The Echo Park Castaways, page 4
Nevaeh’s jaw had gone tight. She grabbed Q’s arm and tried to yank him up, hissing, “Move!” The car was really close now, only ten feet away. I grabbed his other arm, trying to be helpful.
Q started making this high shrieking noise, like we were murdering him or something. We both let go at the same time, and he slumped back to the ground, rocking again.
“Crap,” Nevaeh muttered.
“Yeah,” I agreed. We were only a couple hundred feet from home, but we couldn’t exactly drag him there screaming; he’d wake up the whole neighborhood, including Mrs. K.
Although maybe that wouldn’t be so bad; it would probably make these guys take off. But Mrs. K would be mad, and maybe we’d all get kicked out. I could tell Nevaeh was thinking the same thing; she was biting her lip and looking toward the house.
“You cool, man?” the guy in sunglasses called out.
“He’s fine,” I said. My voice came out shaky.
Sunglass Guy muttered something, and the car peeled off with a roar. I heaved a sigh of relief; they were gone, at least for now.
“Quentin!” Nevaeh said in a low, urgent voice. “Get up!”
I bent down and leaned in: Q was muttering something, over and over. I listened for a minute, trying to make it out.
“He’s saying ‘mommy,’” I reported.
“Great.” Nevaeh puffed out her lower lip. Crouching down to our level, she said in a low, soothing voice, “Quentin, honey, you can’t see your mommy tonight.”
He stopped rocking and went very still. A low rumble from down the street—the car was circling back, the headlights flared a block away. Nevaeh and me exchanged a look—that wasn’t good, and we both knew it. “Maybe . . . maybe we could take you to see her,” I offered desperately.
Q tilted his head up. His eyes were bloodshot, his cheeks puffy and red. “See Mommy,” he repeated in a hoarse whisper.
“Sure,” I said quickly. “We’ll go see her together. Right, Nevaeh?”
She shook her head furiously at me, but we had to get this kid inside. I thought of Mario again, and that galvanized me. I put my hand on my heart and said, “Here’s my solemn oath. If you come back with us now, I will reunite you with your mother.”
Nevaeh rolled her eyes, clearly annoyed, but it worked. Slowly, Q got to his feet. Staring at the ground, he plodded back up the block toward our house. We fell in step behind him.
I heard the car pull even with us. “Remember, sugar. We got space for you anytime!” Sunglass Guy called out. The others laughed. We both started to walk faster, without daring to look at them.
Nevaeh muttered, “A solemn oath? Seriously?”
“It worked, didn’t it?”
“You shouldn’t have lied to him,” Nevaeh said.
“I didn’t lie!” I said. “I gave my word, and I’m a man of honor. So yeah, I’m going to help him see his mom.”
She stared at me for a second, then shook her head and laughed. “You’re crazy.”
I ignored her, because obviously she had no idea what I was capable of. Finding Q’s mom would be the easiest mission I’d undertaken in a long time—after all, it wasn’t like she was in El Salvador, right? It would take a week, max. And then I’d get back to my own quest: rescuing my dad.
I pictured him tied to a chair in a cell somewhere. I wasn’t about to admit it to Nevaeh, but when Q said “mommy,” it got to me. I understood how he felt. As we hurried to catch up to Q before he did something dumb, like slam the front door, I felt a surge in my chest. It was a noble quest, worthy of my skills. Q was lucky he’d found me.
NEVAEH
Mrs. K was already downstairs making eggs when my alarm went off. That was so weird that for a minute I panicked and thought maybe she knew about what happened the night before, and this was our last meal before she kicked us all out.
But no, she was just putting on a bit of a show for Quentin’s first day. I tried not to feel resentful as I picked at my eggs; I was pretty sure I hadn’t gotten a hot breakfast on my first morning here. I certainly hadn’t gotten many since, not unless I’d cooked them myself.
It was wasted on him anyway, though. Quentin sat there staring mutely at his untouched plate, the dark circles under his eyes indicating that he hadn’t slept much, either. He already had his Yoda backpack on, and it pushed him so far forward he was practically falling off his chair.
