Jesse’s mother walked briskly toward the subway stop three blocks away. Jesse darted around her, pretending he was a frost monster, powered by snow, running at the icy flakes, snapping at them with his mouth until his mother told him sharply, to stop it before he hurt himself.
Then he trotted along beside her, subdued but still happy, because they were finally going to the library and the city was all lit up and there were people everywhere, and surely that meant Pink Poodle would still be hunched over a computer in the Boston Public Library, because it was that kind of night. Cold and busy and bustling.
Zombie Bear’s bandaged head poked out of his pocket, the undead homerun hitter along for the ride.
It took forever to finally reach the main branch of the Boston Public Library, on Boylston Street. Technically it was two buildings; the historic McKim Building and the newer Johnson Building. Jesse loved the 160-year-old McKim Building, with its massive stone arches and ornate carvings and the kind of long, shadowed halls that hinted of ghosts and gargoyles. The McKim had mostly the research stuff, however—government documents, historic papers. Jesse and his mom headed for the Johnson Building instead. It was built in the seventies and, according to his mom, looked it. Jesse didn’t much care for the outside, but the inside was pretty cool. It had a special kids’ area, even a teen room.
Maybe he would need to visit the teen room. Maybe, that’s where Pinky Poo hung out. Jesse hadn’t thought of that.
He fingered Zombie Bear. Told himself he wasn’t nervous. Grabbed his mom’s hand and trotted up the steps.
In the lobby, his mother laid out the plan. She had some nursing homework to do. She walked him to the section she needed, showed him exactly where she would be. He was allowed to go to the kids’ section. He could pick some books, then he was to return right here, where he could look at his books while she finished her project. He could write up his homework, too. Then, they’d go to dinner.
Jesse nodded solemnly. They had been coming to the library since he was a baby. He knew the drill.
He kissed his mom. Maybe hugged her harder than he usually did. Then he headed down the stairs to the first-floor children’s room.
JESSE KNEW THE LIBRARY WELL. Sometimes, on rainy days, his mother would bring him here to “explore,” her library-speak for going someplace free where a young boy could run around without old Mrs. Flowers yelling about stampeding elephants.
When Jesse had turned six, he and his mother had first started separating. Partly because she’d gone to school and she had her own work to do, but also because Jesse had noticed other kids in the library without hovering moms, and decided he no longer wanted to be embarrassed by his. At first, his mother had waited outside the section. Then, bit by bit, they’d gone their separate ways.
The children’s room made a big deal about not allowing “unattended adults.” Meaning adults couldn’t just roam the section without a kid in tow. This was meant to discourage loiterers, Jesse’s mom said, as well as reduce stranger danger. It seemed to make her feel better about Jesse being in the room on his own.
There was always a librarian in charge of the kids’ section. If Jesse had any problems, or felt nervous about stranger danger, he was to approach the librarian for assistance. But Jesse had never had any problems. He loved the library. The big vast space with towering shelves and piles of books, and people who sat and read and left you alone, so you could pretend you were an explorer in the lost wilds of the Congo and at any moment a giant ape might swing out from between the narrow aisles, or an alligator snap from beneath a reading bench, or a snake unfurl from a hanging lamp.
But Jesse didn’t play explorer now. He headed for the computers in the children’s room. They sat at various little desk cubbies and all were in use. He spotted one girl, but she looked even younger than him and was playing some Dora the Explorer game, while her father stared at a cell phone beside her.
Not too many computers in the children’s room. Jesse hadn’t really thought about that. But upon more consideration, he figured Pink Poodle was older and, therefore, might be in the teen room up on the mezzanine level. He’d never been in the teen room, but the library was very proud of it. He’d seen pictures on posters, advertising a room for teens to hang out. It had crazy red gaming chairs and a big red-and-purple patterned carpet that apparently teens liked, but which made Jesse’s eyes hurt.
He found the stairs, headed up. He could do it. Just open the door and walk right in like any other kid. Of course he was in the teen room. Of course he belonged there.
Jesse made it to the door and hit the first obstacle: a sign declaring that only kids younger than eighteen and older than twelve could enter. Anyone older or younger might be asked to leave.
