8: Closer
It is easy to take off all your clothes and have sex, people do it all the time. But opening up your soul to someone, letting them into your spirit, thoughts, fears, future, hopes, and dreams . . . that's being naked.
Unknown
When we get a good distance between us and the alley, I expect Vaughn to stop sprinting and allow me to catch up with him.
But he doesn't; he just keeps on going. I call his name, tell him to stop, but either he doesn't hear me or doesn't care. He bolts across a street without bothering to wait for the signal, and I nearly get run over for the second time since running away in my pursuit.
Eventually I stop calling after him, needing to save my breath and energy. He'll have to stop at some point; I just need to worry about keeping up for now. We run and run and run for what seems like forever; we run until my calves' burn and I taste blood in my throat.
I can feel the beginnings of a light rain on my skin, and I could cry with relief at how good the cool mist feels. We would probably both be a lot faster if we didn't have our heavy packs to lug around, and with every step, the extra weight on my back burns.
When he comes to a tall fence enclosing something I can't see this far away yet, Vaughn tosses his bag over it, and then launches himself up it without a moment's hesitation. He jumps to the bottom, grabs the bag, and runs off again.
Panting, I come to a screeching halt at the fence, wondering if I possibly have the energy to climb it. Vaughn's clearly getting his burst of energy from adrenaline right now, but mine is nowhere to be seen.
I feel physically and emotionally drained after what just happened in the ally back by the coat shop; I'm awed that I managed to follow him all the way here. But what if he just keeps running, far, far away?
What if we get separated in this big city and I never see him again?
What if I now have to make my way to the Islands completely alone?
Would he just leave me here like this?
Even after all we've worked for and planned thus far in our all-or-nothing trip to escape hell?
For a moment, panic closes my throat and I'm rooted to the spot. Even though running away by myself was my original idea, before Vaughn volunteered to go with me, the thought of completing this journey by myself frightens me.
I've grown quite accustomed to having him around, even though we've only really been gone a few days. Besides that, I wasn't sure I could just move on if I couldn't find him. If I did get to the Islands and get the job, I'd spend the rest of my life wondering what happened to him.
And not knowing will torment me for the rest of my days. I bite my lip and force myself to get a grip. The fence I'm standing by encloses a children's playground, complete with swings, a jungle gym, slides, a see-saw, and a few things whose purpose is not totally obvious.
There's also a long brick building that stands beside a sprawling green field. I scan it for Vaughn, because there's no place I couldn't see him, not with no trees or rocks or whatever to block my view.
But I see not a trace of him, and I desperately hope that means he's taken shelter in the building, which I assume is a public bathroom. I put aside the idea of climbing the fence and begin walking beside it, looking for a gate or something.
I find one not too far away; it swings open easily, but I nearly fall flat on my face in the dirt on my way in; the rain has made it into slippery mud. My wet hair is now sticking to my face, so I push it aside and steadily make my way towards the building, cursing Vaughn with a thousand different nasty names in my head.
I'm wet and cold and tired and utterly miserable – I really don't want to add abandonment to my long list of things to complain about. I duck into the women's restroom first, but it's empty, so I make my way to the other end, praying to find him inside the men's. I push open the heavy door and let it swing closed behind me.
It's very dark in this bathroom; I run my hand along the wall for a light switch. When I find it, the light that comes on is far too bright compared to the gloomy, rainy night I just emerged from. I blink away the strange shapes that dance across my vision as I wait for my eyes to adjust.
Vaughn is sitting directly across from the handicapped stall in the corner with his arms on his knees. He's peering up at me with his peculiar eyes, like I'm the one who just dashed across town like a possessed person.
I exhale, totally spend, and sit down beside him, sliding my pack under the door into the stall so it's out of my way; he has done the same. For a moment, we sit in silence, listening to the rain, the same way we did last night.
I just want to curl up and sleep, but I want to talk more. "It was hard to keep up with you, you know," I say, no trace of irritation in my voice, just polite observation, as if I were commenting on the streak of bad weather lately.
"I almost didn't."
"Sorry," he says, and he, too, sounds polite. But when his eyes flicker over to me for a split second, I see the genuine remorse there.
"I would have found you." I stare at him dubiously.
