totally sad search that we’re on.
And I’m pretty sure I’m starting to get frostbite.
(I know this is
Southern California.
But when it dips into the forties here,
it feels colder than Alaska to us!)
I zip up my jacket
and pull my socks higher,
thinking that I can hardly wait
for these four hours to be over
so that I can slip into my pajamas,
climb into my nice warm bed,
cuddle up with Pixel,
and drift off to sleep . . .
But then I spot a young guy
sleeping in front of the Converse store,
wrapped up like a sausage in a moldy blanket,
his swollen bare feet sticking out at the bottom.
And all of a sudden
I’m blinking back tears.
Because seeing him
lying there like that makes me . . .
Makes me think about another young guy . . .
Suddenly
My fingers
start tingling . . .
There’s a ringing in my ears . . .
I can’t breathe . . . !
My chest—it’s splitting in two!
I’m having a heart attack!
But then Pixel’s here—
standing on his hind legs,
resting his soft white paws
against my thigh,
peering up at me through his shaggy bangs
as if to say, “Easy now, kiddo.”
He nudges the comforting knob
of his nose into the palm of my hand,
reminding me that I’m just having
another panic attack—not a heart attack.
That all I need to do is take
some slow, deep breaths and I’ll be fine.
I stroke his secret sweet spot,
right behind that floppy left ear of his,
and I can feel my teeth beginning to unclench,
my heart rate returning to normal.
What would I do without Pixel?
Now It’s Almost Two a.m.
And the only area left
for us to search is Palisades Park—
a strip of land so long and skinny
it’s basically a piece of linguine.
It overlooks the bluff that leads down
to the Pacific Coast Highway
and, beyond that,
the wide, sandy beach.
Feather and Eden have finally taken
a break from trying to convert me
to gluten-free soy-free whateverhood
and have gone mercifully quiet.
We scan every bench, bush, and shadow,
while the Man in the Moon follows us
with his sunken Man-in-the-Moon eyes,
like he’s watching his favorite reality show.
A thick fog’s creeping in from the ocean,
swirling over the fence and around my ankles,
making me feel like we’ve wandered
onto the set of a horror film.
There’s only the sound
of the palm fronds rustling . . .
of something scuttling in the brush . . .
of my heart thudding against my ribs . . .
And then—a woman screams!
We Whirl Around
And spot her right away.
I’m relieved to see
she’s not being attacked or anything.
She’s sleeping on the bluff
a few yards from us,
on the far side of the fence—
just beyond the sign
warning people not to go
beyond the sign.
She’s curled up on top of a grungy
sleeping bag, twitching like Pixel does
when he’s having a dream.
She thrashes around and cries out again.
She must be having a pretty bad nightmare.
Even worse than the ones I have.
“Maybe we should wake her,” I whisper.
But Feather says, “They warned us not to
get involved with the people we’re counting.”
“She’s right,” Eden says.
“That’s the rule.
We really should go . . .”
But for some reason,
no one makes a move to leave.
We just stand here staring at her—
like the way you can’t help
staring at a car wreck
as you drive past it on the freeway.
And when I get a better look at her,
I’m shocked to see that she seems
only a few years older than me.
Who Is This Girl?
This girl
who’s wearing six layers of clothes,
her grimy feet jammed into
a mismatched pair of flip-flops?
This girl
with the rust-colored curls
who smells like she hasn’t had a bath
in forever?
This girl
who’s been reduced
to stuffing everything she owns
into a rickety old stroller?
I suck in a jagged breath,
thinking about how
she was probably in a stroller
once upon a time,
how she used to be
a sweet little gurgling baby,
cared for by someone
who loved her . . .
And suddenly
I don’t care
what the rule is.
I want to shake this girl awake.
I want to bring her home with me,
draw her a bath,
and feed her a nice hot bowl
of matzo ball soup.
For a Split Second
I even let myself imagine
inviting her to come and live
with me and my parents.
But something tells me
that wouldn’t exactly
go over too well with them.
