Less Than Nothing Read online

  “It’s Derek’s birthday. Can you make something special for us?”

  He nods once and barely contains his eye roll before tromping off to the kitchen.

  I sigh and look at Derek. “He likes you best.”

  “Are you kidding? That’s the happiest I’ve ever seen him. He was dizzy with excitement. Don’t let him fool you.”

  I laugh some more and have a hard time stopping. I’ve kind of got the giggles. Part of the reason is I feel a lot more comfortable with Derek – he seems more human now. Before he was this unapproachable hot guy with danger written all over him, but after spending the day, and now the evening, with him, I’m starting to be able to look past that. Not that I want to – the eye candy part’s also pretty compelling. My gaze drifts to his Elvis tattoo.

  “What’s the story with the King?” I ask.

  “It’s a reminder of what you can do if you really want to. He came from nowhere, and he made history.”

  “You really like his music?”

  Derek shrugs. “Some of it’s pretty good. But I’m more talking about his bulldozing whatever was in his way and making it, no matter what it took.” His eyes take on a passionate gleam. “He started as a hillbilly singer, but became a force of nature. You have to admire that. And he did it all while he was young – not much older than we are.”

  “Really?” I ask. I’m not that big on a singer who would have been old enough to be my great-grandfather.

  Derek nods. “He was told he couldn’t sing by everyone in the business, and to quit. He got passed up in tons of auditions. But nothing could stop him. He just kept at it until the world came to him. He dragged it kicking and screaming, and never gave up.”

  “And that’s what you’re planning to do?” I ask playfully. His eyes never waver, and I see the truth in them. “You are, aren’t you?”

  He looks away. “Everyone’s got a dream, right?”

  I consider that. Do they? I don’t. I don’t even have a plan for the week, much less a dream.

  I feel like a loser again. Who’s either of us kidding? We’re street people one day away from starvation – or one good storm from pneumonia. Our life expectancies can be measured in years, not decades. Dreams are for people with futures. We’re like some kind of lost tribe, living in limbo. Our reality is one that doesn’t exactly encourage wishful thinking or optimism.

  A part of me envies Derek for his Elvis tattoo, for his reminder that extraordinary things are possible. At least he has something to wake up for.

  I sigh, wondering whether I’ll ever have anything, or anyone, and then push the thought aside. No point dwelling on possibilities that don’t exist for me.

  For now I’ll settle for my bag of coins and a chance at a better tomorrow. This week, with Derek. Next week? We have to make it to next week. I’ll worry about it then.

  Chapter 7

  Dessert turns out to be tiramisu, and a mega helping of it that tastes like sin. I don’t think I can choke down more than two bites, and then I’m baffled when a good third of it disappears on my side of the plate. I’m buzzing from the sugar rush when Derek edges closer to me and sets his fork on the plate, signaling he’s done.

  He stares at Elvis for a long moment, then turns his attention to me.

  “Now it’s my turn.”

  “Your turn for what? Diabetic coma?” I joke.

  “No, to ask some of the questions I’ve been wanting to.”

  I make a face. “Wait. Who said anything about turns?”

  “That’s how it works. I mean, I have to know who I’m partnering with, right? It’s not like I’ll just team up with anyone.”

  “I didn’t get that feeling when you made your offer.”

  The grin is back. “Deception, grasshopper.”

  I frown. “You watched a lot of TV at home, didn’t you?”

  “What was the giveaway?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Play along. It’s my frigging birthday.”

  “How do we really know that? I mean, how do I know you aren’t just saying it’s your birthday to gain an advantage?”

  He chuckles. “An advantage?”

  It does sound kind of dumb when he says it. Not when I think it, though.

  “You know.”

  “Oh, you mean like, maybe if it’s my birthday, you’ll…treat me extra special good?”

  Now it sounds even dumber. I eye his face, handsome as any I’ve seen. Would he really need to invent a birthday to get any girl he wanted? I remember Melody’s reaction, only part joking, as well as all the women who stopped throughout the day and voted with their wallets. No, Derek wouldn’t have to tell stories to get extra special good treatment.