"I doubt it. This place is too damn big to find anyone without a phone."
He shrugs, and sighs into his hands. He doesn't seem to have a trace of the angry resolve he usually carries with him, just obvious despair. It breaks my heart a little. But I really am mad at him for what he did.
"I'm sorry," he says again, "It just . . . brought up some bad memories."
"I have my fair share of those, and then some," I grumble, "but they haven't made me suddenly race across the town like an Olympic runner."
"If we do get lost around here," Vaughn says, ignoring my comment, "We can meet back up at the transit center."
"Already planning another mad dash, then?" I ask sarcastically.
"No."
My stomach growls loudly just then, so I yank my bag onto my lap and pull out two candy bars and hand him one. "The transit center, then. Got it."
Let's hope the both of us could make it back there. He takes my offering, immediately ripping away the paper and biting into it. A long silence passes as we eat. When we're through, he trades my pack for his own and gives me a packet of dried fruit.
Not exactly my favorite food, I but I guess I could certainly use the nutrients. For dessert we have my canned peaches, though we have to be careful getting them out of the can each time we want one. Cans have notoriously sharp edges.
Next time, I'm stealing a fork or two. Assuming I can get away with it next time. Maybe I'm losing my touch.
"What were you doing in that alley, anyway?" Vaughn asks, after successfully tossing the can into the tiny wastebasket by the sink.
He then turns and studies me seriously. His gaze makes me nervous, so I look towards the window, which is slightly ajar to let in some air. The scent of rain is much better than the one of public restrooms.
I sigh, reluctant to speak of my failed attempts at stealing winter gear. But I recount the story for him anyway, not seeing the point of keeping it hidden.
"We need coats and gloves and stuff," I say at the end, "But, um, maybe from bigger stores where it's easier to remain inconspicuous."
He rolls his eyes. "Yeah, the funny thing about being the only customer is that you get all the attention."
"It was stupid," I agree, "Major ego deflator."
"Guess you're just not a pro like me," he teases.
I half-smile at him, surprised by his light tone after what appeared to be an extreme angst fest a minute ago.
"Guess not," I allow, "But, unfortunately, I'm getting better."
He sobers up immediately, and hesitantly reaches out to touch my hand. "We won't always have to live like this, you know."
Amazed, I watch as he grips my index finger. "I – I know," I say, aware of how close we are, just like last night. "We've only been doing this for two days, but it seems like a lifetime."
He blinks. "Two days? Is that all?"
I nod.
"Huh."
He leans back, letting go of my hand, and I miss his touch instantly. A breeze blows through the window, and I shiver. The smell of the rain is nice, but it also makes the wind icy. And there's no crinkly tarp to use now.
Somehow, I don't think cuddling with a toilet is going to bring me much warmth. He notices my shiver, and holds his arms open in invitation. I scoot closer to him, and he pulls me onto his lap in the same position as before.
I cling to him tightly, savoring his warmth, his body against mine.
"Thank you for today," I say quietly, "That guy . . . well, it was pretty obvious what he wanted."
"Sick bastard," he says, a growl in his voice.
"Yeah, he was. I'm sorry it . . . got to you, afterwards."
I feel him shrug, and then his nose buries into my hair. I'm frozen at this point, my heart going crazy in my chest. Somehow, this feels even more intimate than the night before.
"It's not your fault," he whispers, "It just reminded me of home."
I pause for a moment, and then gently prod, "Violence around there common?"
He hesitates, and I wonder what he'll answer. Maybe if he told me some of the things that ate at him, I could help . . . and maybe . . . maybe he could help me, too. But then, I may just be caught up in the heat of the moment. In the morning, this conversation will probably feel like a dream.
"It's nothing new," he finally says, "Just a twisted, violent stepfather."
"Why didn't you leave sooner?"
"Because of my mother. I needed to protect her from him. I still want to, but I can't do it anymore." He sounds so pained, and it's easy to understand that he really loves his mother.
"Why not?" I ask.
"Because she won't let me. Says he takes care of us, that he deserves our respect, and is basically entitled to treat us like shit if he wants to." His grip on m tightens; he hugs me so close to him that we're beginning to feel like one person.
