made with gold thread are woven through the red bow that had been in her hair. I pick it up, my fingers closing around it as I scan the crowds.
Two men in black forcing a girl away should be easy to spot. But nothing. It was like she disappeared with a snap of a street magician's fingers. Maybe rich people can do that.
I shoot to my feet and aim for the street that runs along the back of the park. A street rarely used. The stream of people presses closer. I elbow a woman and then dart past. Her angry words can't penetrate the thick cloud of horror enveloping me.
I dodge paintings, crawl under tables, and duck adults trying to grab my collar and give me a good lecture. My mind races, my thoughts following the mindset of a criminal. Slave labor. Child abuse. Mom watches too much Dateline for me not to know psychos exist, but the men in black didn't give off the psycho feel. The lady with the furs and cloying perfume put off a stinky rich odor but didn't scream psycho serial killer.
I know one thing. Jetta pulled some majorly awesome kung fu moves to save my butt that morning. It's my turn to save her. At least I'll save someone today.
After the last group of tables, I exit at the back of the art show where the park meets a narrow side street that coils around the perimeter of the park. Down the street, beyond the park, a silver Mercedes gleams in the afternoon sun. One man in black shuts the back door.
I open my mouth to yell at the guy to stop but someone beats me to it.
The man with the Red Sox cap sprints down the street, yelling.
The wind whips off his hat and carries it through the air. I stop mid-stride. The man has a curly mop of graying hair. I recognize him. The janitor.
The men in black, who are actually quite large, block the front of the car. The janitor literally bounces off them. The rich lady probably hired them from a professional wrestling arena.
The janitor doesn't have a chance.
A whiff of perfume makes me grimace. Two seconds later, the woman strides past and picks her way through the grass toward the street as if she doesn't want to step in any dog crap. I wish she would.
I jog across the street and then inch closer while hiding behind parked cars. My chest wheezes. I ease close enough, so I can hear and see. Leaning against the warm metal of a car door, I try to control my breathing.
"How long did you think you could keep this up?" The woman's voice is cold and penetrating. Her words shock the air with ice, and prickles travel down my spine.
The janitor steps closer to the lady. His face is a hard mask of determination. "As long as I needed to. Doris, you're making the wrong decision. This is not what she'd want."
"How dare you tell me what she'd want? I know my own daughter. I know what she'd want. I raised her and made her into a smart, savvy woman until you came along with your little song and dance of true love." The janitor tries to speak but Doris won't give him the chance. "Now that Sheila is dead, I won't let you do the same to my granddaughter. Good day, Alfred." With a haughty shrug, the woman turns her back on the janitor, dismissing him with one move.
I flinch. Again, she reminds me of a shark, swimming away after the kill, full and satisfied and leaving behind a trail of disaster.
"You can't just take my daughter away," the janitor shouts. "It's illegal!"
The pieces fall together. My feet itch to run over and help. My arms tremble. I wish I knew kung fu so I could leap into the middle of the scene after somersaulting over the parked cars. I'd fly through the air and then in a split worthy of an Olympic gold medal, I'd kick each of the men in black in the jaw. Then I'd put the lady into the clutch of death until she begged for mercy and let Jetta go.
Instead, I cower behind a rusty tan Chevy.
The woman straightens her back, adding another inch or two to her stance. She glares at Jetta's dad, hatred and disgust shooting from her eyes. "If you even dare take me to court, you will never see your daughter again."
I shiver as her icy tone saps any spring warmth from the air.
"Good day, Alfred." She climbs into the front seat and slams the door. The engine bursts to life and the silver Mercedes snakes down the street.
Jetta's dad runs at the car and pounds his fists against the blackened windows. His legs stumble but he keeps at it until the car zooms off. Then he falls to the ground, his shoulders hunched over and shaking.
The crowds milling around at the art show don't notice a thing. And if they did, they mind their own business. I should walk away. Give the man privacy.
Instead, I creep along the street, curious at the sight before me. My eyes are riveted on him. I've never seen a man so broken, so hurt, so lost without his daughter that he breaks down in public.
Dad never allowed cracks in his polished image. Not even at court. Or the night he was arrested. This man before me loves his daughter like she's the moon, the stars, and the sun. His world revolves around Jetta and her safety. And mine is starting to also.