Maybe being asked to leave wasn’t the same as leaving, Jesse decided. He took a deep breath. Walked in.
The room was crowded. Teens and laptops and huge windows showing city lights and red chairs and crazy carpets, and Jesse got so revved up he forgot to breathe and then the whole room swam before his eyes.
He glanced around wildly, once, twice, saw girls, saw boys, saw no poodles, and hightailed it back out.
That was it. He couldn’t go into that room. He couldn’t handle it.
But what to do? How to find Pinky Poo?
It occurred to him that there were computer stations scattered all over the library. Patrons could even check out laptops, which his mom did when their ancient computer required medical care. Pink Poodle hadn’t said which computer or any particular section. Maybe she just roamed the way Jesse liked to roam, until she found an open station.
Jesse decided to give it a try. He started at the bottom of the library and worked his way up.
He had Zombie Bear out of his pocket, clutching him with both hands. It was hot or cold in the library, depending on the area. The mezzanine level definitely felt too hot, so Jesse unzipped his jacket, shoved his hat in his pocket, walking slower and slower, trying to look for a homerun-hitting girl sitting tucked away in the shadows, without looking like he was looking.
Then he saw it.
A pink poodle sitting on the corner of a computer station.
Jesse stopped. He spotted the computer user, just as the teenage boy looked up and spotted him.
THE BOY SPOKE FIRST: “Homerun Bear?”
“Pinky Poo?” Jesse sounded stupid. He shut his mouth, wished he hadn’t spoken.
But the boy laughed. “Yeah. I know.” He grinned, looked a little embarrassed. The boy had tousled brown hair, kind of shaggy, which he now brushed away from his forehead. “Swear the poodle isn’t mine,” the boy said. “Belongs to my little sister. She got it for her birthday a year ago and wanted help with some of the games. So I started messing around on the site, and…” Boy shrugged. “My sister hasn’t looked at the poodle since, but here I am. Baseball, three days a week.”
Jesse nodded, relaxing slightly, taking a step forward. “You should get a Homerun Bear,” he said seriously.
The boy laughed again. “Thought about it, but Pink Poodle has all the stats, and I don’t wanna give ’em up.” Boy stuck out his hand. “Barry. You?”
“Um…Jesse. Jesse Germaine.”
“Nice bear. What happened to him?”
Jesse held up his bandaged bear self-consciously. “Oh, um…he’s a zombie now. A homerun hitter, back from the dead.” The words felt lame the moment he said them, but the boy, Barry, laughed again.
“That’s pretty cool. Maybe I could zombie-ize Pink Poodle, too. That’d be at least a little cooler than being a sixteen-year-old boy with a pink pooch.”
“Are you playing a game now?” Jesse asked, venturing closer.
“Yep. Helmet Hippo was just online. He’s my nemesis, you know. Has one thousand and five hundred points more than me. But I’m improving my game all the time, so I’m thinking in the next month, I’ll close that gap. Pass the fucker.”
Jesse gaped for a second, caught off guard by the swear word. Then he closed his mouth
, forced himself to appear relaxed again. Barry was sixteen. Sixteen-year-old boys could use those kinds of words. Jesse could use those kinds of words. He glanced around. As long as his mother never heard him.
“Are you playing baseball?” Jesse asked, standing behind Barry’s shoulder, peering at the monitor.
“Yep, seventh inning, at bat, two outs. Got Slimey Slug on my team.”
“Sorry,” Jesse said.
“Exactly. Not going well. Will take a miracle to get up to bat again.”
“Oh.” Jesse was disappointed. He wanted to learn to hit the curveball.
Barry seemed to understand. “Want to play? Come on, grab a chair. We’ll log on your bear and I’ll show you some things to do.”
Jesse scrambled to find an empty chair. He pulled it up close to Barry, shoulder to shoulder so they could both see the monitor. Then he carefully placed Zombie Bear next to Pink Poodle on the tabletop. He thought they looked good together.
