Chapter 44 - Dove
Two years later
I’m not supposed to be here.
Not in this house, not in this room, not in this stupid system that tosses me around like a mangy stray.
Fifth house in two years.
Fifth set of strangers pretending they want me.
On my ninth birthday, Jag and I argued about my return to school. We didn’t know the decision would be made for us one week later.
He would never call himself my parent, but he sure fights like one every time they take me. He fights the cops, the social workers, and the paperwork, saying I’m not safe with anyone but him.
Every time the system pulls me out of his arms, he finds me. He always finds me.
When he doesn’t like the home they put me in, when the fridge is empty, or the father stares too long, he cuts the window screen and steals me away. Then we run until our legs give out. New cities. New names. New lies.
Until child services catches me again.
Now I’m in Salt Lake City, in another house, with another last name.
And Dean.
God, I hate Dean.
He’s eighteen, same age as Jag, but that’s where the similarity ends.
Dean smells like cheap cologne and fried food. His white-blond hair and even whiter complexion make him easy to spot from the school bus.
Every day, he follows me from the bus stop to the house, walking slow like he’s picking his moment. When he gets close enough to slime my cheek with his breath, he says things that make my stomach twist.
Today, he corners me on the side of the house and calls me a whore like I know what that means. Then he grabs my arm, squeezes hard enough to bruise, and tells me I better come to his room tonight or he’ll make it hurt more tomorrow.
When the dog next door starts barking, I rip away from him, sprint inside, and lock my bedroom door.
For hours, I sit in the corner of my room, knees up to my chest, and arms squeezing my stuffed jaguar. It’s ratty and missing a leg, but I still sleep with it pressed under my chin because it smells like Jag’s jacket.
It’s too bright outside. Jag won’t come until it’s dark. He’ll wait until everyone’s asleep before climbing through my window, quiet as a sparkling vampire, smelling like road dust and cold air. Most nights, he curls around me and doesn’t move until I fall asleep.
But right now, the sun is still up, and Dean is somewhere in this house.
I stare at the doorknob, daring it to turn.
The room is small, the bedspread stiff with faded cartoon characters. One window. Beige walls. My backpack sits by the bed where I dropped it after running inside, my math homework sticking out the top. I don’t care.
I just want Jag.
I need his voice telling me everything’s fine, even though we both know it isn’t.
I need his heartbeat against my back, strong and angry and alive.
Pulling my sleeves over my hands, I rock in place.
Until I hear movement.
Footsteps in the hallway.
I stop breathing.
They pause outside my door.
I pull my knees tighter.
The lock wriggles.
My heart slams so hard my body shakes.
Then a click.
A key.
The door swings open, and Dean fills the doorway.
He grins when he sees me in the corner, and my skin crawls. He steps inside and shuts the door behind him. The need to puke makes my mouth fill with saliva.
I hate how slow he walks toward me, how mean his face looks when he squats beside me like we’re friends. Before I can make my voice work, he snatches Little Jag.
“Give it back,” I whisper.
He holds it up by one arm, examining it like trash. I bury my face in my knees so he won’t see my tears.
Then the worst sounds spill into the room. A zipper lowering. Fabric pattering. Warm droplets splashing onto the floor.
I freeze until the truth hits me, ugly and monstrous.
He’s peeing on it.
“No!” I snap my head up. “Stop! Stop!”
He pees harder, spraying Little Jag until the fur turns dark and soaked. Ruined.
My chest caves in. I can’t breathe through the breaking pain inside me.
When he’s done, he drops the dripping jaguar at my feet, and it lands with a wet slap.
“Maybe I’ll clean it.” He grabs the floppy thing between his legs. “But first, you clean me.”
I scramble backward, but there’s nowhere to go. I’m cornered, and he’s bigger, so much stronger as his hand captures my hair and yanks me to my knees.
Pain shoots across my scalp. Tears blur my eyes. I try to pull away, but he jerks harder, forcing my face forward, too close, right up against the disgusting part of him that’s no longer floppy. It grows against my cheek, turning hard as he jabs it against my pressed lips.
Panic rips through me, and my vision goes white at the edges.
“Open your mouth.” His fist tightens. “Do it, or I’ll make you.”
My stomach heaves in terror.
