Part 2 (2/2)
”Sure. Where are you headed?” Tevin asked.
”To get the ID. And some personal stuff.”
The others didn't object. By now they were used to the boundaries that Wally had erected around her personal history. Everyone in the crew had their own secrets, and they respected hers.
The four of them walked to the subway station at 134th Street and grabbed the C train downtown. As they rode, Jake brought out his MP3 player and, on cue, the others each plugged their own earbuds into the ”splitter” that allowed them to listen in on the mix together. The first song was a techno-house remix with a sort of hypnotic effect that almost caused them to miss their transfer at Columbus Circle. Jake realized it first and nudged the others; Tevin, Ella, and Jake waved goodbye to Wally as they hopped off and headed to the 3 train that would take them to Times Square.
Wally stayed on the C. As the train pulled out of the station, leaving her crew behind, Wally sighed, feeling relieved, and even spread out on the bench a little, expanding her personal s.p.a.ce. Her crew relied on her leaders.h.i.+p so much that Wally sometimes felt trapped under the weight of their expectations. When she was out in the city by herself, Wally reveled in the sense of freedom and possibility. More than once, Wally had imagined where she might end up if, one day, she stepped onto a train alone and allowed herself to keep riding, all the way to the end of the line and beyond.
Wally got off the train at the Port Authority and walked to Harmony House, a resource center for homeless youth on 41st Street. She went immediately to the women's washroom-an impersonal, almost industrial s.p.a.ce-and signed in to use a shower. The attendant gave her a clean towel and the key to an individual, prefab plastic stall, fairly clean but water-stained yellow from years of heavy use; the tight s.p.a.ce reeked of the bleach that the Harmony staff used every night to fight back the crud. Wally eagerly stripped down and stepped under the strong, hot stream of water, the steam quickly filling up the stall. She soaped and rinsed herself twice, imagining the stink of Panama's oniony hot dog breath was.h.i.+ng off her and swirling away down the drain. When the soaping was done, she stood under the hot stream, unmoving, soaking up the heat until the six-minute timer ran out and the water turned off on its own.
Wally dried off, grabbed a clean pair of underwear from her shoulder bag, and put the rest of her clothes back on. At the communal row of sinks, six of them side by side on a sagging fibergla.s.s counter, Wally stood with several other girls-all around her age-brus.h.i.+ng their teeth with the plastic-wrapped brushes provided by Harmony and putting on makeup in front of polished metal mirrors that had graffiti messages scratched into them: Rico does Juanie right, MS13, Sandra is a b.i.t.c.h. There were dispensers on the wall with free pads, which the girls grabbed by the fistful and stuffed in their bags. From one of the toilet stalls, there came the sounds of a girl quietly weeping. No one paid any attention.
One or two of the girls at the sinks looked fairly healthy and put-together; when they finished with their routines, they could probably pa.s.s for regular teens, girls with homes and families and futures. The rest were showing the signs of their difficult street lives. Wally brushed and dried her hair under a hot blower and tied it back in a stub of a ponytail-all her shoulder-length hair would allow-and checked herself out in the mirror. Which one was she, hopeful or hopeless? Staring back at her was a reasonably healthy girl of sixteen, acceptably clean and strong and well fed. Wally could still pa.s.s for happy, and she felt encouraged.
Wally's mascara had washed off in the shower. She pulled out her small makeup bag and began with her eyelashes, striving for the same dark, trashy look that she and Ella had so happily perfected. Soon Wally noticed another one of the girls at the sinks was staring at her intently. The girl was big and heavy-she had at least forty pounds on Wally-with a neglected look, her hair greasy, her face clouded over. One of the hopeless.
”What the f.u.c.k are you looking at?” Wally said. Hesitation was weakness.
”You ain't buy that,” the girl said in a Bronx sneer, nodding at the tube of mascara Wally was applying.
The girl was right. Claire had given it to Wally at the end of their most recent visit, stuffing the tube into Wally's bag as she walked out the door. Chanel. The one tube was worth more than all the other girls' possessions combined, and then some. The girl had to believe that Wally had stolen it.
Wally knew how it would go.
