No Place Page 5

  Ms. Mitchell was big on critical thinking. And sometimes on just trying to get us to think, period. Since class participation was a big part of our grade, you could usually count on the GPA zombies like Ben Phillips and Susan Barrow to speak up. Now Ben raised his hand. “They can’t really force them to move there, can they?”

  “No,” said Ms. Mitchell. “All the town can do is point out the benefits, like free meals, electricity, and washing facilities. But there’s another reason why the idea appears to be working. Does anyone know what it is?”

  Susan raised her hand. “The homeless feel that banding together makes them more visible and harder to ignore.”

  “Very good,” said Ms. Mitchell. “When they were scattered around town, they were easier to miss. Most of you probably didn’t know that there were half a dozen families living in the state forest out on High Bridge Road. Hardly anyone knew they were there. There were families living in cars and boats. I don’t think anyone realized how many there were. And why don’t they want to be ignored?”

  Ben’s hand went up again.

  “Let’s see if we can get someone else involved.” Ms. Mitchell scanned the room.

  It was time to gaze out the window.

  “Dan?”

  An invisible weight pushed down on my shoulders. Do teachers get special training for picking the student who least wants to be called on?

  “Why don’t the homeless want to be ignored, Dan?”

  Kids turned to look at me. I even heard a few chair legs scrape. I thought about the ratty-haired kid and his crusade in the hall outside the cafeteria. “Because then nothing will ever change.”

  Justin Smith’s hand went up, which was kind of interesting because he was a gearhead auto-tech troll, not a GPA zombie. “If they want things to change they should get off their butts and find jobs.”

  That was the same thing Noah had said. And yet, you couldn’t find two more different kids.

  Beth Perkins, an emo-punk type with dyed red streaks, turned to him. “Sure, Justin, they could work at McDonald’s. But suppose you went to college and maybe even got a master’s degree in business or engineering? Would you be happy flipping burgers?”

  Justin tucked his chin down. “If that was the only job I could get.”

  “And what if you had a family?” Beth asked. “And there was no way you could earn enough at McDonald’s to house and feed them?”

  Justin shrugged. “I’d make sure they got a lot of Happy Meals.”

  The class laughed. I glanced again at Meg and saw that she was smiling. Given that she and her family were homeless, it seemed kind of remarkable.

  When the period ended, I made sure we left the room at the same time. Her eyes darted uncertainly at me when we started down the hall together.

  “How’s it going?” I asked.

  “Why do you ask?” she replied stiffly, not looking in my direction.

  “Just because of what we were talking about in class.”

  “You’re wondering why I didn’t say anything?” Her voice was ripe with defensiveness. “Like why I didn’t raise my hand and claim to be an authority on Dignityville?”

  “No.”

  “Then what? Why are you even talking to me? Why are we walking together?”

  I thought I understood her guarded attitude. Sometimes something happens with someone, and you don’t think much about it. But what you don’t realize is that the other person has thought a lot about it. Maybe they’ve even gotten kind of worked up over it. I’m not saying that day in the library when we laughed meant more to her than it did to me. It did mean something to me. But maybe it just meant something different.

  We passed an empty classroom. “Come in here for a second?”

  Meg frowned. “Why?”

  “Just do it.”

  We went in. Meg crossed her arms, her eyebrows dipping. “What? You can’t be seen with me in the hallway? I’m a pariah now?”

  I did the two-finger swipe. “Two points for vocabulary.”

  She wasn’t amused. “So?”

  “You’re not a pariah. I just have a girlfriend with spies everywhere.”

  She blinked, as if astonished. “That’s why you’ve been ignoring me?”

  So I was right. She thought I’d been ignoring her. No wonder she sounded hurt and defensive. Look at it from her point of view: I’d started to get friendly, we’d really connected, and then I’d backed away. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to make it seem that way. I . . . there’s actually been a bunch of times when I wanted to talk to you.”

