The Echo Park Castaways, page 3
So instead, I went over to the desk and pulled out my math homework.
NEVAEH
It was past eight o’clock by the time I got Mara bathed and ready for bed. Then I had to remind Vic (repeatedly) to do the same. The new kid was already asleep, as far as I could tell: he was lying down fully clothed, still wearing his shoes. But he’s in bed, and that’s all that matters, I told myself. I really didn’t have time to deal with whatever his issues were. I still had to do my own homework.
I ignored Mara’s light snores as I worked at the desk in the corner of our room. I liked this time of night. The drone of Mrs. K’s bedroom TV was a little annoying, but other than that, it was nice and quiet. I started with algebra, then finished the worksheets for social science. We were learning about Rome, which based on my ragged textbook seemed pretty much the same as our world now: If you were rich, life was easy. If you weren’t, not so much. I was willing to bet that back then, kids like me weren’t being fed grapes off platters, that was for sure. And if something happened to your parents, you were basically on your own—good luck to you.
Pretty much like the foster care system, at least as I’d experienced it. Most foster parents fell into one of three categories: religious nuts, people doing it for the money, and elderly folks like Mrs. K who either never had kids of their own, or who wanted to replace theirs when they moved out. Of those groups, I much preferred the old people.
Of course, I’m kind of a unique case. A lot of kids don’t stay in the system long to begin with: their parents work out their problems, or another family member decides to take them in. But my mom died when I was two years old, and as far as anyone knew, she was my whole family. So unlike Vic, I’ve never thought that someone might come for me. When I was really little, I used to dream about getting adopted, like Orphan Annie or something, but that was unlikely after you turned six. So instead, I came up with a plan. If no one was going to rescue me, then I’d rescue my own self.
What a lot of people don’t realize is that the foster care system can kick you out when you turn eighteen. And I mean the day you turn eighteen, whether you’ve finished school or not. Luckily, I have a late birthday, in August, so I’ll only have to find a place to stay for a month or so before college starts. UCLA has a special scholarship program for local foster kids, so it shouldn’t be too hard for me to get in. If I stacked my courses and went to summer school, I could graduate from UCLA in three years. I’d need to stay at the top of my class to earn a full scholarship to a great medical school. Four years of medical school (it was almost impossible to finish early—I’d checked), then three years of a medical residency. And then I’d (finally) be a full-fledged doctor. Helping people for a living would be nice, but honestly I cared most about never having to worry about the cost of anything, ever again.
I decided to finish my English homework in bed. I worked hardest on math and science, because if you wanted to become a doctor those were the most important subjects. But this year, English had been pretty cool, too. We were reading this book Holes, about a kid who got sent to what was basically a prison work camp. I could totally relate; my last placement was with a family who’d taken in seven foster kids. The foster mom and dad didn’t even bother learning my name: they marched me straight into their garage, which was filled with sewing machines on rickety desks. They told me that whenever I wasn’t in school, I would be helping with their “hobby”: making dog beds that they sold online. And if I didn’t finish at least five dog beds a day, I wouldn’t get dinner. I spent three months there. I’d sleep, go to school, come home, make the dog beds, eat dinner, and fall into bed exhausted every night.
Then one of the other kids nearly cut off his finger while helping with their other “hobby,” carving floating ducks for hunters. They didn’t even take him to the hospital, just slapped a few Band-Aids on it and sent him to school. When the kid fainted from losing so much blood, Child Protective Services finally swooped in. The foster parents were arrested, and all seven of us were taken back to the “Welcome Center,” this awful place where they keep foster kids between placements. I hated it there. We were assigned to plastic-covered bunk beds that smelled like pee, the food was disgusting, and there were a lot of fights between the older kids after lights-out. I basically never slept at all whenever I got stuck there.