Jesse glanced at his watch, realized it had been well over fifteen minutes. “I’ll be right back,” he said. Before Barry could respond, he bolted to his mother’s section, where he found her hunched over a giant book, brow furrowed as she flipped pages. Jesse exclaimed in a rush, “Sorry I’m late working with the librarian to find a new series to read can I have fifteen more minutes please?”
“What?” his mother stared up at him.
“Librarian. Helping me. Gonna find a new series to read.”
“Okay. But not too much longer. Get the first book of the series, bring it here, please.”
“’Kay.”
Jesse breathed deep, glanced at his watch again, and bolted back downstairs, where Barry had already logged off Pink Poodle and was clearly waiting for him.
“Just needed to check in,” Jesse said without thinking.
“Check in?”
Jesse’s cheeks turned pink. “My mom,” he mumbled. “She’s doing research.”
“Okay,” Barry said, like it was no big deal. He asked Jesse his password, logged in Zombie Bear, then they were off and running. Barry used the keyboard first, showing Jesse what to do. Then Jesse would use the arrow keys and try to replicate. Sometimes, the moves were too fast. Then Barry would place his hand over Jesse’s and show him which arrow—right, left, up, or down—to hit faster. Like left, left, left, down, right.
When Jesse made a hit, Barry cheered, his voice low so others wouldn’t shush them. When he missed, Barry would mutter stuff like “Fucker,” “Shit,” “Shit on a stick,” in an even lower voice, and Jesse would giggle because he’d never heard “Shit on a stick” before and the more he thought about it, the funnier it sounded.
Then Barry’s pocket started to chime. “Jesus H. Christ,” the boy said, and Jesse’s eyes rounded into saucers.
Barry fumbled with his pocket, pulled out a phone. “Gotta go,” the older boy said.
“Oh,” Jesse said. Then, before he could help himself. “The curveball, we didn’t get to the curveball.”
“Yeah, right.” Barry was already logging off, grabbing Pink Poodle, stuffing the dog in the pocket of his oversized ski jacket. “Well, you know, come back tomorrow. We’ll do it then.”
Jesse bit his lower lip. He wanted to come back tomorrow, but it had been hard enough to come today. And given how long it had been since he’d checked in with his mom, she was probably mad at him, and then he definitely wouldn’t be allowed back in the library tomorrow. “I got…something…” Jesse mumbled. “After school.”
Barry was already standing, pushing the chair. “Next day then.”
“But…but…”
“Look, kid, I gotta go.”
Jesse couldn’t think of what to say. Just stared up at the older boy.
“Okay, okay, okay,” Barry said at last. “Follow me, ’kay? I gotta grab a smoke. Right outside, I can light up, then I’ll show you how to log in on my phone and we’ll hit a curveball. But then I gotta go, ’kay?”
The older boy was already moving. Jesse scrambled to catch up.
Outside the air had turned frosty. Jesse could see ice particles dancing in the glow of the streetlights and feel tiny pinpricks of cold sting against his cheeks. Barry loped down the front steps, moving quickly. The teenager was tall, lanky. Walked, talked like a cool kid. Jesse bet at school, all the other students liked Barry, wanted to be like him. And here he was, with Jesse.
The boy stopped at the bottom of the library stairs, pulled out a pack of cigarettes, lit one up.
He caught Jesse staring up at him. “Never smoke,” the older kid instructed. “These fuckers will kill you.”
Jesse nodded.
Barry held out his phone. “I’ll show you what to do.”
Barry got Jesse logged on. They found a baseball game in progress, and Jesse waited his turn to come up to bat. Barry kept moving, so Jesse jogged along beside him. He was focused on the phone, the world of AthleteAnimalz, not paying attention.
“Gotta piss,” Barry said abruptly.
Jesse looked up. They were no longer outside the library. They were no longer on Boylston Street. “What?” He let the phone fall down to his side. For the first time, he didn’t feel so good about things. Jesse wasn’t allowed to wander alone in the big city. Jesse didn’t want to wander alone in the big city.
“Gonna piss. You know, waggle the willie, wet the snake, walk the dog.” The older boy took back his phone, started unsnapping his jeans.
Jesse looked away, nervousness growing. They seemed to be behind one of the restaurants, next to some Dumpsters. The smell hit him at the same time as his fear, and he recoiled, took a step.