  “But you were afraid she’d find out?” Meg rolled her eyes. “Boy, Mr. Popular Stud, I’m glad I’m not in your shoes.”

  Ouch! This girl didn’t pull any punches.

  She quickly looked around the room. “Wait! What if she’s got all the classrooms bugged?”

  “Very funny. No, I just . . . I don’t know. Tal and I are pretty happy together.”

  “Oh, yeah, that’s so obvious,” Meg replied facetiously. “My best relationships have always been with people I was afraid were spying on me.”

  That made me chuckle. “You’re pretty sarcastic.”

  “Yeah, well, I can’t blow myself up like a puffer fish and show my spines when attacked.”

  “You’re under attack?” I asked, confused.

  “From embarrassment and humiliation? Duh. You especially should know that.”

  Now I got it. “Hence the pariah comment?”

  “Welcome to my world,” she muttered, skidding across the ice from sarcastic to bitter. She raised her head as if she’d just thought of something. “By the way, are we still keeping that secret about why you’re living at your uncle’s house?”

  Before I could answer, the classroom door opened. Maybe I swiveled around a little too quickly to see who it was—a kid I didn’t know. “Sorry, wrong room.” He backed out. When I turned back to Meg, she had a thoughtful expression. “So which is it? Afraid of being caught consorting with the homeless? Or just of her jealous wrath?”

  “Neither.”

  But she’d already turned toward the door. “Gotta get to my next class. You better stay here and count to ten so no one sees us leave together.”

  She went out.

  I stood there way past a ten count, wondering . . . how right was she?

  9

  “You sure that’s what you want to wear?” Noah asked. It was Friday night and I’d just gotten into his car. He was wearing sweatpants and an old hoodie.

  “Aren’t we doing some church thing?” I said.

  “We’re cooking. For Dignityville.”

  “Be right back.” I jogged back into Uncle Ron’s, quickly changed clothes.

  “You okay?” Noah asked when I returned.

  “I think so, why?”

  “I don’t know. You seem a little out of it lately.” He started to drive.

  “Everything’s cool.” It wasn’t. And now here was the idea of cooking for the homeless, which felt strange considering my family’s current situation. There’d been a time when it would have been just another excuse to hang out with friends, no different from really, making a fire at the beach or going to the movies. But now?

  Saint Stephen’s was the biggest church in town. When Noah and I got downstairs, Tory and Talia and a couple of others had already gathered around the big countertop island.

  “Glad you two could make it,” Tory said in a snarky tone.

  Noah clapped me on the shoulder. “Wonder Boy here was dressed for dinner with the archbishop.”

  I sidled up to Talia, who gave me a concerned look and a quick peck on the cheek.

  “Did you say we were cooking for Dignityville?” I whispered.

  “Yes.”

  That was weird, because I couldn’t remember her telling me. Was Noah right about me being out of it?

  Tory tapped a metal ladle against the countertop, upon which were bags of beans, onions, and other ingredients. She was a planner and organizer (did someone
say “control freak”?). If twenty years from now she became governor, I wouldn’t be surprised.

  “Order in the court,” she said. “Dignityville doesn’t have a kitchen, so dinners are prepared by volunteers off-site. Tonight that’s us, so let’s have fun while doing something good, okay?”

  Everyone got to work. Noah and I were assigned to the onions.

  “Punishment for being late,” he muttered while Tory’s back was turned.

  “Why?” I whispered.

  “You ever chop onions?”

  I shook my head. Cooking wasn’t my thing, and besides, Mom was so good at it. Noah smirked and handed me an industrial-size knife.

  In no time we both had tears running down our cheeks.

  “Aw, look at duh big stwong ath-a-weetes cwying,” Ben Phillips teased in his best Elmer Fudd imitation. He might have been a GPA zombie in government and politics class and president of our school’s chapter of Young Entrepreneurs, but what he had in brains he lacked in brawn, and seemed to have a chip on his shoulder about being on the chubby side and unathletic.