My eyes felt like they were filled with sand, and I couldn’t stop yawning. Even Vic was uncharacteristically quiet. The only one who didn’t look exhausted was Mara, who goggled at us while she mechanically shoveled food into her mouth. Mrs. K stood next to Quentin, frowning at his uneaten food. “You don’t like eggs?”
Quentin didn’t respond.
“They’re really great,” I said. “Perfect, right, Vic?”
“Huh? Yeah, awesome.” Vic’s plate was already empty—when Mrs. K turned back around, he reached over and speared a clump of eggs off Quentin’s plate with his fork.
“Stop that!” I hissed.
“What? He’s not going to eat them,” Vic said. “Are you, Q?”
No answer. I sighed; I didn’t have the energy to make a big deal out of it.
Mrs. K’s cell phone rang from the hall table. Mumbling, she dried her hands on a kitchen towel and shuffled to answer it. Mrs. K was taking Quentin to school to get him settled in, so we’d all have a ride for a change. I checked my watch and said, “Mara, we’re leaving in ten minutes, okay?”
She nodded and got up to clear her plate.
Mrs. K’s voice suddenly got louder. I exchanged a glance with Vic—it had to be work; no one else ever called her. A minute later, she appeared in the doorway looking upset.
“What is it?” I asked.
“I must work early,” Mrs. K said. She waved an arm at Quentin. “But I promise Ms. Judy I take Quentin to school.”
We all looked at Quentin. This was clearly a problem.
“You can’t say no?” Vic asked.
Mrs. K shook her head. “No, Vic. You know my boss.”
Her boss was a little guy with squinty eyes who always acted like we were there to rob the place whenever Mrs. K brought us in to buy clothes with her employee discount. Even though she’d been working at the store for more than ten years, he was always threatening to fire her. I’d found Mrs. K crying at the kitchen table more than once because of something mean he’d said. She’d told me that if she lost this job, she’d probably lose the house, too. And then we’d all be in trouble.
“I guess I could take him,” I said doubtfully. “I mean, we’re all going to the same school, right?”
“So weird that there isn’t a special school for ass burgers,” Vic muttered. “Like, one with buns on the outside.”
He started snort-laughing at his own joke. I ignored him.
“Ms. Judy says there is special teacher, but not right away.” Mrs. K was wringing her hands. “I need to go to office with him—”
“I can do that,” I said. “If you drop off Mara, I’ll take Vic and Quentin. Her bus stop is on your way anyway.”
“You sure, Nevaeh?” Mrs. K asked uncertainly.
“Yeah, no problem,” I said, trying to sound more certain than I felt. How big a deal could it be? I just had to get him to the office, and then someone would probably handle it from there, right? “We should go soon, though. Vic, get your shoes on and help Quentin.”
“I have to do everything,” Vic grumbled, getting to his feet and leaving his plate behind.
“Clear your plate!” I called after him.
“I already have a job!” he yelled back. “Remember?”
Mrs. K still looked conflicted. “I can go late to work—”
“It’s fine,” I said reassuringly. “Seriously. I got this.”
“Good girl,” she said, patting my shoulder as she went by. “Thank you.”
I stacked the dishes in the sink and ran some water for them to soak. Then I leaned on my hands and closed my eyes. I could hear Vic banging around upstairs, Mrs. K’s heavier tread across her bedroom, the lighter patter of Mara’s feet. “Five weeks until school is out,” I said in a low voice. “Four years until college.”
“Learning today for a better tomorrow,” a voice piped up behind me.
I turned around. Just like last night, Quentin was sitting there staring at the table as if he hadn’t said a word. It was weird, the way he’d just blurt out random things. Probably part of his Asperger’s. “We’re leaving in five minutes, Quentin,” I said. “So if you have to pee or anything, you’d better do it now.”
The whole walk to school, Vic was talking a mile a minute, outlining his nutty plan for reuniting Quentin with his mom. I tuned him out. He never should’ve promised that. If Quentin’s mom had really wanted him, she wouldn’t have lost custody in the first place. DCFS didn’t take kids away from great parents. I knew that from experience.
The bell was ringing as we approached the school’s entrance. “C’mon, Quentin,” I said. “We’d better hurry.”