“What? It’s nothing but us boys here. That a problem for you?”
Jesse shook his head, but he still didn’t look up. He was sweating. Could feel it suddenly streaking down his face, neck, the small of his back. His stomach roiled. He didn’t feel good. Couldn’t say why, but he did not feel good.
Barry had his pants down; he was holding his privates.
“Come on, Jesse. Sheesh. Just a penis; you got one, too, right?”
“I want to go home,” Jesse whispered.
Then Barry said, in a voice Jesse hadn’t heard before, “Well you should’ve thought of that about thirty minutes ago. Before you left the library with someone you’d never met before.”
Jesse looked up then. He looked straight into the eyes of Stranger Danger, and he suddenly understood everything his mother had ever told him, every mistake he’d ever made, every bad thing that was about to happen to him.
Just as another voice said, “What’cha doing, boys?”
Jesse turned around to find the woman right behind him. She had brown hair scraped back into a ponytail and the scariest blue eyes he’d ever seen. Jesse registered two things at once. She was smiling at him in a way that had him just as uncomfortable as the boy Barry did, and she was holding a gun.
She looked right at Jesse, put a finger to her lips. “Shhh.”
Then she turned to the older boy.
“What the fuck,” Barry said.
“Pink Poodle, I presume?”
“Who the hell are you?”
“Helmet Hippo. I’ve been watching you. You are a very naughty boy.”
The gun came up. The older boy stepped back.
At the last second, Jesse closed his eyes. At the last second, Jesse covered his ears.
He still heard:
“Wait, wait. What the hell. I’m just a kid—”
“Everyone dies sometime.”
“I didn’t. I never. I didn’t mean—”
“Be brave.”
“Wait! I’ll stop, I’ll change, I swear! I’m just a kid! Wait—”
A sound, somewhere between a pop and boom. Once. Twice.
Then nothing.
Jesse counted to five. Then slowly, he opened his eyes. He saw the older boy’s feet poking out from behind the Dumpster. He saw the woman bending over those feet.
Then the woman straightened, slipped her gun in
to a leather bag on her hip, and turned toward Jesse.
He whimpered, stepped back.
But she merely smiled at him, extending a hand as if in greeting.
“Hello,” she said. “Have we met yet? Don’t worry. My name is Abigail.”
Chapter 24
I DON’T REMEMBER MAKING IT HOME from BPD headquarters. I suppose Tulip and I managed the subway. In the constant stream of humanity boarding the late afternoon train, it’s easy enough to slip through, for a woman and a dog to go unnoticed.
We would’ve taken the orange line from Roxbury to Downtown Crossing, then changed to the red line for Harvard square. The transfer station at Downtown Crossing would’ve been a hot, crowded mess, filled with people already glazed over from the day’s events, moving on autopilot, just wanting to go home.
We would’ve walked twelve minutes from Harvard Square, up Garden Street past the snow-covered Cambridge Commons, left onto Concord Avenue, right at the parking lot for the Harvard College Observatory, onto Madison. Or maybe we ran. Not the best sidewalks; footing would’ve been treacherous given first the soft snowflakes, then a sharper, icier drizzle that would’ve pelted the top of our down-turned heads and turned the brick pavers at Harvard Square into a particularly slippery mess.
I don’t remember, my memory having one of its fickle moments. The price of forgetting. The ongoing cost of coping with a childhood that should’ve broken me but didn’t. I must have gone home, though. Right? Where else would I have gone from police headquarters? What else would I have done?
* * *
I SLEPT. I know that much. At a certain point, I was in my own room in my own bed, Tulip nestled beside me, back to back. I woke up once, noted the clock reading 8 P.M., and was grateful, after the past forty-eight hours, that I didn’t have work. Then my eyes closed and I had the craziest dream.
My mother was in the backyard. She had a shovel. She was digging a hole. It was dark and stormy out. Rain lashing, wind whipping. A flashlight stood upright on the ground next to her, illuminating pelting raindrops, wind-tossed debris. From time to time, the blade of the shovel would catch the faint yellow beam, wink in the light. Up, down. Up, down.