  “It takes a strong man to cry.” Noah wiped his eyes on his sleeve. “Something you wouldn’t know about, Ben.”

  “Enough,” Tory quickly interjected. “We’re in a house of brotherly love, remember?”

  The stoves were on, everyone was busy, and it started to get hot. Noah and I peeled off our hoodies. The girls were chattering, and the guys, now stirring big pots of chili, looked like they just wanted to finish quickly and go hang out at someone’s house. I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised when I felt something bounce off my shoulder. Turning, I found a clove of garlic lying on the floor and saw Zach Raines, a switch-hitting outfielder who doubled as a relief pitcher, give me a furtive glance. He couldn’t really be proposing a food fight, could he?

  I continued to stir. A moment later a clove must have hit Noah, because he swiveled around.

  “Ignore it,” I whispered.

  “Hell, no,” Noah whispered back. He picked up the clove, waited until the coast was clear, and threw it.

  In no time another clove bounced off the pot of chili and another made a little clink when it struck the stove hood above us. Then one landed in the chili. I started to get an uncomfortable feeling that had nothing to do with whether Tory caught us. This was food people were going to eat.

  Noah glanced in Tory’s direction to make sure she wasn’t looking, then rifled the cap from a bottle of chili powder at Zach. It missed and made a loud enough clack! for Tory to turn and look. Instantly, the guys all pretended to focus on cooking, but the second Tory turned away Noah and I were pelted by half a dozen cloves. As Noah searched for something to throw back, Ben cleared his throat loudly: “Hey, Tory, you want to come over here and make sure I’m browning the beef right?”

  It was a warning for us to stop fooling around. Obviously Ben was also feeling uncomfortable. But unlike us “big stwong ath-a-weetes,” he’d had the courage to do something about it.

  * * *

  When the chili was done, we poured it into big plastic containers and put it in refrigerators, where it would be stored until it was reheated and taken over to Dignityville. Then Tory invited everyone back to her house for a little “reward celebration” for doing good work. Her father owned Pizza Grandé, a chain of pizza places with a Hispanic theme, and they must have been doing really well, because the Sanchezes had this amazing rec room downstairs with a pool table, big-screen TV, and some cool old arcade video games like Space Invaders and Pac-Man. At least one night every weekend we wound up hanging out there with Tory’s parents providing pizzas and only half joking that they liked having us around because that way they knew where Tory was.

  Talia and I sat on the couch with Tory and Noah while some of the others shot pool or played arcade games. While Tory and Talia talked about going to the mall the next day, I couldn’t help thinking that a few miles away my bed was a couch in a rec room not so different from this. Suddenly it felt strange being with these kids who all had their own homes, while I wondered if, the next time I needed clothes, I’d be forced to go to Goodwill instead of the mall.

  Talia turned to me. “You’re quiet tonight.”

  I shrugged. “Just thinking.”

  No one said a word.

  “What? Is that so strange?” I asked.

  “Definitely.” Noah grinned.

  Tory’s mom came to the door to announce that the pizzas had arrived. There was a mass exodus toward the stairs, but I noticed that Ben was in the middle of a Space Invaders game. “Be up in a second,” I told Talia, then waited.

  Ben kept playing, but I knew he’d seen me out of the corner of his eye. I didn’t know him that well. Talia had told me that once a month the Young Entrepreneurs invited a local businessperson to speak, and they’d asked her father, who told her afterward that he’d been seriously impressed with how Ben had grilled him about his real estate business.

  Ben finished the game, turned to me, and frowned as if to say, Why aren’t you upstairs chowing down?

  “Nice move before,” I said, and as his eyebrows dipped toward puzzlement, I added, “in the church kitchen.”

  Ben nodded slowly, his eyes never leaving mine. “Thanks . . . It’s too bad, you know?” He went past me and up the stairs. I stayed behind for a few moments, wondering what he’d meant. Was it too bad about the people who had to live in Dignityville? Or too bad about what had happened to me? Or was it that in his eyes, there was no difference?