  My face must look like someone’s knocked the wind out of me, because his tone softens. “I didn’t mean to make fun of you. It’s just kind of amusing. You’re so suspicious of me. It’s obvious.”

  “Still doesn’t prove it’s your birthday.”

  “You’re right about that. Hey, look at it this way – there’s a one in three hundred and sixty-five chance I’m telling the truth.”

  I can’t help but smile. He smiles back, and my heart lurches. People like Derek must be put on the planet to make the rest of us feel inferior – guys just aren’t supposed to look that good in real life.

  “Let’s assume for the moment that it is, okay? They’re just questions. They won’t bite.”

  I try to think of a way of getting out of having to answer, but can’t come up with anything. “Fine. Ask away. Since it might actually be your birthday, I’ll give you three questions. Make ’em good ones.”

  “Only three? Are you serious?”

  “That’s one.”

  “Oh, come on.”

  “Okay, first one’s for free.”

  His expression grows serious. “How long have you been on the street?”

  That’s an easy one. “Four months.”

  “Any brothers or sisters?”

  Another easy one. “Nope.”

  He nods and steeples his fingers like a champion chess player. I cringe inwardly in anticipation of the next one, which I suspect won’t be a softball. But there’s a limit to what I’ll share with a stranger. If it’s anything about why I ran away, I can deflect. I’m not going to discuss that. Not my mom, not my stepdad, not my real father. None of it.

  Derek’s ability to surprise me hasn’t diminished over dessert. When he speaks, it’s almost a whisper. “So you’ve been on your own for four months, are an only child, and beyond that, are a mystery. And you’ve limited my questions, entirely unfairly I might add…” He holds up a hand to silence my protest. The King wiggles his silent support for my predicament. “So here’s my third try: What do you want to be when you grow up? What’s your dream?”

  Great. Nothing like a little light conversation after dinner.

  How the hell do I answer that? With a glib “alive”? Something tells me that won’t cut it. He’s staring at me with quiet intensity. I watch his chest rise and fall with each breath as he waits for my answer.

  I groan inwardly and realize by his quick smile that I must have done so audibly as well. Nothing like letting them see you sweat.

  The truth is, I haven’t got a clue what I want to be when I grow up. I debate telling him the simple answer, but my mouth has decided to take this moment to revolt, joining the rest of my body in conspiring against me.

  “Wow, Derek. That’s the big one, isn’t it?” I take a sip of my soda dregs to buy myself time to think. “You know, I left home, and just getting as far as I could as fast as possible was all I focused on. Then, when I arrived here, that changed overnight to surviving. I mean, I had this idea I could make it on the street without too much of a problem, but the first night, when I got propositioned a dozen times and then followed by a pimp who wouldn’t take no for an answer and wound up having to hang out all night in front of the police station…it’s like reality hit, and suddenly it wasn’t escaping home anymore. Ever sinc
e then I’ve been living day to day, trying to stay positive, making money where I can. I haven’t thought about anything past today. I completely know that’s reckless and kinda stupid, but it’s the truth.”

  That’s the most I’ve ever said to him, or really to anyone since leaving home. When I finish, my chest feels tight and my eyes burn. I blink away the emotions that are rushing unbidden to the surface. Emotions are a luxury I can’t afford. Emotions make you soft. Emotions can get you killed, or taken advantage of, or ruin your life.

  Derek seems to understand. He doesn’t say anything for several seconds, and when he does, it’s almost a whisper. “Fair enough. But you’re safe right now. We have a roof over our heads till this dump closes, we made some good money today, and we’ve got full bellies. Take your time and think about it. What do you want to be? If you could have anything?”

  He looks at Elvis, the tattoo’s lip curled in the most famous sneer in history, and I’m again envious of his reminder.

  “What about you?” I fire back. This isn’t fun anymore. Being on the receiving end of tough questions isn’t something I’m good at.