Besides. You never know.
She could have lice . . . or hepatitis . . .
or maybe she even has a knife . . .
Then—
Eden sneezes,
startling the girl awake.
She sits up and gasps when she sees us,
wrapping her arms around herself
like she wishes she had an invisibility cloak.
“S-s-sorry we woke you,” I stammer.
She doesn’t say anything.
But her eyes are warning us
not to come any closer.
Then She Turns Away
And burrows down
so deep into her sleeping bag
that we can’t even see
the top of her head.
My heart starts pounding again,
threatening to crack apart my chest . . .
Pixel nudges his nose
into the palm of my hand.
Then Feather whispers,
“We should go. She’ll be okay.”
And I suppose
she will be . . .
So why is my stomach
twisting into knots
as the four of us
walk away?
The Next Morning
When
I hand in the sheet
to my Freshman Seminar teacher,
the signed sheet
that proves I’ve completed
my four hours of community service,
she smiles at me and says,
“I guess God decided she didn’t
want you to get a C in my class after all.”
I know she’s only kidding,
and I know God isn’t exactly sitting around
worrying about my grades,
but I can’t help wondering why he
(I mean if there even is a he) (or a she)
didn’t c
reate enough houses
for everyone.
I Mean Seriously, God
Homelessness sucks.
Why did you create that?
Come to think of it, there are a lot
of questions I’d like to ask you.
Like why did you create french fries
and Snickers and pepperoni pizza
and then decide that all that stuff
should be so freaking fattening?
Not to mention
zit-inducing.
And why did you create
periods and cramps
and then choose girls to be
the ones who got them, instead of guys?
Did you honestly think
that was fair?
And why did you create
high school, God?
Why did you create popular kids,
but then create unpopular kids, too?
Couldn’t you have just made
everyone popular?
Would that really
have been so hard?
Most Days
I can handle
eating alone in the cafeteria.
At least I’ve got Pixel to keep me company.
He’s a service dog.
So when I showed the principal
a note from my doctor,
she gave me permission
to bring him to school.
Why do I need a service dog?
I’d rather not talk about it.
But it seems like everyone else
would like to.
They always start whispering
when they see us coming.
Or exchanging looks, like,
“Who’s that weird girl with the mutt?”
Before I began
bringing Pixel to school,
before the awful thing
that happened last winter,
before the night
when everything changed forever,
I used to be
in on the joke.
But ever since then,
it feels like I am the joke.
My Friends
Tried to be nice to me after it happened.
I mean, they aren’t jerks or anything.
They did their best to be supportive.
Especially
my two BFFs,
Rosa and Jasmine.
But it was pretty obvious
that the whole situation
was creeping them out.
They just
didn’t know what
to say to me.
And maybe they felt
wrapped up in it somehow.
Though they never said.
By summertime,
things had gotten so awkward
that they just sort of drifted away.
And now that we’ve started high school,
I’m as pathetically alone as that girl
I saw sleeping on the bluff last night.
Rosa and Jasmine and all the others
have started getting piercings
and going out with boys.
But me?
I still haven’t even
been kissed . . .
If I had known that middle school
was gonna be the high point of my life,
I would have tried harder to enjoy it.
Generally Speaking
Walking
home from school
is my favorite time of day.
This lovely little break
between the misery of my school life
and the misery of my home life.
Though on this
gloomy Thursday afternoon—
not so much.
Because as
Pixel strains on his leash,
leading me from tree to trash can to bench,
I can’t stop fixating
on the fact that it’s officially
the start of winter break.
Only this year our family
won’t be making our annual pilgrimage
up to Big Bear to play in the snow.
This year
no one’s even mentioned
going away.
Pixel and I Are Only Halfway Home
When the sky
turns strangely dark.
Even darker than the mood I’m in.
So dark
that if you Googled “ominous”
you’d see a picture of this sky.
And a second later
everything goes eerily silent.
Even the palm fronds stop rustling.
Then—BOOM! CRACK!