His voice is thick with emotion. "He's kicked the crap out of both of us for as long as I can remember. But he started leaving me alone as I got older, because I started to fight back. He didn't like it. Much preferred me as a defenseless kid, I guess. But he could do whatever he wanted to my mom, and she let him. Because she loves him."
Disgust drips from his tone.
"It was like that in one of my foster homes," I say quietly, "I didn't stay there for long."
"Good. Drives a person nuts."
I look up, forcing his face out of my hair and his eyes to look at mine. There are inches between our faces. I raise my right hand, and realize that my fingers are trembling slightly. I place it gently on his cheek; it's scratchy with stubble he'll need a razor to take off.
"What about tonight reminded you of then?" I whisper.
"He went too far one night. Pushed her down a flight of stairs. She broke two of her ribs. I nearly killed him that night for it. Put him in the hospital with her. It was the worst fight between us since we'd been there. My mom was furious with me for hurting him, and he reported me to the police. Spent a while in juvie after that. It sure was fun."
I can feel his breath on my face as he speaks. It's difficult to listen to exactly what he says with my thoughts so scattered, but I make myself listen.
"Oh," I say finally, "I see."
I wonder how badly he hurt his stepfather the night he went to the hospital. By the serious glint in Vaughn's eyes, I didn't doubt him when he said his stepfather was seriously injured.
"But you don't need to listen to this," he says, his forehead against mine, "I'm sure you have your own skeletons to deal with. Never been in it myself, but I don't hear good things about the foster care system."
"It isn't exactly a vacation," I say bitterly.
"How many have you had?" he asks.
I'm reluctant – very, very reluctant – in some ways, to open up to another human being willingly for the first time in my life, because I want to, not because I'm being forced to visit some shrink who asks me about my feelings.
I'm sure Vaughn feels the very same way, and I know he hasn't told me everything, but he's still told me something, so I feel the need to reciprocate. Besides . . . I really do want to. Although I still can't say I know him very well, although he still is an asshole fifty percent of the time . . . I want to.
"Five," I say, "in my lifetime. Some of them actually where pretty bearable, but I screwed myself out of some happy times often enough."
"How did your parents die?"
"Car accident when I was little. The Crazies have always been the worst." Well, that wasn't the whole truth, maybe. In my second one, the father figure had been a real creeper and I was reasonably sure that if I'd stayed there any longer, he would have sexually assaulted me.
"They won't win Neighbor Of the Year any time soon, either. Jeff was always putting stuff in our garbage can. Drove Harold crazy."
"Is Harold your stepfather's name?" I ask.
"Yeah."
"Well, it was always weird to hear people call them Jeff and Mona. To me, they were always the Crazies."
"Did they hurt you?" he wonders.
I know, know, that I am imagining the possessive note in his voice.
"Not very often, not physically. Metal and emotional issues were their domain. I'm probably more jacked in the head than the whole school combined."
"Not more than me," he argues.
I laugh. "Maybe we can have a Who's Crazier contest sometime."
"I'll keep it in mind," he promises.
Another silence. I know that the both of us have said all we're willing to say in one evening. I know that I may eventually tell me more, and vise versa, but the floodgates can't all open at once. We've already told each other so much more than either of us anticipated.
For a moment, all we can do is look at each other, as if amazed that we discussed our issues with another person. My hand is still on his cheek. In a moment of courage, I lean forward slowly, cautiously, and kiss him ever so lightly on the lips.
They are warm and soft, welcoming. But it's only a peck, because we are not ready for more. He smiles at me, his eyes softer than I've ever seen them before.
"I guess we'll sleep here tonight, and head out of this city tomorrow."
"Pretty much nothing but vacant farmland for a while after this," I say.
"Yes."
And then, with nothing more to say, we fall asleep to the soft sound of rain.
OoOoOoO
I'm stiff when I wake the next morning, with crust in my eyes. Yawning, I wipe it away. Vaughn's already up, standing by the sink in front of the mirror, yanking a comb through his hair. I watch him silently for a minute; he is so quiet.
"Morning," I say quietly, a little unsure how to behave after our emotional talk last night.
I still remember the feeling of his mouth on mine for that brief second with stunning clarity, and I wonder if we'll kiss again. He stuffs the comb in his pack and looks at me.
