Saving Red

  And I’m not sure why,

  but I get this really weird feeling

  in the pit of my stomach . . .

  A Minute Later

  We see another crowd

  up ahead,

  gathered to watch some people

  dancing to the salsa music.

  And when we finally work our way

  to the front,

  my heart stars thudding

  in my chest.

  Because there,

  surrounded by a dozen other couples,

  dancing

  all by herself,

  is the girl

  with red hair!

  Her Arms Are Raised Above Her Head

  And she’s shaking her hips,

  shimmying like a belly dancer,

  wiggling every part of her body.

  It’s probably fifty degrees outside,

  but her rusty curls are damp,

  her forehead dripping with sweat . . .

  Now some of the other couples

  stop dancing to stare at her.

  And soon everyone’s watching her.

  She keeps on gyrating while stripping off

  her jacket and flinging it into the crowd.

  A rowdy cheer goes up.

  Then she slips off her sweatshirt,

  twirls it over her head,

  and flings that, too.

  My mouth goes strangely dry . . .

  I take a closer look at her eyes

  and can suddenly see it so clearly.

  I should have recognized that look.

  She’s not just a wild girl—

  she’s crazy.

  I mean, like actually crazy.

  The kind of crazy that you have to

  take medication for.

  Red Tears Her T-Shirt Off

  And flings that at the crowd, too.

  The guys start

  shoving each other,

  pushing closer for a better view.

  She’s only wearing

  some tight black leggings now

  and a flimsy pink tank top

  with no bra underneath.

  I steal a quick peek at Cristo.

  He’s got this weird look on his face—

  like he’s staring at the scene

  of a crime.

  The other guys are practically drooling,

  leering at her and snickering.

  They start chanting,

  “Take it off! Take it off!”

  The girl licks her lips,

  bats her lashes at them,

  and runs her fingers along

  the bottom of her tank top.

  My stomach clenches . . .

  There’s a ringing in my ears . . .

  Pixel nudges his nose into my palm.

  She wouldn’t really do it . . .

  Would she?

  The Guys Are Chanting Faster Now

  “Take it off!

  Take it off! Take it off!”

  Why won’t they

  leave her alone?

  I’ve got to do something . . .

  Do something!

  I look over at Cristo—his face is pale,

  his lips a thin straight line.

  The girl’s taking hold of the hem

  of her tank top now.

  There’s a scream

  stuck in my throat.

  I feel like I’m watching a spark

  rushing up the fuse

  on a stick of dynamite . . .

  Pixel’s Straining on His Leash

  Every muscle

  in his body quivering,

  his nostrils flaring.

  He looks

  from the guys to the girl

  and then back again to the guys.

  And then

  he does something

  he never does:

  he barks.

  The Girl Looks Toward the Sound

  And that’s

  when she notices me.

  She grins and waves me over.

  “Hey!” she calls out.

  “It’s my favorite dancing partner!”

  Cristo’s eyebrows shoot up.

  “That girl,” he says,

  searching my eyes with his.

  “Is she . . . Is she a friend of yours?”

  “Um . . . not really,” I say. “I mean, sort of.

  It’s . . . it’s hard to explain . . .

  We . . . we haven’t exactly been introduced.”

  Cristo stares at me, letting my words sink in.

  And for a minute he seems like

  he’s thinking about ditching me.

  “Well . . . ,” he finally says.

  “She’s . . . she’s a really great dancer.”

  Then he flashes me a heart-stopping smile.

  And before I even know what I’m doing,

  I’m grabbing the sleeve of his jacket and

  tugging him with me as I race toward her.

  Then Red and I Are Dancing

  While Cristo hangs back,

  standing off to the side,

  looking sort of awkward

  and self-conscious.

  Red laughs and takes hold of his hand,

  pulling him right into our orbit.

  At first he seems flustered and uneasy,

  moving stiffly as he eyes the crowd.

  But then

  she twirls him around—

  and it’s like she’s flipped some kind of

  invisible switch inside him or something.

  Because suddenly all three of us are spinning

  around each other like do-si-do-ing dreidels,

  our heads

  thrown back,

  our arms

  outstretched,

  our feet pounding

  the rhythm of the drums.

  “Let’s dance together forever!” she cries.

  “Let’s dance till infinity comes!”

  Pixel’s Glowering at the Guys in the Crowd

  As if to say, “If you value your ankles,

  you won’t come any closer.”

  But there’s

  really no need.