He slumps to the ground as the last traces of exhaust fumes wrap around him. His voice cracks and words spill out. "I'm sorry, Sheila. I tried and I failed you."
I trudge back to the art show. I've never seen a janitor do anything other than mop floors and change toilet paper in the bathrooms. It dawns on me that they are real people with families and a life outside of a mop and a bucket.
I walk with a little less swagger, a little less confidence, to the outer edge of the park, letting the sounds swirl around me. Thoughts of Turbo and Stick and Big D disappear. Dad's plea for help is still present but deep down I know he isn't at the art festival. Anxious for answers, I'd read into Ms. Charpetto's words too quickly.
I jam my hand into my pocket and feel the silky red sash, my fingers running along the golden threads. That's all that's left of a girl I met this morning, but who, somehow, in only a couple brief encounters captivated me. The only girl I've contemplated kissing in months.
5:05 p.m.
I wander from painting to painting. My feet blindly lead me through the rows of tables. Kids run through with lollipops sticking out their mouths and bump into my legs. I barely notice. The colors blur and I move as if in a fog. The chatter of the crowd meshes into a dull hum in the background. And for a moment, I'm back in the coffee shop.
At midnight.
Talking to Dad.
I'm the only one who can save him.
Maybe I should've fought harder in court, or convinced Frank to help. Maybe I should've fought as hard as Jetta's dad did for her.
Flashes of the past hour, slivers of the event stick out. The red of a candy apple in a child's grubby fist. A silver car parked on the road. The laughter of girls showing off their artwork. A Boston Red Sox hat twirling in the wind.
A red hair bow on the ground.
Like litter.
Forgotten.
I feel a light slap on my cheek that pulls me from my wandering and pops the bubble of shock surrounding me.
"Wake up, loser."
"Wha-" I shake my head and stare at Stick for the first time in a new light.
He still has the same shock of red hair, same scrawny arms, and same chicken legs. I see deeper. Heartache shadows his face. Not the kind of heartache that comes from losing a first crush, but the kind that runs deep and leaves a scar. I have memories. The walls are thin. I've heard the horrible words Stick's dad yells.
A grin lights Stick's face and he rubs his hands together. "We found him and boy oh boy just wait 'till you see."
"Found who?" My heart leaps. For a second, I hope it's my dad.
Turbo nods his head. "It's a biggie. Better than anything they got on us."
My shoulders sag. Stick found Big D or one of his gang. He pushes me along. We stop behind the same rainbow puke painting that I hid behind earlier. The whole event flashes back.
"Just look," Stick whispers.
For a moment, my eyes linger on Jetta's painting and the empty space next to it like a giant tear on a finished canvas.
After a nudge f
rom Stick, I search the tables. One of Big D's goons sits three tables down from Jetta's, and propped next to him is the only painting of a fruit bowl in the whole show. Instead of fruit, this painting has weird grotesque shapes. I look away. My heart pricks with understanding. Life can be messed up sometimes.
Stick laughs and then talks in a baby voice. "De baby likes to dabble in finger painting. Aw, shucks."
I don't laugh. I can't.
Stick doesn't quit with the jokes. Each word, each mocking laugh grinds against my nerves until they're raw, until I can't take it. I never told my friends the complete truth. But after seeing the janitor, who turned out to be a regular guy, a dad, who loves his daughter, it makes me wonder about Big D and his gang. What lies behind their intimidating struts and grunts?
"Goo goo, ga ga. I wonder where he takes art lessons?"
"Shut up, Stick." The words scrape out from between my teeth.
Laughter dies. Turbo stops shuffling. I keep my eyes trained on the grotesque, ugly, misshapen fruit.
Stick jerks his head to the side, his mouth open in shock. He speaks in a low voice. "Hey, asshole. I know you've had a tough day. But face it. Not only is your dad in the slammer, but he's not getting out any time soon."
I stiffen. A pulse radiates through my body, causing my arms and legs to jerk. I can't believe it. Not after all the times Stick took refuge in our home and talked with Dad.
"I'm sick of tiptoeing around you," Stick said, his words pounding against me. "The faster you get that through your thick skull, the faster things will get back