I started running for the door; first period I had Spanish, and every time I was late, Señor Garcia would totally humiliate me in front of the entire class. I’d barely gotten ten feet when Vic yelled, “Hey! Nevaeh!”
“What?” I whirled around. He was still at the front gate, tugging at Quentin’s arm. Quentin had dropped to the ground and was rocking back and forth again, just like last night.
Vic yelled, “He’s doing it again!”
I gritted my teeth; this was the absolute last thing I needed. I hurried back and bent down so that my eyes were level with Quentin’s. He was blinking fast, like he was trying to hold back tears as he said, “No, no, no . . .”
“Quentin, we have to go to the office. It’s okay, I’ll stay with you the whole time.”
“No, no, no . . .”
“I don’t think he wants to go,” Vic said helpfully.
I threw him a look. The second bell rang, meaning I was definitely going to be late for Spanish. Why couldn’t anything ever be easy? I was half tempted to just leave them there, but Vic had a pleading look in his eyes, and something about Quentin got to me. He wasn’t like us, not really. Vic and Mara and me were used to being on our own. Quentin obviously wasn’t.
“Quentin, honey,” I said, trying to sound calm and reassuring. “School’s starting. We have to go in, like, now.”
He raised his eyes to meet mine. There was real terror there, like I’d just announced we’d be carving him up for dinner.
“It’s cool, man,” Vic said, clapping him on the shoulder. Quentin flinched. “I bet they even put you in my class.”
Quentin shook his head again. In a voice barely above a whisper, he said, “No school. Dangerous kids. Not safe. Better to learn at home.”
I stared at him, perplexed. “Wait,” I said, suddenly getting it. “Are you saying you’ve never been to school before?”
“Home,” Quentin said. “Mommy.”
“No way!” Vic exclaimed. “Dude, I am, like, so jealous. Do you have any idea how many missions I would’ve accomplished by now if I didn’t have to come here?”
“Enough already, Vic,” I groaned.
“What?” he said defensively. “It’s true.”
Quentin had squeezed his eyes tightly shut, as if he was attempting to wish himself somewhere else.
“Miss Parker! What’s going on over there?” Looking up, I saw Mrs. Colbourne, the yard lady, bearing down on us.
“This is our new foster brother,” I said, gesturing to him. “He’s, um . . . he’s a little nervous. It’s his first day of school, ever.”
Mrs. Colbourne’s face softened as she took in Quentin. “Hello, dear. What’s your name?” Kneeling down, she put a hand on Quentin’s shoulder. He flinched away and squeezed his eyes shut, rocking back and forth even faster.
“He doesn’t like to be touched,” Vic explained. “He’s got ass burgers. His name’s Quentin, but I call him Q.”
“Where’s your foster mother?” Mrs. Colbourne said accusingly, as if we’d done something with her.
“She got called in to work early. I promised to take him by the office, but . . .” I waved my hand at him helplessly. The third bell rang; class was starting.
“I can’t believe they didn’t set him up with an aide,” Mrs. Colbourne said disapprovingly.
“Our foster mom said he’d get one soon, just not right away,” I explained.
“Of course not.” Mrs. Colbourne shook her head and sighed. “Budget cuts, I’m sure. Well, my nephew is autistic. Maybe I can help.” Lowering her voice, she said, “Quentin, I’m Mrs. Colbourne. No one is going to hurt you.”
Quentin opened one eye and looked at her dubiously.
“There now, see? It’s all okay, you’re perfectly safe here. Can you get up? I promise not to touch you.”
Awkwardly, Quentin got to his feet, pulling his backpack on again. He stared at the ground.
“Excellent, Quentin!” she exclaimed. “Why don’t I take you into the office to get you squared away? Does that sound okay?”
Quentin didn’t say anything, but he looked less terrified.
“Wow, Mrs. C. Nice,” Vic said.
“Thank you, Mr. Quintero.” As she led him toward the door, Mrs. Colbourne called back over her shoulder, “You two are already late. Better hurry!”
“Man,” Vic said. “She’s never that nice to me.”
