Chapter 11. Jade
Jade
Hot water from the antique showerhead cascades over my body and into the cast-iron tub. Dirt slides off me like a snake shedding its skin. It’s the longest, warmest, most life-affirming shower I’ve ever taken. This sure beats the gross public bathrooms at the Y.
While I’m grateful for small miracles, my hostess remains an enigma. Who keeps a house like this boarded up? She acts like it’s a travesty to be here when it would be a shame not to live in this amazing town with the ocean as your front yard.
I couldn’t believe my luck when I found this place.
I don’t usually catch many breaks, and I definitely don’t believe in guardian angels—unless you count that guard named Big Sally, who always had my back in lockup.
But shortly after I rolled into Beauport—a tourist town at the beginning of its summer season—I found this abandoned house across from the beach.
It was like the perfect hiding spot fell into my lap.
One day, I’ll figure out how to make amends for all my crimes—stealing, break-ins, and that one joyride in a stolen car that got me sent away. But these days, I only break the law when it’s necessary for survival.
You’re always causing problems, Jade.
I hear my mother’s voice whisper in the back of my mind, putting me in my place. I can’t seem to turn it off, and she disparages me at the worst times. I can run from Philly, but I can’t escape all the darkness I’ve carried with me.
The hot water turns lukewarm, but I don’t want to get out. My body needs this. Every part of me aches from the nights I spent sleeping on the attic floor. At least I had those books to keep me company. Reading has always been my escape hatch.
I really did enjoy Holly’s novel. I want to know what happens next, but she doesn’t seem eager to finish her story.
Maybe I could persuade her to continue or even offer to help, like an editorial assistant or something.
I don’t have a college degree—I don’t even have a high school diploma—but I’ve read more books than I can count.
I hope Holly lets me stay. I could use a friend right now, someone I can trust, but not many adults have been honest with me—my parents included.
Maybe Holly will be different. Instead of calling the cops, she’s cooking me dinner. I’ve been living on fast food, convenience store snacks, and dumpster diving long enough to drop five pounds I couldn’t afford to lose.
I step out of the shower, reaching for a fluffy blue towel. I dread the thought of putting my dirty clothes back on. Maybe Holly will let me use her washer and dryer. I know there’s one in the basement.
As I dry off, the towel catches on my necklace and the clasp comes undone. I manage to catch the silver chain before it drops into the sink.
I look it over. The clasp isn’t broken, though the necklace is already badly damaged.
I hook it back around my neck, where it’s hung ever since I found it in my parents’ bedroom.
I turn it around, reading the inscription on the back of the silver pendant like I’ve done a thousand times: Beauport, MA, the reason I came here.
I found it in my parents’ dresser. I suspected it was meant for me. My mother didn’t own much jewelry, and I certainly never saw her wearing this necklace with its inscription and jade pendant—my namesake stone.
When I decided to leave my awful situation, I used the necklace as my compass. I had been directionless, but the inscription became my guide. It gave me purpose.
Unfortunately, now it’s broken. The jade stone came off the silver backing and I want it fixed by whoever sold it. I have some questions for them.
I also want to punch the guy who broke it.
I recall the man’s face, and in a flash, I’m right back there, not too long ago—at his gas station somewhere in Connecticut, where I thought I’d score something to eat.
I wasn’t after a microwave burrito—that’s fine dining in my book. My score was some Gatorade, a bag of chips, and a few candy bars. I slipped them into my pockets without anyone noticing, or so I thought.
I left the convenience mart without stopping at the register, already thinking about my next move.
It had been a long journey out of Pennsylvania, and it was still quite a distance to Beauport.
I had enough money to get halfway there by bus.
But hitchhiking? Apparently it’s out of style—no one stopped.
I walked for hours on a lonesome road, wet from a recent rain, to get to that gas station.
My feet ached, and my stomach grumbled the whole way.
Now, at last, I had something to eat. Soon it would be fueling the next leg of my trip north.
But eating would have to wait. The gas station owner burst outside, charging after me as I walked away. At least I assumed he was the owner—who else would care about junk food worth only a few bucks?
He was a snub-nosed Goliath of a man in his fifties, possessing a barrel chest and greasy dark hair plastered to his pockmarked scalp. His grimy white shirt struggled to contain his belly, and his deep-set eyes resembled two pits carved into his thick skull.
One look at his furious face, and I knew I was in trouble.
“Give it back. All of it,” he demanded.
Before I could argue, he grabbed my arm above the elbow with an iron grip. I swear I could feel my bones cracking.
“Okay, okay. Let go of me,” I pleaded, my voice shaking. I could hold my own in a fight, but this would be like Tinker Bell taking on a rhinoceros. The pain in my arm was blinding. I twisted and turned, but I couldn’t break free.