Jag told me exactly what to do if someone tries to hurt me like this. I don’t want to do it. I don’t want to open my mouth. But I don’t have a choice.
I unlock my jaw.
Then I bite.
Hard.
Dean screams, releasing my hair and staggering back.
I scramble on all fours, slipping on the floor as I lunge toward the bed. My fingers search under the pillow for what I know is there.
The knife. The little folding blade Jag shoved into my hand my first night here.
My fingers grip cool metal, and I whip around. My arm shakes so fiercely the blade trembles in the air.
“If you come near me again, I’ll chop that thing off and feed it to the garbage disposal.”
Jag said that’s where it goes if they don’t have a blender.
Dean stares at me, chest heaving, eyes wide with disbelief. Then fury.
“Deeeeean!” His mother screams from the stairs. “You haven’t mowed the lawn, motherfucker! I’m not asking again!”
He glares at me as he zips his pants.
“This isn’t over.” He storms out, slamming the door.
I stand there with the knife shaking in my hand, staring at the ruined jaguar where it lies in a filthy puddle on the floor.
A sob stuffs itself into my throat, and all the bravery I faked falls out of me at once. My bones go soft. My legs can’t hold me. I drop to my knees beside Little Jag and reach out with trembling fingers.
The smell hits me.
I gag. Then I heave, puking so suddenly I can’t move fast enough to avoid the jaguar. I make a mess all over it, crying harder as I vomit.
When my insides are empty, I wipe my mouth and lock the door. Then I crawl onto the bed with the knife and curl into a ball.
I can’t stop shaking.
The sun goes down slow.
The house quiets.
Finally, finally, the window opens, and the night air slips in. Jag climbs through, his backpack landing silently on the floor. When he sees me curled up on the bed, he freezes.
“What happened?” His voice vibrates in that deep way when he’s angry.
My throat feels stuck as he follows my gaze to Little Jag and the sour mess around it.
His face changes into a slow, dark thundercloud that means he’ll break things if he doesn’t hold himself together.
He kneels by the ruined toy, fingers hovering above it, careful not to touch. He doesn’t breathe. Doesn’t move.
“Tell me.” His eyes shift to mine. “Don’t leave out a single detail.”
I suck in a shaky breath and tell him everything. What Dean said, what he did to Little Jag, how he grabbed me, what he tried to force, how I bit him, how I threatened him with the knife, and how he promised it isn’t over.
Jag listens without interrupting, his mouth hard and eyes harder.
When I finish, he stands and turns away from me. His shoulders rise and fall, rise and fall, like he can’t breathe right. He grips his hair, pulling, yanking, and making a noise that sounds like he’s hurting.
“Only ten years old,” he whispers.
“I’ll be eleven next month.”
“Yeah.” He roughly rubs his face with both hands, keeping his back to me. Then his loud breaths start to slow. He rolls his neck and faces me again. “You did good. The biting, the knife… You fought back just like I taught you.”
My skin warms all over.
He grabs my black trash bag, the one I never bother to unpack, and starts stuffing the rest of my things into it. Clothes. Schoolbooks. Toothbrush.
“Time to run?” I pull on the shoes he hands me.
“Not yet.” He ties the bag and leaves it on the floor beside his backpack. “Where is Dean’s room?”
“Across the hall.” I point. “First door on the left.”
He wipes his thumb across my cheek, where dried tears left itchy lines. His touch is soft, but his skin is hot. I know that look in his eyes. It’s the same one I saw the night he pulled me out of the pantry.
“I need you to sit right here and wait for me.” He crouches where my legs dangle off the bed and fixes the ties on my shoes. Then he places the folded knife on my lap. “I’ll be right back.”
“Promise?”
“I swear it.” He sticks out his pinky.
I wrap mine around his, squeezing so hard my hand shakes. After I kiss our tangled fingers, he leans in to kiss them, too, locking the promise in place.
“Okay, now I need you to put your fingers in your ears.” He stands and walks to the door. “Do not move them until I come back.”
I shove my fingers in as deep as they’ll go and clamp my elbows to my ribs. The world goes muffled, then completely quiet. My breath is loud in my skull. My heart, too.
The knife sits on my lap like he left it.
I don’t know how long he’s gone. A minute. Ten. Forever. Time feels strange when he’s not in the room, but I’m not scared anymore.
He’s here. I’m safe now. He said so with his eyes before he stepped into the hall.