A clap of thunder so loud
it’s like a bomb’s gone off.
Even Pixel jumps.
He looks back at me
as if to say, “Dude . . .”
And then—it begins to rain.
This isn’t just a sprinkle.
It’s a full-on drencher:
torrential, epic, angry.
We Break into a Run
The rain’s squishing in my high-tops,
streaming down the back of my hoodie,
flooding into every crevice of my being.
And, also, of my backpack.
I’m running like a bunny, like the wind,
like Superwoman on Red Bull,
pretending there’s a gang
of serial killers chasing us.
Is that weird?
Yeah. I guess it is.
But it’s helping me
run faster.
And the faster I run,
the faster I’ll get home
and out of the rain.
Out of the Rain . . .
Out of the rain . . .
Out of the rain . . .
I begin chanting
the phrase in my head,
keeping rhythm with the pounding of my feet
as Pixel and I dash through the downpour.
Then
something inside of me
And that’s when it dawns on me—
I’m not running home
to get out of the rain.
I’m running there to grab
the fold-up tent I use at the beach,
and maybe a raincoat
and some boots and stuff,
to bring them to that girl I saw
sleeping on the bluff.
As Usual, the House Reeks of Pot
Mom’s sitting in the family room,
watching the Home Shopping Network,
probably ordering one
of everything they’re selling.
(It turns out
that getting totally wasted
while watching that particular channel
is an expensive habit.)
She doesn’t seem at all fazed
by the puddle forming at my feet.
But she does pause between puffs
to ask me how school was.
“Why bother asking,” I growl,
“when you don’t actually care?”
“Of course I care,” she murmurs, as I grab
Pixel and stomp up the stairs to my room.
I change into a dry T-shirt and jeans,
get out my duffel bag, and throw in
my raincoat, my rubber boots, some old
clothes, and a handful of granola bars.
Then I shrug on Mom’s dumb yellow
windbreaker, race back downstairs,
grab the tent from the front hall closet,
and charge out the door with Pixel at my heels.
As We Sprint Through the Storm
I imagine how the girl’s face
will light up when she sees
all the things I’ve brought her.
I imagine how grateful she’ll be.
And how good that’ll make me feel—
sort of like I’m a hero or something.
Maybe
she’ll be hud
dled
in her soggy sleeping bag.
Or maybe
she’ll be hunkered down under it,
using it as a tarp.
Or maybe
she’ll be hiding out beneath
one of the dwarf palms on the bluff . . .
But when
I’m a few dozen yards away,
I catch sight of that red hair of hers.
And I can see
that she’s not huddled
or hunkered or hiding.
She’s dancing!
She’s Shaking Her Hips
And whirling around
and stomping in puddles,
grinning like she just won the lottery.
And then she starts singing
“O Come All Ye Faithful”
at the top of her lungs.
But a few seconds later,
when she notices me coming,
she freezes—
just like a squirrel freezes
when it sees you
watching it.
I drop the tent and the duffel bag
onto the nearest bench,
not quite sure what to do next.
The girl’s eyes
flicker to the left.
Then to the right.
And for a second I think
maybe she’s getting ready to bolt.
Which I really don’t want her to do.
So I blurt out the first thing
that pops into my head:
“Wet enough for you?”
And instead
of running away,
she bursts out laughing.
Kind of Hysterically, Actually
Like I’ve just told
the most hilarious joke
she’s ever heard.
And it’s so infectious,
this laugh of hers,
that I join in.
Then all of a sudden she stops
and says, “Is it wet enough for you?”
“A little too wet,” I say.
“Not for me,” she says. “I love it!
This is as close as I’ve gotten
to taking a bath in months.”
Then she grabs hold of my hands.
And now—
both of us are dancing!
And She’s Twirling Me Around
Singing “Santa Claus Is Coming to Town”
and then I’m singing too
and we’re tapping our toes
and clapping our hands
and the rainwater’s flying
everywhere
and Pixel’s prancing around us
in happy circles