Blackbird Read Free

you mean?”
    “In the bathroom . . . you sold that kid something. Pot? Pills? What?”
    The boy passes a basket between his hands, two sad apples rolling around beside a six-pack of Coke. “You don’t know that.”
    “I do.” It was obvious, the way he held whatever was in his pocket, as if you might see it or take it away. “I just saw a cop outside. You should at least be smart about it.”
    “What do you know about that?” The boy inches closer, looking at you with new interest. There’s something friendlier in him now, as if he underestimated you.
    “Mind if I use your phone a second?” You nod to the phone in his front pocket, the rectangle pressing against the cloth.
    “Yeah, I guess.” He passes it to you. “You don’t have one?”
    “If I had one do you think I’d be asking?”
    You take a few steps from him before pulling the notepad from your bag, opening it to the page with the number. The nervousness hits as you wait, listening to the silence before the first ring. You can’t help but hate the person on the other line, whoever they are, for knowing more about your life than you do.
    Three rings, then a man’s voice. “I was wondering if you’d call.”
    The boy is less than ten feet away, pretending to look at some boxes of cereal. You lower your voice when you speak. “Who is this?”
    “Just meet me at my office. It’s the building marked on that map. Come alone.”
    You’re trying to read into his words, to decipher some meaning beyond what’s said, but then he hangs up and there is only the time. Eighteen seconds and he’s gone.
    The boy is listening, so you talk into nothingness, offering good-byes and thanks. Scrolling through the phone, you move quickly to the call history to delete the number. Mom , Mom , Mom , reads the list below it. As you hand the phone back the boy narrows his eyes. “What are you laughing at?”
    “Nothing,” you say, and you are already taking a step back. “Thanks for that. I have to run.”
    But when you turn, you spot the police officer at the end of the aisle. He’s in profile, his fingers grazing a rack of chips. He glances up, noticing you notice him.
    You turn back to the boy. “Unless . . . Can you give me a ride somewhere?”
    He sets the basket on the floor, the Coke now buried under two boxes of Cap’n Crunch. “Where do you need to go?”
    “Downtown.”
    He nods toward the exit, urging you off. You walk beside him, your shoulders nearly touching, and it takes all you have not to turn around, not to look one last time at the officer at the back of the store. When you get to the register the boy empties the basket onto the conveyor belt, the apples rolling in opposite directions.
    “I’m Ben, by the way.”
    The mention of his name makes you nervous, and you wonder why you didn’t think of it before. People and Us Weekly are crammed into a rack in front of you, a magazine called Sunset right beside them. It seems as good a name as any. It seems real.
    “I’m Sunny,” you lie.
    Then you glance back one last time, just to be certain the officer isn’t there.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF–NOT FOR SALE
    HarperCollins Publishers
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CHAPTER FOUR
    THE JEEP SPEEDS past dusty buildings and empty parking lots, an alley with ripped tarp tents. You watch the world outside pass, certain you have done something wrong. Stolen something, ran away from somewhere—school? Home? There’s no other reason why you’d be warned not to contact the police, why you’d be waiting for a stranger to tell you who you are. Why were you so intent to get away, why was your instinct to run? Why can’t you remember anything from before?
    Just the thought of it makes you wince. You were someone before this. And if there is a line between good and bad, you were probably on the wrong side of it. You were the one escaping, the one running, the one trying not to get caught. The scar on your neck might