The door opens again.
I don’t move my fingers until he taps my wrist. He holds a balled-up shirt and uses it to wipe his hands. It’s bloody, soaked through, dark and sticky, smearing across his knuckles. There’s so much blood my stomach turns, but I’m not scared of that, either.
I’m only scared the blood might be his.
His knuckles are split open like whenever he hits something too hard, too many times.
“Dean won’t hurt me again, will he?”
“No.” His eyes flash like fire, warming me on the inside. “Never again.”
He slings on his backpack, and I throw myself against his chest, hugging his hard middle. His arms hug me, too, lifting me and the trash bag.
“What about Little Jag?” I point at my only toy.
He swings around, staring at it, his face pinching before smoothing out again.
“You don’t need it.” He kisses my nose. “You have me.”
“Okay.”
I give Little Jag a wave goodbye as the real Jag carries me out the window and takes me to where he sleeps.
It’s not far, under the freeway bridge, deep enough that rain doesn’t hit. He has a tent now. A real tent, with a zippered door and everything.
I miss the cardboard fort, but he says the tent is easier to move.
Inside, a tiny lantern sits beside a pile of blankets. There’s plenty of room until he slips in. He takes up all the space.
His backpack goes in the corner, and my trash bag beside it. He gives me crackers, a squished granola bar, and half a soda. I eat even though my throat is sore from crying.
“You got taller.” He puts his hand on my head, where it brushes the ceiling of the tent. “And your hair’s longer. All the way down your back now.”
“Yours, too.”
“Yeah.” He fingers the curly ends where they sit on his shoulders. “Guess so.”
“And this.” I drag my fingertips across the pale prickles on his cheek, laughing at the scratchiness. “You have a beard!”
“Just a little fuzz.” He ducks his head, almost shy, which is strange because Jag isn’t shy about anything.
“Do you have to shave it like Dad?”
“Not yet.” He taps my hip. “Turn around.”
I shift on the blankets, scooting to sit between his bent knees with my back to his chest. The tent is so small our legs fold in weird angles.
“Why don’t you have a house?” I ask.
His huff caresses the top of my head. “I can’t even get an apartment.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t have credit. Can’t use my real name. I’ve killed a lot of bad people. I need to live close to your foster home and be able to pack up and move on the fly. Besides, I sleep with you most nights.”
He lifts my hair off my shoulders and smooths out the tangles, careful not to pull where my scalp still hurts. When the strands are separated, he begins to braid, threading the pieces better than I can.
I don’t care about the blood trapped under his nails.
I don’t care if we live in a box or a tent.
I only care about the big, strong hands in my hair.
“We’ll have to leave by morning,” he says.
I knew that already. “Where are we going next?”
“Texas, I think. It’s warmer there.”
The thought of traveling with him again, hitchhiking, hiding behind dumpsters, and sleeping in abandoned places should scare me. But it doesn’t.
It’s freedom.
It’s us.
I wish we could go back to California and see the cemetery. I haven’t been there. Ever. Jag says it’s too dangerous.
“Tell me about Mom and Dad.” I pat his knee, feeling the sudden stiffness there. “I can’t picture them right anymore. I used to. But it’s blurry.”
“Dad had curly brown hair.” His voice is choppy, like there are knives in his mouth. “He worked with his hands. An electrician. And he was good with computers. He smiled a lot.”
I close my eyes, trying to remember.
“Celeste, our mom…” He clears his throat. “She was pretty, almost as pretty as you.”
My cheeks burn.
“She had long, blond hair. Just like this.” He finishes the braid down my spine, and his hands tremble just once near the end as he ties it off with a rubber band from his wrist. “She sang really well. All the time.”
I wait for more, but that’s all he says.
“Why did they die?” I lean back into him.
“They were in danger.” He hugs me from behind, holding me tight. “Real danger. And they tried to shield us from it. None of it was your fault, and you don’t need the details. Not tonight. Not ever.”
“Are we in danger?”
“As long as I live, I will keep you safe. That’s my job.”
“Okay. I love you.”
“Love you, too, Little Bird.” He rests his mouth on the top of my head.
The tent flaps rustle with the wind, and suddenly, I’m so tired I can’t keep my eyes open.
But I can sleep now, because he’ll be here, guarding me in the dark.