue hand-embroidered blouse open. A long piece of it hung from Gutsy’s hand like a dead snake. There was a T-shirt underneath, but that was hardly the point. Alice was one of the best seamstresses in school and took great pride in the delicacy and complexity of her work. That blouse was the envy of everyone in school. It was gorgeous, a work of art.
Now it was ruined.
Alice sat there, legs sprawled, skirt tangled around her knees, smack in the center of forty pounds of sunbaked manure, with her blouse ripped.
Gutsy stood there, the piece of blouse still in her hands. People on both sides of the street had stopped to stare. Two boys from school burst out laughing. So did a gaggle of girls from the next grade up. Everyone who saw it cracked up, and there suddenly seemed to be a lot of people around. Gutsy wanted to die right there, right then.
“I’m sorry, Alice. God, I’m so sorry.”
The look in Alice’s eyes told her everything. Hurt, anger, humiliation, loathing, disgust. She got up very slowly, clumps of stuff falling from her skirt. When Gutsy offered a hand to try to help, Alice stared at it like it was something more foul than the mess she’d fallen into.
“Don’t touch me,” she said in a tone that was ten degrees below freezing. “Don’t you dare touch me.”
Gutsy pulled her hand back as quickly as if she’d been burned. Her face burned too. People were laughing at Alice. But everyone knew that it was Gutsy’s fault.
With great dignity and open contempt, Alice turned around and walked back the way she had come. Going home. She did not try to wipe the mess off her skirt. That would have been worse. It would have been pathetic. Instead she stiffened her back and walked away, dragging all light and cheer from the day.