You want it? Come get it, she would say. The girl might hesitate, caught off guard by Wally's aggression, but she wouldn't be able to back down in front of the other girls. She would make a move, and Wally would turn her body to the side, crouching down low into an athletic position as she had been taught at the dojo. When the heavy girl was within range, Wally would throw her left fist forward in a feint, then slam her right fist up into the girl's solar plexus. The girl would drop to the floor of the bathroom, shocked by the terrible pain, panicked and struggling to breathe, afraid that she might be dying.
Imagining the outcome did not make Wally feel strong, only sad for the clueless, desperate girl standing before her.
”Take it,” Wally said, tossing the mascara to the girl.
The tube of Chanel was never Wally's anyway, not really. She and Ella found their own makeup in dollar store bargain bins, and that was just fine with Wally. She grabbed her bag and left the bathroom, brus.h.i.+ng past the startled-looking girl who now clasped a fancy new tube of mascara in her hand. In the hallway, Wally headed for the exit and was almost out the door when she heard her name called out from behind. She turned to find Lois Chao, one of the Harmony House caseworkers, walking quickly down the hall toward her, waving a small piece of paper in the air.
”Hey, Wally,” Lois said, a bit breathless when she caught up with Wally. ”How are you doing?”
”I'm good, Lois,” Wally answered curtly, hoping to discourage her from offering a pep talk of some kind.
”You look like you're in a hurry,” Lois said, reading Wally exactly, ”but I told this detective I would give you this. So here.”
Wally took the business card from Lois. The name on it was Detective Atley Greer, NYPD, 20th Precinct. Lois watched for Wally's reaction and saw the look of concern.
”It didn't seem like an emergency or anything,” Lois rea.s.sured her. ”He said he just was looking for information on something. You want to use my office phone?”
”No need. Thanks, Lois.”
”Okay. Stay safe, Wally.” Lois turned away and headed back down the hallway.
Wally's first impulse was to ignore the message-what good could possibly come from calling a cop?-but her curiosity was piqued, and she remembered that her new smart phone was set to block her number, so there was no risk to her. Wally dialed the number on Detective Greer's business card. The phone rang three times on the other end, then went to voice mail.
”Uh ... hi,” Wally spoke into the cell phone. ”This is Wallis Stoneman, returning your ... I mean, responding to the message you left for me at Harmony House. I'm not clear what this is about but ... maybe I'll try you back later.”
Wally hung up, suddenly feeling lame for making the call. Maybe I'll try you back later? Her own words sounded weak to her, and that p.i.s.sed Wally off. There were a bunch of reasons a New York City cop might want to speak with her, and an emergency situation with Claire was far down on that list. Wally put the detective out of her mind and headed back to the Port Authority, where she boarded the Q train for Brighton Beach.
THREE.
Everyone in Wally's crew knew she was adopted, but Ella was the first one she'd told about it. On a very hot day in July, Wally and Ella had walked in cutoffs and tank tops to the lake in Central Park, where they climbed down the Hernshead rock to the lakesh.o.r.e. They took off their shoes and soaked their feet in the cool but slightly algae green water.
”I wasn't cut out for this,” Wally said, fanning herself, the fair skin of her cheeks flushed pink.
”For what?”
”Heat. I'm from Russia,” Wally said matter-of-factly. ”It's always cold and gray there. As far as I know.”
”Your parents are Russian?”
”Yeah. Well ... no. Not my American parents.” Wally hesitated a bit, suddenly regretting that she'd brought up the subject at all.
”You mean, you're adopted?”
”Yeah.”
”From Russia?”
”Uh-huh.”
Ella thought about this for a moment.
”You don't know who your actual parents are?”
”No.”
Wally looked at her friend and could see that her imagination was already working overtime. Magical thinking was Ella's specialty.
”Cool ...” Ella finally said.
”You think so?”
”Oh yeah. You could be, like, secretly a Russian princess or something.”
”Hmm. I don't think they make those anymore.”
Wally leaned back against the rocks and closed her eyes, happy to let the subject drop. She had spent a lot of time questioning her origins-had once been obsessed with it, even-but dwelling on those issues had never done her any good. The questions that had been swirling around in her brain for the past six or seven years-Who am I? Where do I belong?-had never been answered, and the resulting frustration had played a large role in her rift with Claire, her adoptive mother.
”Did you always know?” Ella asked, not ready to let go of the subject. ”I mean, your parents told you about being adopted, right?”
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