  “That’s not how this works,” he chides. “You owe me an answer.”

  “I gave you one.”

  He shakes his head. “No, you told me why you can’t give me an answer. Which is fine. But you owe me an answer, Sage.” He seems exasperated, but quickly covers it up with a cough. “Maybe not now, not tonight, but a deal’s a deal.”

  My eyes well with moisture, and I turn away. He sounds hurt. Worse, he sounds disappointed. It’s a tone I hate. My mother’s tone.

  He waves to the server for the check and places both hands flat on the table, palms down.

  “Sage, there are billions of people walking around. All of them trying to have the best possible life they can. But most of them are so caught up surviving, on being what they have to be to get a little ahead, that they don’t dream. They don’t have a passion to chase. We, on the other hand, don’t have any responsibilities. All we have to do is make some money so we can eat and dream big dreams.”

  It’s all just words. And I’ve heard about enough of his voice to last me a while. I reach into my backpack to pull out my bag of coins, which I’m sure will give the waiter a stroke, and that brightens my dark thoughts.

  The check arrives. Twenty-six dollars. I expected worse, and even after paying I’ll have more than I can remember for a long time.

  Derek reaches for the bill, and I move it out of range. “It’s on me, Mr. Maybe-or-maybe-not Birthday Boy.”

  He doesn’t say anything, only pulls his wad of bills out of his pocket and peels off thirty. “Do me a favor,” he says. “You can owe me the money. Give it to me later. But I don’t want to leave a mound of coins a foot high for them to deal with, okay? I come here too often – I’ll never live it down.”

  I quickly figure out how long it will take to count out thirty dollars in quarters, dimes, and nickels, and nod agreement. Since most of my meals cost three or four bucks, I don’t encounter the practical problems of living large on rolls of coins very often.

  “Okay.”

  He looks at me expectantly. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”

  I have no idea what he’s talking about. “What?”

  “Aren’t you going to sing me happy birthday?”

  Earlier today I would have laughed, but now all I want to do is get out of the restaurant. I feel claustrophobic, and my ears are still stinging from his lecture. Who does he think he is, telling me what I should or shouldn’t do? Not everyone has to have dreams they can put their fingers on.

  I stand and retrieve my backpack and guitar. Derek looks troubled and gathers his stuff and follows me out, past the few other diners still left. Once on the street I start walking toward Mission Street.

  “Hey,” he says and then hurries to catch up to me. “Hey, wait up.”

  I don’t know why I’m so furious, but I am. The anger flares up less and less these days, but it’s still there, waiting like a shark in the deep for the right trigger. I know it doesn’t make any sense, and that just worsens it. The best thing Derek can do right now is let me go off on my own.

  He trails me, closing to a few feet and then keeping a cautious distance. Then he grabs my arm. Big mistake.

  I’m swinging around to give him a piece of my mind, but he clamps his hand over my mouth and whispers, “Don’t say a word. Turn around, now.” He sees my eyes, furious as I debate biting him, and brings his mouth so close to my ear his breath warms it. “Up ahead. Four homeboys. We don’t have a lot of time. Let’s hope they aren’t bored.”

  He removes his hand, his eyes now fully alert and with none of the earlier warmth in them. I turn and see who he’s talking about. In my anger I’ve forgotten the number one rule of street survival: always stay aware of your surroundings.

  Derek doesn’t have to tell me twice. I spin and we make tracks, listening for running footsteps behind us. The good news is there aren’t any sounds of running pursuit. The bad news is they’re still coming, their voices low, but unhurried, too cool to sprint.

  We make it to the corner, and he pauses, then whispers again, “When we get to the restaurant, run. Follow me. They’ll lose interest. We just need to make it hard for them.”

  “Where are we going to go?”

  “I crash near here. Three blocks away.”

  My eyes widen. “You have a place?”

  He touches my arm again. “Remember. When we get to the restaurant, run. We’ll be out of sight for maybe ten or fifteen seconds.”