"Morning," he repeats.
There's a lightness in his voice I haven't ever really heard before, and it encourages me to not be so shy. I reach for my pack and take out the lone apple I took from the store yesterday. My pocketknife is not the greatest at slicing, but it gets the job done. I hand half of it to him, and we eat breakfast silently.
It is then that I have the sudden urge to relieve myself. "Is it early? I want to get out of here before any little kids and their parents show up," I say.
"I think it's seven, but I'm not sure," he answers easily, zipping up his pack and slipping it over his shoulders.
His hair is combed, the shadows are mostly gone from under his eyes, and he looks a little happy. If it weren't for his tattered clothes, he would look totally healthy. I know I've got to put on a little weight before I start looking that way.
"I've got to use the bathroom, and then we'll go," I say.
He nods, but continues to stand there. I give him a pointed look.
"Uh, could you wait outside?"
"Oh. Sure." His cheeks redden, and he is almost teddy bear cute when he blushes. He steps out, and I make use of the toilets we slept next to last night.
Spending the night in a bathroom as its advantages, after all. I peek out the window and see that, at last, the sun has decided to show it's face. Maybe it's a sign of better days to come. I don't get my hopes up, though. While I am, ahem, doing my business, however, I notice a little problem of mine that needs to be taken care of now.
I curse loudly to myself, knowing I am an idiot to not have brought feminine supplies. I yank my pack up off the floor and race outside. Vaughn is standing by the water fountain, shifting his weight from foot to foot, clearly eager to leave.
"We have to find another store," I say quickly, "or go back to the one from yesterday."
He raises one silver eyebrow, surprised by my urgent tone. "What do we need so badly that we can't wait for?" This makes me hesitate. While I really don't want to discuss with him my need for girl stuff, I don't seem to have another option. My cheeks turn blood red, and I stare down at my tennis shoes with my fists clenched at my sides.
"Ineedfemininethings," I say, the words strung together and said so fast I don't know if it was coherent.
Apparently, it wasn't, because he says, "What?"
I force myself to look at him. "Stuff. I need girl stuff."
Understanding dawns in his eyes, and he winces, like I've just told him I want to go find a drug dealer and get stoned out of my mind.
"O-oh . . . okay." He looks away, and for a moment we just stand there awkwardly.
"Let's go back to the one from yesterday. I think I remember the way," he says finally, refusing to meet my eyes.
"Hurry," I mutter, and we run from the playground.
OoOoOoO
It seems to take a long time to get there, but when we do, I leave him by the registers, go find a package of my things, and make use of them in the bathroom. Then I stuff the whole thing in my backpack, still cursing myself out for being a moron.
I did feel more comfortable with Vaughn last night than I ever had before, but I wasn't quite so comfortable that I wanted to openly discuss my period with him. I didn't think I ever would be, and that was just fine by me. I went back to the registers and muttered that I was ready to go.
"So . . . bus stop?" he asks quietly.
"Yeah."
We walk side by side, silently. Eventually, I say, "Can we just pretend that whole thing never happened? It would make me feel so much better. I'm embarrassed enough as it is."
"It's not your fault," he replies, "and trust me, I was more embarrassed than you. But yeah, it never happened."
"Thanks."
I want to reach for his hand again, but somehow it feels different now than the other times we've done it. Before, it was mostly a comforting gesture, but now, it could mean more. A romantic gesture. But I'm the one who kissed him last night, and it took a lot of courage to do that.
I don't want to be the one who makes all the advances. So I don't. After a while, I look behind us and notice a dog. It's medium sized and probably a mutt. Its fur looks white in places, but it's hard to tell if it's his solid color because dirt and grime mar it so much. It doesn't look vicious or rabid, just a bit wary.
It's following us. I elbow Vaughn in the ribs and gesture behind us. "We've got a shadow."
Vaughn whirls around, probably expecting another creepo like yesterday, but he relaxes when he sees the dog. In a soft voice, he coaxes it over to us and gently pets its head. The dog sits down on the sidewalk and lets itself be pet, its tongue hanging out the side of its mouth.
"I didn't know you were so good with animals," I say.
"I like animals more than people," he says.