“Me either,” I said, feeling a little resentful. The only time Mrs. Colbourne had ever spoken to me was when she yelled at us for running across the yard.
“Oh well,” Vic said cheerfully. “See you later.” He stopped halfway to the door and called out, “By the way, the planning meeting’s at sixteen hundred. Don’t be late!”
I hated it when he did that military time thing. “Planning for what?”
“For the quest, dummy!” He threw the door open and ran inside.
“I’m not doing your stupid quest!” I yelled back, but he was already gone.
I dragged myself to the door, feeling a lot older than thirteen.
QUENTIN
I hate school. It is loud. The other children are loud, the bells are loud, everyone talks at the same time, and it never ends—it is just noise noise noise. I plug my ears, but the noise still makes it in. A lady stands at the front of the class and she just talks and talks and writes things on a big white board. At home, we don’t have a big white board. We have a real computer with educational guidelines and a special curriculum designed specifically to maximize my potential. Mommy says it is much better than school, and she is right because no one can learn anything in all this noise.
Loud Boy sits next to me, and he is full of noise, too. While the teacher talks, he talks, whisper whisper whisper, until I want to start hitting again, but we must not hit, hitting is not good for heads, and my head is perfect and must not be touched, otherwise it might not be perfect anymore.
Real school is when Mommy and me sit at the computer and it is quiet and we can do math and science and history and no one else is there talking at us. We are learning about the Oregon Trail with a game of pretend. In the game it is long ago, and we have wagons and horses and cows and we are traveling a long, long way for a better life. And sometimes people get sick, or there is not enough food, so we have to decide whether to stop or keep going. And if you make the wrong decision, you die and have to start over. It is a great game. I almost never die, but Mommy does, all the time, and then she laughs (but not too loudly) and says that I have to take care of the hard decisions, she is no good at it. And I promise that I will, and she squeezes my arm and kisses the top of my head in the safe spot (a little to the right, above the ear) and she says I am her little man and she loves me more than anything.
This teacher will never say that. And I bet she has never heard of Oregon Trail; in fact, if she plays it she will die quickly from snakebite or dysentery or maybe just exhaustion from all that talking. And I will not help her; my wagon train will leave her behind.
Loud Boy says we are going on a quest. I have not been on a quest before, but maybe it will be like when Luke Skywalker and Han Solo save Princess Leia from Darth Vader. Loud Boy will help me save Mommy from the hospital, and that is almost the same because the hospital is a big building with many loud machines that breathe like Darth Vader.
I am ready to go on the quest. I have been very patient. I came to school and sat through all the noise and did not do the hitting and now I want to go back to Mommy and my computer and the Oregon Trail. I want to tell Loud Boy that, but he never stops talking, so I just sit and listen and try not to hit.
Five
VIC
Man, is Q lucky to have me around. I mean, this kid is lost with a capital L, if you know what I mean.
For example: at lunch, he didn’t even know you had to get in line at the cafeteria. I had to drag him over or I swear he probably would’ve stood there staring at the food for, like, forever. And then he went for the sloppy joe—I mean, you never, and I mean absolutely, positively never ever, take the sloppy joe. I don’t know what they put in there, but it’s definitely not meat. I stopped him just in time and told Marcia (the lunch lady, who always sneaks me extra because she says I’m “charmin’ like Marvin”) that he was my new brother and I was showing him the ropes, so she gave us each an extra chocolate pudding, which was a total score!
Anyway, it’s already clear that most of the planning for the quest will be up to me. Nevaeh is pretty organized, but with something like this, every detail is critical. The only problem so far is that Q-man isn’t exactly forthcoming with details—he’s still pretty much only said, “Mommy” and “home” and “baby back ribs” and once, weirdly, “wagon train,” and I was like, Yeah, I get it, dude, but maybe a few more deets would actually help us find your mom, you know? Like, is she in jail, rehab, or a deportation center? (Those are all basically different kinds of jails, in case you didn’t know that.)
I’ve seriously been grilling him all day, while Mrs. Cordero went on about commas and fractions and all that other stuff at the smartboard. But Q-man never said a word. I mean, I gotta say, this kid would probably hold up under some pretty intense interrogation.