  He sounds serious…and something else. Not scared, which is what I’m feeling. No, it’s more like there’s an urgency, and even as we round the corner and approach the restaurant, I realize that he’s not worried about himself.

  Derek’s afraid of what will happen to me.

  Chapter 8

  When Derek reaches the restaurant entry he bolts, and I do the best I can to follow him as he pulls away. I’m afraid he’s going to lose me, and then I see him duck between two darkened hulks of buildings covered with graffiti, trash surrounding their bases. I trail him in, and he gestures to me and then takes my hand. My heart’s jackhammering in my chest so hard my pulse sounds like a drumroll in my ears, and I don’t even think about the implications of his skin on mine.

  We exit out the opposite side of the buildings, and we’ve put a block between ourselves and our pursuers. Derek slows but doesn’t let go of my hand. I decide I don’t mind being led for now. My independent streak takes a back seat to getting someplace safe while we can.

  He darts across the street with me, and we keep to the shadows. The streetlights are burned out or broken, and there are only a few lights on in second- and third-story tenement windows. I can see cars two blocks away, on Mission Street, but it might as well be the moon. Anything that’s going to play out will do so way before we can make it to a more populated area.

  “Where are we going?” I hiss, my breath coming in ragged bursts. My backpack feels heavier with each footfall.

  “We’re almost there,” Derek says, and I hope he’s got a plan beyond running from danger all night. I curse myself for coming into the Mission with him, but it’s too late now – what’s done is done.

  A tall forties-style marquee rises into the night sky from the side of a darkened building. There’s a chain-link fence around it and vandalized warning signs hanging from the posts. Derek feels along the fence, and when we reach a section near an overflowing dumpster, he ducks and pushes the lower section in.

  “Come on. Hurry.”

  The fence is either loose or has been cut. I push through the gap he’s holding, and he quickly follows me through, then replaces it and takes the lead again. This time when he takes my hand I’m relieved. Where minutes before I was ready to clock him for grabbing my arm, now I’m happy he’s here, my hand in his.

  He moves to a boarded entryway and feels along the side, then shifts a piece of plywood aside and p
oints into the darkness. “After you.”

  My fear of whatever’s in there isn’t as big as what’s behind us, so I go through. He follows and wedges the plank back in place. I feel a sense of vertigo. It’s pitch black, and my eyes instinctively try to find a light source, any source, but there isn’t one.

  “Come on,” Derek says, and the room brightens when he twists on a small pocket flashlight. I look around. The dim beam plays over trash, broken desks, the remains of what looks like a vending machine, and rusting billboards advertising movies that haven’t played for decades.

  My hand slides into his, this time of my volition, and we creep through the garbage until we come to a set of double doors. He knocks twice, and something scrapes on the other side.

  “Where are we?” I whisper.

  “Home sweet home,” he says, and then the door swings wide.

  There’s light, not much, from a single lamp set on a slab of wood that’s resting on theater seats, half of them torn from the floor. A heavyset guy with a Mohawk and multiple piercings, holding a piece of pipe in one hand and a fire axe in the other, glares at me. Then his face relaxes into a smile when he sees Derek.

  “I wondered where you were,” he says to Derek. “Who’s this?”

  “My friend Sage. Sage, meet Bull. He’s the master of ceremonies here.”

  “Sage, huh? Well, if the bard here vouches for you, welcome,” Bull says.

  Derek still hasn’t let go of my hand. Bull turns and slides the length of pipe back between two metal eyelets, effectively blocking the door. I look around and see the door’s twin at the end of a second aisle, also wedged shut. Derek leads me toward what was once the stage and leans in. His breath is sweet from the tiramisu.

  “I pay five bucks a night to stay here. The place was condemned years ago after the big earthquake, but something happened, and it never got torn down.”

  “You pay to stay in this dump?”

  “Hey. Bull keeps the idiots out, and there’s a bathroom and showers he’s rigged up. He and his boys run a tight ship. Nobody bugs you, and nothing gets ripped off while you sleep. It’s totally worth five bucks.”