  Because once the three of us

  start dancing,

  it’s as if a fire’s

  been extinguished—

  the gang of surly onlookers

  drifts away,

  and all the other couples

  go back to dancing,

  as though

  this crazy girl

  hadn’t been just seconds away

  from stripping off her tank top.

  As though

  those awful guys

  hadn’t almost just had

  their disgusting dreams come true.

  As though nothing

  has even happened.

  Minutes Later

  The people who brought the salsa music

  start packing up to leave

  and switch off their boom box.

  The girl looks stunned—

  like someone’s just thrown

  a bucket of cold water over her head.

  Cristo finds her jacket,

  dusts it off, and hands it back to her.

  I do the same with her sweatshirt.

  Then Pixel retrieves her tee

  and trots over to give it to her.

  She stoops down to take it from him.

  She scratches him behind his floppy left ear,

  somehow able to sense exactly

  where his secret sweet spot is.

  “Who are you?” she asks.

  “That’s Pixel,” I say.

  “What’s your name?” Cristo asks.

  She thinks this over for a second.

  Then she says, “Call me Red.”

  “Hey, Red,” he says.

  Then he puts out his hand

  for her to shake and says,

  “I’m Cristo. And this is Molly.”

  Red studies his hand warily,

  refusing t
o take it, but then she grins

  at him and does a funny little curtsy.

  She nudges me

  with her elbow and says,

  “Cristo’s crushing hard on you, Holy Moly.”

  He and I exchange a quick shy glance.

  Then both of us turn redder

  than Red’s hair.

  Cristo Clears His Throat

  And changes the subject.

  “All that dancing made me hungry.

  Anyone wanna get a Wetzel’s Pretzel?”

  “They won’t let me in there,”

  Red says with a shrug. “I don’t meet

  their strict standards of non-stinkyness.”

  Cristo and I exchange another glance.

  “Then we’ll go in and buy one for you,” I say.

  “Our treat,” Cristo adds.

  “No thanks,” she says. “No charity.”

  Then she digs in her pockets and manages

  to scrounge up a handful of change.

  And five minutes later,

  we’re sitting on a bench

  eating warm salty buttery perfection.

  Red devours hers

  before I’ve even eaten half of mine.

  So I offer her the rest.

  She licks her lips

  and swallows hard.

  “No thanks,” she says. “I better not.”

  She shoots up from the bench

  and does another

  funny little curtsy.

  Then she darts across the street

  against the light—

  and almost gets hit by an SUV!

  I Stifle a Scream and Shout Her Name

  But she doesn’t even glance back.

  Pixel nudges his nose into my palm

  and advises me to breathe

  while Cristo and I wait what seems

  like forever for the light to change.

  When it finally does, we hurry after her.

  And a couple of blocks later,

  when we catch up with her, she smiles

  and says, “Lovely night for a stroll.”

  Like she has no idea she almost just got killed.

  As we pass

  by the Fairmont Hotel,

  she stops to admire the gigantic fig tree

  in the courtyard, draped with thousands

  of twinkling Christmas lights.

  “Look at that thing . . . ,” she says.

  “I bet it’s even older than my mother.”

  “You must miss your mom,” I say.

  “You must miss your whole family.

  I mean, with Christmas coming and all.”

  “Maybe,” she says.

  “But that was then. This is now.

  I have to stay in the now.

  Can’t go back to the then.”

  “But your family must be so worried,” I say.

  “Can’t talk about my family,” she says,

  her face slamming shut like a door.

  Then she runs across Ocean Avenue,

  and this time she almost gets flattened

  by a truck!

  I Stifle Another Scream

  Cristo looks over at me, and I guess I must

  seem pretty worried, because he says,

  “Let’s follow Red for a while,

  at a safe distance . . . Just in case.”

  And it’s a lucky thing we do.

  Because a few minutes later, three guys fall

  into step behind her—some of the same jerks

  who were watching her dance before.

  Then suddenly they surge forward

  and form a circle around her,

  closing in on her as they chant,

  “Take it off! Take it off!”

  Cristo and I bolt over

  and tell them to leave her alone.

  Pixel joins in, baring his teeth,

  growling at them, low and deep.

  (He’s not that big,

  but he can be

  pretty scary

  when he wants to be.)

  After a few seconds, the guys mumble

  something about a party they’re late for,

  then slither off like

  the cowardly worms they are.

  Red watches them go,

  then collapses onto a bench,

  shaking uncontrollably, and I call

  a homeless hotline to find out her options.