The kid in Holes had it even worse, though; he was forced to dig these giant holes in the middle of the desert with a bunch of other kids, and the people in charge were the worst bullies imaginable. I was almost at the end of the book, and I was really hoping the kids would end up getting their revenge. Of course, that would never happen in real life: If this were a true story, the kid would do his time, and then leave and never think about the other kids again. And they wouldn’t think about him, either, and no one would ever report the grown-ups who made them dig holes, and it would just go on and on and on. . . .
That’s why I liked reading fiction. It was nice to get a happy ending for a change, even when it was totally unbelievable.
It was hard to concentrate, though, because I could hear Vic’s relentless chatter through the thin walls. I mean, seriously, that kid never shut up. I rapped once on the wall, hard enough for him to hear, but not loud enough to alert Mrs. K. Silence fell.
I imagined the poor new kid, spending his first night in a strange house, trapped with a boy who wouldn’t stop blathering on about ridiculous spy stuff.
“Sweet dreams, Quentin,” I whispered, then caught myself. He isn’t my problem. I picked my book back up and found my page.
QUENTIN
The boy in the dangerous top bunk won’t stop talking. I have never heard anyone talk so much. At our house, Mommy and me only talk when there is something to say.
But this boy is like the night we forgot to turn off the TV and when we woke up in the morning the people were still talking about breakthrough fourteen-minute max interval workouts that challenge your whole body, including your core!
I pull a pillow over my head, but even through that I can hear him. He is talking about spies and missions, and I have no idea what any of it means. All I know is that someone has made a serious mistake, like the time Mommy brought a blanket home from the store and it turned out to have a hole in it and right away she got on the phone to explain to them about their serious mistake. Like that.
Finally, he stops talking and I can hear him breathe. It reminds me of when Mr. Pebbles used to lie at the foot of my bed and sleep: His chest went up and down and I could hear the air going in and out. Loud, but not bad. Sometimes his leg would start twitching, too, but the loud boy stays very still.
Loud Boy said he was going outside, and I hope he does. It will be much quieter then.
But I lie there and wait, and he does not leave.
Three
VIC
Okay, so I might’ve drifted off for a bit. I mean, at first I was pretending to sleep, waiting until the new kid zonked out so I could exfiltrate without him noticing.
But somehow, I ended up falling asleep myself. I know, it’s hard to believe that someone like me could make such a rookie mistake. In my defense, Commander Baxter says we all slip up from time to time.
Anyway, something woke me. I jolted up, whacking my head on the ceiling (stupid top bunk! Maybe I should’ve switched to the lower one after all). I sat there for a second, breathing hard, ears cocked for the slightest sound, braced to react. . . .
I realized after a few seconds what was throwing me off: the new kid wasn’t rocking anymore. I mean, seriously, for a while there it had been like an actual earthquake, the whole bed was shaking like some sort of carnival ride. Hard to believe I’d managed to fall asleep through all that, but now, it had stopped.
I peered over the edge of the bunk: empty. Maybe he was just using the bathroom?
I waited a minute, then decided to investigate. Mrs. K’s house wasn’t exactly spacious. Our room was at the top of the stairs. The bathroom was down the hall to the right, next to the girls’ room (which was two square feet larger than ours, which I know because I measured it once. Not that I’m complaining, since ours is on the fire escape, which makes it easier to slip out). Mrs. K’s (much larger) “master suite” was in the middle.
The bathroom door was open, the light was out. I tiptoed over and peeked in, just to make sure: empty. So I eased my way downstairs, careful to avoid the boards that creaked, and checked all three rooms. It was completely dark.
Robot Boy was gone.
I grabbed an apple out of the bowl on the kitchen counter and sat at the table munching it thoughtfully. It wasn’t unusual for a kid to run away, especially on the first night. This one, though—I didn’t have high hopes for his survival, you know? I mean, a guy like me could make it out there indefinitely; between my street smarts and my training, it would be NBD (no big deal).