  10

  Noah and I usually went for a long run on Saturday mornings to keep the cardio thing going. When I got back to the house after the run, Dad was in the driveway, putting Uncle Ron’s Callaways in the back of our car. “Got time for a round?” he asked.

  Maybe once a year Dad and I played golf at the public course just to spend time together. I knew it was a Saturday, and not a great day for him to look for a job, but given our circumstances, it still didn’t feel right. Besides, once again I had a chance to earn some money helping Uncle Ron’s neighbor do yard work.

  “Don’t think I can, sorry.”

  “You sure?”

  I almost asked if he was sure going golfing was the right thing to do. I was going to spend the afternoon working; why wasn’t he?

  * * *

  I worked for about four hours, and had gone back to Ron’s to take a break, when Mike and Ike burst into the rec room.

  “Your dad’s in trouble!” Mike announced excitedly.

  I went upstairs. Dad and Ron, both wearing golf clothes, were standing in the front hall. Ron’s face was red and I got the feeling that he’d been chewing Dad out big-time. They both gave me a look that said I should make myself scarce.

  In the kitchen Mom and Aunt Julie, dabbing her eyes with a tissue, were at the counter. Mom looked grim, although it seemed a little strange that Aunt Julie was the one who appeared really upset.

  “What happened?” I whispered.

  “Ron came home to play golf and your father had taken his clubs,” Mom replied.

  The implication hit me. “He took them without asking?”

  “Ron’s been in the office every Saturday,” Aunt Julie explained. “There was no reason to think he’d take off early today.”

  It seemed odd that she was defending Dad, but I had a feeling it was because Mom felt the way I did—that there was no excuse for taking those clubs without asking. But that was the kind of thing Dad sometimes did. More thoughtless than malicious, but bad judgment just the same.

  Aunt Julie left the kitchen to find Alicia and get her out of earshot in case there was a round two between Ron and Dad.

  “This isn’t working,” Mom said in a low voice now that we were alone. “The negative energy in this house is overwhelming.”

  “You can’t blame Ron for being angry,” I said. “I mean, what Dad did was incredibly dumb.”

  “I know, but it’s still unbearable here. He’s always angry. I feel like I can’t breathe.”


  “What can you do?”

  Mom tapped a finger against the kitchen counter and gazed off. “We’ll see.”

  * * *

  When you’re a kid, things are mostly black and white, good and bad. Then you get to be a teenager and you start to see the gradual hues in between. Is someone good or bad? Both? A little more of one than the other? Dad stayed home with me when I was little because as a stockbroker Mom was making more money than he was and they didn’t want to put me in day care or have some other person raise me. Think being a stay-at-home dad is easy? Even as a little kid I was aware of the looks other moms gave him in the supermarket, and at school when he volunteered for the book fair. And it’s not so hard to imagine what it must have been like for him at parties with the other fathers talking about their jobs as lawyers and bankers and whatever.

  But he took all that crap for my sake, and guided me toward pitching, which is probably the best thing that I ever did.

  On the downside? He didn’t have the best judgment. Not a lot of ambition, either. Liked to play more than he liked to work. Took his brother-in-law’s golf clubs without asking.

  * * *

  “Think of it this way,” Dad said in the car later that afternoon. “It’s not that much different from any other campground.”

  I didn’t know what to say. We were parked on the street across from Dignityville. Earlier that afternoon Mom and Dad went somewhere while I’d gone back to Uncle Ron’s neighbor’s to work. It hadn’t occurred to me to ask where they’d gone.

  Now I knew.

  It was getting close to sunset, and inside Dignityville people were filing into the big tent in the middle of the park. A few were the grungy types you imagined homeless people to be—old guys with greasy hair and scraggly beards, ladies wearing too many sweaters. But others looked as neatly dressed as anyone who had a home.