  It’s not easy to talk her into it,

  but Red finally agrees to let us

  walk her over to this place called Daybreak,

  where they’ll give her a safe place to sleep.

  At least for tonight.

  Before Red Heads into the Shelter

  I tell her

  I loved dancing with her.

  And that I’ll be back to see her

  in the morning.

  And that I sure hope she won’t

  disappear on me again.

  She tells me

  she doesn’t know what I mean.

  She tells me

  she can’t disappear.

  She tells me she’s tried to disappear,

  dozens of times,

  but every morning

  when she wakes up,

  she’s still

  here.

  She Bumps Fists with Me

  And says, “You’re my hero, Holy Moly.”

  Then she tousles Cristo’s hair

  and adds,

  “You’re not so bad either, dude.”

  “Oh, I’m just the hero’s sidekick,” he says

  with an embarrassed shrug.

  Then she turns back to me

  and says, “Pick me up tomorrow at ten?”

  “Ten o’clock sharp,” I say. “I’ll be here.”

  And when she walks away from us and pushes

  her stroller into that nice safe building,

  I’m so relieved I could cry.

  In fact

  maybe I am crying.

  Just a little.

  “Hey . . . ,” Cristo says. “You okay?”

  He’s got this look on his face

  like he wishes he could give me a hug.

  “I’m . . . I’m very okay,” I say.

  And for a few seconds

  we just stand here smiling,

  like two people

  who really, really like each other

  but don’t quite know what to do about it.

  As We Head Away from the Shelter

  We see

  the Metro car

  pulling into Bergamot Station.

  “Come on!” Cristo shouts.

  Then he grabs my hand

  (he grabs my hand!)

  and Pixel leads the charge

  as we dash down the block

  toward the platform—

  laughing wildly at nothing.

  We Manage

  To hop onto the car

  just before the doors glide shut.

  Then Cristo blushes

  and lets go of my hand.

  As if he just realized

  he was holding it

  and wonders if maybe he should have

  asked my permission or something.

  I try to tell him with my eyes

  that I didn’t mind one bit.

  And when we flop down onto a seat

  to catch our breath,

  our thighs

  are almost

  touching.

  Then

  It’s like a faucet’s been

  turned on full blast—

  a you-tell-me-everything-about-you-

  and-I’ll-tell-you-everything-about-me faucet.

  And five minutes later, when the Metro car

  drops us off at 4th and Colorado,

  we’ve already found out

  that we both love

  state fairs and Thanksgiving dinner

  and books about spies

  and that we both

  hate guacamole

&nbs
p; and movies about earthquakes

  (and also actual earthquakes)

  and that we were both

  born in February

  and that I’m three days older

  than him,

  but that that’s okay

  because Cristo likes older women.

  I Pull Out My Phone to Check the Time

  “Wow . . . ,” I say. “It’s eight thirty . . .”

  Cristo’s face falls.

  “Do you have to head home?” he asks.

  “Oh. No!” I say.

  “I don’t have to be home till ten.

  I’m just surprised it’s still so early!”

  And when Cristo hears this,

  his whole being lights up brighter

  than the flashlight in my iPhone.

  “Great!” he says. “I guess we missed the movie . . .

  Wanna go sit on the patio at that new café

  over on 6th Street and eat some pie?”

  I just nod and smile because

  I’m afraid if I open my mouth right now

  I might say something truly dumb.

  Like: “Are you kidding?

  I’d go sit on top of the dumpster

  behind the 7-Eleven and eat day-old burritos,

  as long

  as I could sit there

  with you.”

  When We Walk into the Restaurant

  A scowling waitress strides up to us,

  crosses her arms over her chest,

  and says, “No dogs allowed in here.”

  Oh man . . . I really don’t want

  to have to explain about Pixel

  in front of Cristo . . .

  But I guess there’s no way around it.

  So I take a quick glance

  at the waitress’s name tag and say,

  “Margie, meet Pixel.

  He’s a service dog. It would be

  against the law to kick him out of here.”

  The waitress’s hand flies up to her mouth.

  “Oh my gosh. So sorry!” she says.

  “I didn’t realize . . . I’m new at this . . .”

  “That’s okay,” I say. “Happens all the time.”

  And while she ushers us out to the patio,

  I keep my eyes trained on my high-tops,

  so I won’t have to see

  the creeped-out expression

  that’s probably on Cristo’s face right now.

  But As We Ease into Our Seats

  I finally sneak a peek at him.

  And he doesn’t look creeped out.