But this newbie was a different story. Echo Park wasn’t the worst neighborhood, but it wasn’t exactly the best, either. Especially after midnight. I chewed slowly, mulling over the problem. I could just go back to bed; after all, it wasn’t like he was my responsibility. Tomorrow morning, Mrs. K would report him as a runaway, then DCFS would track him down (if he survived) and drag him back to the Welcome Center. Because here’s one important fact about Mrs. K: she doesn’t tolerate runaways. If you left her house, even for just a night, you weren’t allowed back in.
That was the thing that tugged at me: it had been just the three of us for almost a year now (Mara came last September, Nevaeh in October). I’d been wondering when the other bed would be filled; Mrs. K liked to stay at capacity, since the government paid roughly a grand a month for each of us. I was actually kind of surprised that it had stayed open this long, but after what happened with Mario, I guess Mrs. K wasn’t totally keen on taking in another boy. And the rules said she couldn’t stick a girl in a room with me, even though I’d be a total gentleman, obviously.
So if Q washed out, someone else would probably show up soon. And that, more than anything, was the best argument for going after him. It was pretty obvious that Quentin the crying ass-burger robot wouldn’t be a problem, but what if his replacement was older, or nosier, or worse?
I sighed and shook my head, then got up to throw the apple core in the trash. “All right, kid,” I muttered. “The cavalry is coming.”
NEVAEH
“Nevaeh! Hey, Nevaeh!”
Someone was shaking me. Irritably, I turned over and mumbled, “Go ’way.”
“You gotta get up!”
I opened my eyes. Vic was bent low over me, his greasy hair hanging in my face. I swatted it away and hissed, “What are you doing? Go back to bed!”
“Can’t,” he said, straightening. “We’ve got a mission.”
I glanced at the clock and had to repress the urge to scream. “It’s one thirty!”
“Exactly,” he said, leaning back far enough to make the ladder groan. “He won’t last much longer out there.”
“Who?” I stifled a yawn. My mind was already spinning into gear, loading my daily to-do list. I had a Spanish test today, and needed to finish my math homework during free period—
“The new kid!” Vic said impatiently in his overly loud voice.
“Shh!” I checked the lower bunk to make sure Mara was still asleep. “What, he took off?”
Vic nodded. “About ten minutes ago.”
“Why didn’t you stop him?”
He cocked his head to the side and gave me a funny look. “We’re kind of wasting time here. Are you going to help me find him or what?”
“Or what,” I said automatically, flipping over to face the wall and pulling the blanket over my head.
“Suit yourself,” Vic said, adding a dramatic sigh for good measure. A couple of seconds later, I heard our bedroom door click shut, then the sound of him going downstairs.
Of course, now I was wide awake; going back to sleep would be hard, maybe impossible. There was a quaver through the floorboards as the front door closed.
Not my problem, I told myself. Uselessly, because I was already picturing someone luring that idiot Vic into a van; all they’d have to do was promise some sort of ninja adventure. And Quentin had “victim” written all over him.
If something happened to them, DCFS would come down hard on Mrs. K. And then she might quit the foster program, which would mean that all my hard work would’ve been wasted.
That’s why you’re doing this, I told myself, pulling on a pair of shorts. It’s not for them, it’s for you.
QUENTIN
It is very dark out. Back home there are streetlights, so even in the middle of the night it is a safe place to walk, but here many of the streetlights are broken and that is a sign that things are going to heck in a handbasket.
When I reach the corner, I stop and check the sky. Today is April eighth. Jupiter is the most visible star right now (not a star, though—a planet!), and it will be moving west/northwest. I find it right in the middle of Cancer the crab (Snap, snap! Mommy always says, pinching me, but not too hard).
We live in Torrance, which is south/southwest of Echo Park (so far I have not heard any echoes, or seen a park, so this is a terrible name). If I walk away from Jupiter, past the brown house again, I will be going in the right direction. Toward home. Toward Mommy.
