and
becomes overgrown. The traffic sounds from Las Pulgas blend into a
distant hum. Birds flush from the undergrowth and small brown
critters with tails scurry behind rocks as we approach. With each
step I have the feeling we are walking back into another time, a
time before open space disappeared under asphalt and apartment
houses.
We continue around a
sweeping turn and come to a gate with a rope looped around a post.
Keith ignores the second “No Trespassing” sign and slips the rope
free. We enter a silent grove of trees, their gnarled trunks lined
up on either side of us. Somewhere behind all these leaves is the
Las Pulgas of today, but it looks like the developers forgot this
place was here. At the end of the road is a two-storied house with
a wide front porch. The curtains are drawn, but someone lives here.
Plants in hanging baskets are sprouting their first green leaves,
getting ready for spring, and wooden rockers sit empty, waiting for
the warm weather.
“What are these?” Keith
asks, touching the bark of a tree.
I shrug.
“Trees?”
“Very funny. What
kind?”
“They’re apple trees.” The
voice comes from behind us. I spin around, face to face with a man,
a long-barreled gun lying across his forearms. “Seems you don’t
know your trees anymore than you know how to read.”
“We—” I choke. “We lost our
cat. We wanted to see if she might have come this direction.” I
grab Keith’s hand like I used to when he was four and I was six.
Dad always said I was the big sister. I had to keep Keith safe when
we crossed the street. He’d never said what to do when a man faced
us with a big gun.
His wide-brimmed cowboy hat
sits squarely on his head casting a dark ring around his broad
shoulders. He cradles the gun as if it's a part of him and while I
can't see his eyes for the shadow from his hat brim I'm sure
they're trained on us—steady, unblinking. His skin is tight across
his cheekbones, bronzed and shiny, and his features are sharp like
a hawk. He's used to working with his hands, but in spite of the
scars and leathery skin his nails are trimmed and clean. He stands
easy and balanced on both feet, silently watching us.
“Her name is Quicken.” My
mouth develops a sudden case of drought, leaving my tongue filmed
with dust. “Our cat.” I squeeze Keith’s hand to say let’s get out
of here, and he returns the pressure.
“Where do you live?” the
man asks.
I point in the direction
from where I think we’ve come.
“Las Pulgas Apartments,” he
says. If words could be on fire, his would have burned down the
entire apple orchard. “A waste of good orchard land.”
I glance at the evenly
spaced tree trunks to avoid looking at him.
He walks around us and down
the path toward the house. “Close the gate on your way out.” He
turns after a few steps. “Next time, read the signs—and pay
attention to them.”
“Wait!” Keith shakes free
of my grasp and runs after the man. “Look, we’re sorry about
trespassing, but if you find our cat would you let us
know?”
I hold my breath. What is Keith thinking? This guy’s packing a major weapon and he’d probably love an
excuse to use it.
The man looks to Keith to
me and back, then he climbs the steps to the house and enters,
letting the door slam behind him.
“Jeez, Keith, are you
trying to get us killed? There are other ways to escape Las Pulgas,
okay? I’d like to do while I’m still alive.”
As I place the rope over
the post to secure the gate, I look at the house. He’s at the
window, watching us.
Chapter 16
Monday, Keith and I file
through the security checkpoint at the main entrance to Las Pulgas
High. One guard uses a wand; another does random backpack searches.
Security cameras perch high along each side of the hall, their Big
Brother eyes scanning and recording everything that
happens.
While the guard rummages
through my backpack, I concentrate on the cracked plaster behind
his head. If anyone needs searching
becomes overgrown. The traffic sounds from Las Pulgas blend into a
distant hum. Birds flush from the undergrowth and small brown
critters with tails scurry behind rocks as we approach. With each
step I have the feeling we are walking back into another time, a
time before open space disappeared under asphalt and apartment
houses.
We continue around a
sweeping turn and come to a gate with a rope looped around a post.
Keith ignores the second “No Trespassing” sign and slips the rope
free. We enter a silent grove of trees, their gnarled trunks lined
up on either side of us. Somewhere behind all these leaves is the
Las Pulgas of today, but it looks like the developers forgot this
place was here. At the end of the road is a two-storied house with
a wide front porch. The curtains are drawn, but someone lives here.
Plants in hanging baskets are sprouting their first green leaves,
getting ready for spring, and wooden rockers sit empty, waiting for
the warm weather.
“What are these?” Keith
asks, touching the bark of a tree.
I shrug.
“Trees?”
“Very funny. What
kind?”
“They’re apple trees.” The
voice comes from behind us. I spin around, face to face with a man,
a long-barreled gun lying across his forearms. “Seems you don’t
know your trees anymore than you know how to read.”
“We—” I choke. “We lost our
cat. We wanted to see if she might have come this direction.” I
grab Keith’s hand like I used to when he was four and I was six.
Dad always said I was the big sister. I had to keep Keith safe when
we crossed the street. He’d never said what to do when a man faced
us with a big gun.
His wide-brimmed cowboy hat
sits squarely on his head casting a dark ring around his broad
shoulders. He cradles the gun as if it's a part of him and while I
can't see his eyes for the shadow from his hat brim I'm sure
they're trained on us—steady, unblinking. His skin is tight across
his cheekbones, bronzed and shiny, and his features are sharp like
a hawk. He's used to working with his hands, but in spite of the
scars and leathery skin his nails are trimmed and clean. He stands
easy and balanced on both feet, silently watching us.
“Her name is Quicken.” My
mouth develops a sudden case of drought, leaving my tongue filmed
with dust. “Our cat.” I squeeze Keith’s hand to say let’s get out
of here, and he returns the pressure.
“Where do you live?” the
man asks.
I point in the direction
from where I think we’ve come.
“Las Pulgas Apartments,” he
says. If words could be on fire, his would have burned down the
entire apple orchard. “A waste of good orchard land.”
I glance at the evenly
spaced tree trunks to avoid looking at him.
He walks around us and down
the path toward the house. “Close the gate on your way out.” He
turns after a few steps. “Next time, read the signs—and pay
attention to them.”
“Wait!” Keith shakes free
of my grasp and runs after the man. “Look, we’re sorry about
trespassing, but if you find our cat would you let us
know?”
I hold my breath. What is Keith thinking? This guy’s packing a major weapon and he’d probably love an
excuse to use it.
The man looks to Keith to
me and back, then he climbs the steps to the house and enters,
letting the door slam behind him.
“Jeez, Keith, are you
trying to get us killed? There are other ways to escape Las Pulgas,
okay? I’d like to do while I’m still alive.”
As I place the rope over
the post to secure the gate, I look at the house. He’s at the
window, watching us.
Chapter 16
Monday, Keith and I file
through the security checkpoint at the main entrance to Las Pulgas
High. One guard uses a wand; another does random backpack searches.
Security cameras perch high along each side of the hall, their Big
Brother eyes scanning and recording everything that
happens.
While the guard rummages
through my backpack, I concentrate on the cracked plaster behind
his head. If anyone needs searching
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