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Fora moment,Ican’t remember whyIstopped.OnesecondI’mlistening to the radio talk about water rights disputes and reminiscing aboutBeck, the nextI’msideways in the road in a cloud of dust like a scene from a fucking action movie.
JustwhenIstart to wonder ifIgot a concussion, it comes back to me.Fumblingmy seat belt off,Ihalf fall out the door into the road.Dirtstings my eyes and coats my tongue asIpeer over the hood.
“Mewww.”Thetiny black and white kitten is old enough to have its blue eyes open, but not big enough to run away.
“Ohmy god.I’mso sorryIalmost wiped you out.”Scootingcloser,Ioffer my hand for it to sniff.Animalsare loud and dirty and expensive, butIhave to admit this one is pretty cute. “Howdid you get out here, little guy?”
Itblinks at me uneasily.Tomy surprise, it looks clean and well-fed.
“Hello?”Icall out, straightening up.BeforeIcan scan the fields for its owner, something heavy slams into my back and throws me face down into the gravel.Rememberingthe self-defenseBecktried to teach me,Ilash out and struggle to roll over.Myfingers skim a head of thick, short hair, but a knee jabs viciously into the middle of my back andIcurl up in the dirt, wheezing.Coldterror trickles out along my veins, like it’s being injected through anIV.I’vealways known that if the wrong punk messes with me and figures out what isn’t in my pants,Icould be tortured and put down like an animal.Ican see our fucking house from here, just a few miles away.Toofar to hear me ifIscream.
“Forgetthe damn cat.Lookin the car,” a voice snaps right behind me. “Hurryup.”
“Whatthe fuck do you want?”Ithrash with my whole strength, gravel ripping at my skin asIclaw blindly for anythingIcan get my hands on.IfI’mgonna be found dead,I’llhave the skin of my attackers under my fingernails and their blood in my mouth.
“Shutup.Calvin, hurry!”Handsgrab my wrists and twist them behind my back until it feels like my bones are about to snap.AllIcan do is lie there, shivering, as the doors of theCiviccreak open one at a time.WhenItwist my head painfully to the side,Ican make out a pair of dirty white sneakers.
“It’sjust food,” whines a kid’s voice that hasn’t even started to break yet.Hesounds almost as panicked asIfeel. “Canwe please go?”
Theman on top of me kneels on my wrists, then starts shoving his hands in my pockets.Itwist my hips, trying to stop him from groping the silicone dick tucked in my briefs.Buthe just throws my keys aside, then fumbles through my wallet.Allhe’s going to find is aKingSoopersmembership card, two dollars in cash, and a sticky note fromBeckthat saysIfyou drink my orange juice againI’llkill you bitch, with a detailed illustration of himself wielding a bloody knife.
“Fuck,” the stranger snarls, his voice sharp with desperation. “Getout of here,Cal.Run.Takethe food.”
Witha skittering of gravel, the white sneakers disappear.Theweight on my back gets heavier, andItwitch when lips brush my ear. “Ifyou move in the next thirty seconds,I’llcome back and hurt you, got it?”Themore this man talks, the moreIget the feeling he’s bluffing.Butthere’s no wayI’mfucking around and finding out.
“Fine.”Isplay my scraped palms in surrender. “Iwon’t,Ipromise.”
Whenhe stands up,Isuck in a shaky lungful of air and curl my fists in the dirt.I’malive.Ican see tiny brown rocks next to my nose, and smell fresh air full of the waxy scent of growing things.Icount to one hundred, just to be safe, then push up onto my hands and knees.Myface hurts where my forehead bounced off the ground, and my fingers come away with a streak of blood.
Iwant to cry whenIsee the ragged hole in the knee of my jeans and the soil staining my pale green sweater.Everypiece in my tiny wardrobe represents months of saving and weeks of combing consignment store sales, not to mention hours of washing and ironing.Limpingto my feet,Ibrush sharp rocks away from my sore palms and spit out a mouthful of dirt.Ican’t see a soul in any direction.Thecar idles nearby with all the doors open, empty except for one can of corn that rolled behind the front tire.TheplasticUSBadapter on the ground means they tookScout’sone nice charging cable, too.