I walk back toward the brown house, checking over my shoulder to make sure Jupiter stays behind me. Last time, when I left the other place, the stars were all gone before I could find Torrance. I sat on the sidewalk to wait for dark, but people kept stopping and talking at me and then the police came and then Pink Lips Lady drove up in her smelly car and took me back. I do not know why she keeps taking me places other than home, but it means that I must rely on my own resources.
So tonight I left as soon as Loud Boy fell asleep. This time I will not let Pink Lips Lady find me. I will get home and Mommy will open the door and I will fall asleep in my own bed with no bunk on top.
As I pass the house again, I walk faster. My backpack is heavy, so I hold the straps tight and continue to the end of the block and am about to cross the street (looking both ways—safety first!) when someone yells, “Hey!”
I do not look back. I cross the street quickly, then glance back to check Jupiter. Loud Boy is running toward me. He is wearing pajamas and sneakers and he is frowning. I cross the street as fast as I can walk, but he catches me and grabs my arm.
“Hey, Q!” he shouts in my face. I try to get my arm back, but he holds it tightly. “Good thing you didn’t get very far. C’mon, we gotta get back.”
I shake my head—no, no—but he does not listen, he just holds my arm, and then Tall Girl is there and she is yelling too, and suddenly it’s too loud and I need to block it out, need to make it stop. I know it is bad, but I start hitting and hitting and hitting and it feels good, it feels so much better, all their noise goes away. . . .
Four
VIC
“What’s wrong with him?”
Nevaeh looked freaked-out, too. “What did you do?”
“Me? Nothing!” I said. “I just told him we had to go back. He didn’t lose it until you showed up.”
She threw me a look. I crossed my arms and glared back at her. Meanwhile, Q was basically beating himself up. He was making weird noises, too, kind of panting and hiccuping at the same time. It reminded me of the Hulk changing—like Q was fighting it but couldn’t stop it. I half expected the kid to swell up and turn green, but instead he collapsed on the ground and started rocking back and forth.
“That’s better, I guess,” Nevaeh said.
I eyed him doubtfully; sure, he was quieter, but he also didn’t look like he’d be walking any time soon. I asked, “What now?”
“How am I supposed to know?” Nevaeh asked, throwing her arms up. She was wearing a pajama top and shorts, and her hair was piled on top of her head. I couldn’t help it, I started cracking up. I mean, we looked totally ridiculous, standing outside in our pajamas in the middle of the night.
“It’s not funny!” Nevaeh yelled, but that just made me laugh harder.
Except she was right: it was about to get a lot less funny.
Like I said, Echo Park is pretty safe, especially our street. Most of our neighbors are old Russian people like Mrs. K, and while no one is exactly friendly, they usually nod when you walk past. They spend most days working on their gardens or sitting on their porches. It’s nice, actually.
But at night after all the old people go to bed, it changes, and not in a good way. There’s a street a few blocks away where people race cars and do doughnuts; the pavement is scarred with tire circles. On the block behind ours, there’s a house that’s quiet in the daytime, but at night, guys hang out on the porch drinking and swearing and sometimes fighting; Nevaeh made me promise to never go near it. And a few months ago, we heard something that I could’ve sworn was gunshots, even though Nevaeh scoffed and said it was just fireworks. Of course, Echo Park isn’t half as dangerous as the places where I do my missions, but it’s not Disneyland, either.
So at the sound of an engine, my ninja senses kicked in and I stopped laughing. There was a car cruising up the block toward us. It was all tricked out with lights around the license plate and shiny rims—the type that cost a lot of money. The car slowed as it came closer, and the passenger-side window slid down to reveal a guy wearing sunglasses even though it was pitch-black out. He looked Nevaeh over and made kissing noises, loud and gross.
Someone else in the car said, “That’s nasty. She’s just a kid.” I got a knot in my throat. I could totally handle these guys if I had to, but that would blow my cover, you know? And there were at least three of them in the car, which made it tricky. But I had to protect Nevaeh. I started breathing hard, my mind spinning while I tried to figure out what Commander Baxter would want me to do.