He started dragging me back toward the store. I had been the only customer (and I use that term lightly). As far as I knew, the place was empty. A new fear took hold.
“Let’s call the police, and we can straighten this out,” I suggested with a lot more bravado than I was feeling.
He laughed. “I’m gonna teach you a lesson you won’t forget. Don’t need the police for that.”
I yanked my arm, slamming my foot into his shin as hard as I could. But he still wouldn’t let go. He kept dragging me toward the empty store. I pictured a back office where no one would see us—or hear my screams.
Desperate, I spat at him, hissing like a wild animal. A thick glob of saliva slithered down his ruddy cheek. His fury exploded. His eyes darkened, and then—
Crack.
His open palm struck my face so hard that my skull rattled. My vision blurred, legs buckling, jaw burning.
He grabbed my shirt to keep me upright, readying to strike again. His fat fingers caught the chain around my neck, and the clasp gave way. A flash of silver fell to the dirt-covered pavement.
His gaze followed. He must have guessed that the necklace was important because he stomped on it, grinding it under his boot.
But for a brief moment, he was distracted.
I reached into my pocket. Instead of the food I had put there, my fingers closed around the can of pepper spray I’d bought on my way out of Pennsylvania. I sweet-talked my way out of the age restriction. No safety top, no fumbling required—I pulled it out and squeezed the trigger.
A blast of acrid-smelling spray struck Goliath square in the eyes. He bellowed, stumbling backward, pawing at his face.
At least he let go of me.
I had to make a break for it, but I wasn’t leaving without my necklace. In one swift motion, I scooped it off the ground—having to make a second grab for the stone he’d knocked loose—then sprinted away.
His voice roared behind me, calling me every horrible name imaginable. But he didn’t matter anymore.
I rounded a corner breathless and wide-eyed, searching for a place to hide when I spotted a run-down auto body shop with a pickup truck parked out front.
Without thinking, I dove under the blue tarp covering the truck bed, landing in a pile of construction debris and tools.
It wasn’t until I got settled that I realized I had dropped my phone in the tumult, but there was no going back for it now.
I hoped to have a moment to catch my breath, but a few minutes later, the driver got in. The engine roared to life. Before I could say, “Let me out,” we were on the road.
I curled into the fetal position for warmth, jolted with every bump. We drove for an hour, my teeth chattering the whole time. When I couldn’t take it anymore, I banged on the cab window.
The startled driver pulled over. He was older, maybe in his sixties, with quiet, kind eyes. A jeans-and-work-shirt guy. He listened with care as I told him about Goliath.
“You want me to call the cops?”
I shook my head. “I just need to get to Massachusetts,” I lied, saying I had a friend there.
He saw right through me. Still, he invited me to sit up front. He bought me dinner at McDonald’s, and after, he handed me a hundred bucks. He even purchased a bus ticket to my final destination.
“Be careful,” he said. “I’ll pray for you.”
Then he was gone.
The smell of creamy, gooey mac and cheese wafts up the stairs, pulling me from that awful memory. My stomach rumbles, but thoughts of my savior linger. I never learned that man’s name, never got to thank him. I want more than anything to add Holly Sinclair to my short list of helpful souls.
I emerge from the bathroom wearing a stained T-shirt and jeans that I haven’t washed in weeks, wondering again about the washing machine in the basement.
When I reach the stairwell, there are blue lights flickering through the windows.
Shit. Cops. I retreat quickly as something brushes against my leg.
I almost scream. Looking down, there’s Holly’s three-legged cat staring up at me.
We’ve met a few times when I dared come downstairs to use the bathroom while Holly was out.
He speaks to me in a gentle meow. I press a finger to my lips, begging the cat to stay quiet so he doesn’t give me away. No cops. Not ever. That’s my golden rule.
Sorry, Holly. I wanted this to be different.
I have my bag with me. Luckily, I brought it down from the attic, and I know a safe way out of here.
The cat follows me into the bedroom, still meowing. My pulse races as I slide the window open. Thick, humid air bathes my skin. A sea breeze carries the scent of rain. The thought of getting caught in a storm almost makes me reconsider. Almost.
Before I know it, I’m halfway out the window, testing the trellis. It feels strong enough, but I can’t be sure.
One foot. Then the other. I cling to the windowsill, too terrified to look down.
With one hand, I steady myself, inching one foot lower.
These things are built for plants, not people, but it holds strong.
I descend with caution. When my feet touch the ground, the wave of relief almost knocks me over.
The blue police lights flash brighter outside. A pang of regret hits me. For a moment, I thought Holly and I could be friends—that I wouldn’t be alone anymore.
But some girls just have to keep running.