“Damnit,”Ibreathe, blinking painfully in the midday sun asItry to process what just happened.
“Meeeewwww.”Apathetic chirp jerks my head around.Thatdamn kitten, the decoy for my ambush, cries out and tries to stand up.Icheck the fields again, but no one’s coming back.Maybethey don’t give a shit, but something about the kitten’s glossy coat makes me think they panicked and forgot.
“Thisis fucking awkward,”Itell it asIfish the can of corn out from under the car and wipe it clean.Itwon’t feed four men for even one meal.Scoutdoesn’t steal much anymore, now that we’re settled, but this week he’s going to have to if we want to eat. “You’renot mine, but ifIleave you here, a hawk or coyote is gonna make you a snack.”
Thekitten’s white-tipped ears swivel, and it meows at me again.
Tossingthe corn into the back seat,Idig around and pull out an old gray towel covered inTubbs’ hair. “Thisseems rude,”Imuse asIfold the towel into a nest shape, “but maybe you’re too young to be afraid of dog smell yet.”
Fixingmy ponytail,Ikneel down next to the cat. “Howdoes one pick you up without getting scratched?”Itry to slide my hands in one way, then another, second guessing.Dothey need their heads supported like a baby, or doIsnag them behind the front legs like a lobster?
Idesperately want to go home and soak in a hot bath, so in the endIscoop it up as fast asIcan and dump it in the towel before it can react.Wrappingit in a lopsided cocoon,Iclimb behind the wheel of theCivicand tuck it between my thighs where it can’t fall out. “Stayput, please.”Ihope someone at home knows what to feed this thing.
Mywhole body starts to ache asIcreep down the country road and up our long driveway.Thekitten fires off an irritated-sounding mew every once in a while, but it doesn’t struggle.Todaywas my turn with the one car we all share, so everyone else is hanging out at home.Ihave to hope the cat will distract them from my disheveled state long enough for me to tell the full story.
Nudgingthe screen door open with my ass,Itiptoe into the kitchen and set the towel-wrapped kitten on the plastic folding table.Itmust be in shock, because it sits there with its eyes half closed, breathing shallowly.NowIjust need to figure out how to explain–
“Iwanted bagels.Scoutsaid you wouldn’t let me have them, butItexted you.Didyou get…”Beckstops halfway across the kitchen, his voice trailing off whenIturn around.Hiseyes flick over my torn clothes and filthy skin, the dried blood on my head.Somuch for breaking the news carefully. “Thefuck?” he breathes, his voice hoarse.
“It’snothing,”Isay hastily. “I’mfine.Therewas just a little situation on the road.Theytook the groceries, butIthinkIcan make it work.”
Everyword in theEnglishlanguage leaves my head whenBeckstalks across the room and grabs my shoulders.Thespring green of his eyes has gone dark and dangerous as he tilts his head to examine the scrapes on my face. “I–”Iflinch when he grabs my wrist hard and turns my hand over, exposing the torn skin. “Ipromise it’s not as bad as it seems.”
“Lookat me,Dallas.”WhenImeet his gaze, his stubbled jaw tightens. “Whotouched you?” he asks in a terrifyingly quiet voice.Beckis not a quiet guy, and he’s freaking me out.Forthe first time,Ican picture him intimidating gang members.
“Igot mugged for our groceries.I’mokay.”Iemphasize the last word, but my voice trembles.Thebigger man tenses when he hears it.Grippinga fistful of my sweater sleeve,Beckcrowds me back untilI’mpressed against the refrigerator.Hiswide palm splays against the beige plastic next to my head, and he leans in until our foreheads are touching.WhenIthoughtIwas going to die, allIwanted was to smell his coconut-scented deodorant again.Well, hereIam.