I contemplate this for a minute. "You'd probably be better suited for the job at the Islands, then," I sigh.
Even though I really want it, I can't deny that I have no experience with ranching, or any animals at all, really. None of my foster families had pets.
He shrugs, unconcerned. "Maybe. I don't know a damn thing about gardening, though."
"I do," I say, thinking of the little vegetable garden I had with my third family. They were one of the kinder ones.
Vaughn stands back up, and so does the dog.
"I'd like to take him with us, but we don't need another mouth to feed," he tells me.
"I know, but . . ." I reach down at pat its head. "I still want to."
He shrugs. "Well, he can follow along if he wants to, I guess."
And then we continue on. The dog walks beside now instead of behind, now that the proper introductions have been made. We get more funny looks from people, though. Apparently, two tattered teenagers with backpacks isn't as strange as two tattered teenagers with packs and a dirty dog.
We're still in the seedier part of the city, so eventually we end up walking in a shady neighborhood with more than a couple abandoned houses. Some of their windows are boarded up or broken, and a lot of wood is rotting away.
Paint is peeling, lawns are scarily overgrown, and some of them smell odd. Still, I can detect movement inside a few of them. Homeless, probably. Even in broad daylight, these houses look creepy. Haunted, even.
The one at the end of the block – a good sized two story – looks worst of all. The grass has to be waist high, bits of wood and plaster are scattered everywhere, and the porch looks incapable of holding even a tiny person.
As we pass by though, a face suddenly appears in the window, a nose smashed against the glass that creates a somewhat eerie fog. I swallow a lump in my throat. I've never believed in ghosts, but if I did, this is where their hangouts would be.
But the face – a boy, I realize – smiles at us, and gestures for us to stop. We do, but we give each other looks, wondering if this is the correct thing to do.
"We should probably keep going," I say, thinking of the last time we met up with a suspicious person.
But by the time I've completed my sentence, the boy races around the side of the house – through the back door up from the cellar, maybe, and screeches to a halt not five feet from us.
"You found Patches!" he crows, his arms opening wide.
The dog – Patches, apparently – runs to its master and covers his face with wet doggie kisses. The boy laughs. That's exactly what he is, too – a boy. He can't be any older than Vaughn, probably a few years younger. His clothes hang on his stick thin frame, his hair is matted, and there's dirt on his cheek, but his eyes are big and brown and pretty, and his teeth are surprisingly white.
When the dog ceases its hellos and totters back to the house, the boy smiles widely at us like we are old friends.
"Hi, I'm Timmy," he says, "Where'd you find my dog?"
"He found us, actually," I say. My tone is friendly, but Vaughn eyes the boy like he's hiding a machete in his sneaker. I shoot him a glance that says to be nice, and then I add, "My name is Chelsea, and this is my friend, Vaughn."
"Huh. Nice to meet ya. Hey, I'd like to thank you guys for finding Patches, so why don't you come inside and meet my friends?"
I blink, and Vaughn and I share a look. I don't really think he wants to, and the idea of going into a stranger's house doesn't seem like the brightest idea, even if it is a kid that looks fourteen or fifteen. But the way he's beaming at us is so bright, so genuinely honest, that I can't bring myself to deny him.
"Okay," I say, "But just for a few minutes."
Vaughn exhales sharply, and then says, "I don't think so."
Timmy's face falls. "Oh. Okay, then. See you around."
He gives us a little wave, turns, and beings to walk the way the dog went.
"It'll just take a second," I say when Timmy's out of earshot.
"Chelsea, he could be a mass murderer."
"He's just a kid."
"So?"
"I just want to see what he wants to give us. Anything helps, right? We need all we can get to make it to the Islands," I say persuasively, "and if I'm wrong and he jumps on us with a knife when we get inside, you can make a break for it while he hacks me into little pieces and stuffs me in the freezer."
I mean the last part to be humorous, but Vaughn just glares at my with his piercing eyes.
"Nothing's going to happen to you," he says firmly.
I would be lying if I said I didn't enjoy the protective note in his voice. It makes me think that maybe he's grown a bit fond of me, as I have of him.
"Alright, but I'll go first," he tells me after a minute. I nod, and then we follow Timmy.
To the house that looks like it could have come straight from a horror film.