No Place

  “They could be looking for jobs!” a man snarled loudly, and a large part of the crowd clapped.

  Mom set her jaw firmly. “Many of them already have jobs,” she snapped. “And some of those who don’t have been looking for years. And if you’ve ever been unemployed, you know how disheartening that can be.”

  I felt like clapping, but didn’t want to attract attention to myself. I think some of the crowd was caught off guard by how ardent and unafraid Mom was. She gathered herself and then continued more calmly.  “As I was saying, when they’re not looking for jobs, they would have something rewarding to do instead of sitting around watching TV. This garden won’t cost the town anything, and there’ll be nothing permanent about it. When the time comes to dismantle Dignityville, they’ll just plow it under, seed it with grass, and it’ll be a park again.”

  A couple of people muttered under their breath, but no one rose to argue. Mom thanked the council and sat.

  Mayor George held a vote. The vegetable garden was approved four to three.

  The meeting ended and people began to leave. Uncle Ron was coming down the aisle when Meg and I stood up. When he saw us, he looked perplexed, as if embarrassed to have spoken so harshly against the place where we were now living. I decided to make it easier for him. “How are the twins?”

  He appeared to relax. “Still getting into mischief,” he said, then added, “They ask about you.”

  “I’ll try to get over there,” I said.

  “They’d like that.” He glanced toward the front of the room, where Mom and Dad were speaking with the town engineer. “How’re you doing?”

  “Hanging in. Having that garden’ll make Mom happy.”

  Uncle Ron’s nose twitched. It was weird. Here we were, family, but also enemies. Famenies. He sighed, nodded, and continued down the aisle.

  “You know him?” Meg asked, not hiding her surprise.

  “He’s my mother’s brother.”

  “That man is your uncle?” she said, astonished. “Why’s he so against Dignityville?”

  I explained that he was a real estate lawyer and had some half-finished condominiums that no one wanted. “I think he’s got some pretty serious financial problems.”

  Meg didn’t reply. As we left Town Hall and started back toward Dignityville, I felt kind of weird, because in a way Uncle Ron was right. Aubrey did envision Dignityville becoming permanent. While that would be good for the homeless in town, there would be others, like Ron, who might be hurt.

  Suddenly a hand grabbed my arm. “Dan?”

  We’d gotten to a busy corner. The light was red.

  “Were you going to stop?” Meg gave me a concerned look.

  I wasn’t even aware that we’d been about to cross the street. “Thanks,” I said.

  “Are you okay?”

  No, not even close.

  17

  A PHONE CALL

  “I’d like your help.”

  “How?”

  “I need to get in touch with a certain kind of person. I think you might know how to do that.”

  “What kind of person?”

  “Someone I could pay to do something.”

  “Like what?”

  “That doesn’t concern you.”

  “Why should I help you?”

  “Because if you do, then I’ll help you. You do understand how I could help you?”

  Silence.

  “Did you hear what I just said?”

  “Yes, I think so.”

  “Good. So are you willing to put me in touch with the kind of person I need?”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  “I wouldn’t think too long if I were you.”

  18

  I hated to admit it, but I was relieved that Talia was away that weekend and not around to remind me of all the things I couldn’t afford to do. Instead I worked: out with Noah, for Ron’s neighbor, and on my studies.

  Sunday evening was my turn to do after-dinner cleanup in the Grand Ballroom. When I got to the dining tent, the volunteers had begun serving dinner, but Mom and Stella were playing Chutes and Ladders. Mom was beaming and you could see how much delight she took in having a little girl to look after.

  “Shouldn’t we get in line?” I asked.

  “Go ahead. Stella and I haven’t finished our game.”

  With her dark eyes Stella looked up at me. “I’m going to win. And this time Hannah isn’t letting me.”

  “I’ve never let you win,” Mom protested.

  “You did once,” Stella said accusingly.

  “Okay, maybe once,” Mom admitted. “But not this time, young lady.”

  Stella grinned devilishly. “And I’m still going to beat you.”

  I didn’t know Stella’s precise age, but I would have guessed she was about five. Mona, her mom, had worked for a solar panel company until they moved their manufacturing to China. Now she had a job at Home Depot during the day and was a waitress a few nights a week. I assumed that’s where she was that night while Mom watched her daughter.

  It was hard to imagine what it must have been like, being five and growing up in a camp for homeless people. There were a couple of kids around who looked like they were twelve or thirteen, but I was pretty sure I hadn’t seen anyone as young as Stella. No kids her age to play with. No playdates. And it wasn’t like the folks who spent their days watching TV in the back of the dining tent were going to let her watch cartoons.

  * * *

  At school Lisa, the lunch lady, made a habit of slipping me extra food, but I only took advantage of the offer when I’d missed breakfast or was really hungry. I guess we’d gotten a little lackadaisical about it, though, because the day came when I was in line and she said, “Need a little extra today, honey?”

  “Yeah, thanks.” I hadn’t bought breakfast that morning because the weekend was coming and I wanted to hold on to whatever money I had for going out.

  Lisa had just given me some extra chicken nuggets and tater tots when the next guy in line said, “Can I have some extra too?”

  “You can buy another main course if you want,” Lisa told him.

  The guy pointed at me. “How come he doesn’t have to?”

  “Are you homeless?” Lisa asked.

  It was one of those moments when everything stops. I knew Lisa didn’t intend anything mean by what she’d said, but it didn’t matter. The guy scowled at me and I felt my face go hot and red.

  And it didn’t end there. When I got to the lunch table where the usual suspects were huddled in conversation, Tory glanced up and saw me, then whispered something that caused them all to go silent.

  Stopping a few feet away from the table, I said, “Sorry. Didn’t mean to interrupt. . . .”

  Talia patted the spot beside her. “Uh . . . it’s Jen’s birthday on Friday, and she wants us all to go Wally’s.”

  Wally’s Wowza-Burger was a sort of imitation Planet Hollywood, and it wasn’t cheap. Talia said, “We can go, right?” and gave me a look that I interpreted as, Don’t worry, I’ll pay for everything.

  Unfortunately, I was pretty sure that everyone else at the table read that look as well. For the second time in less than two minutes, I felt my face go red with embarrassment.

  Congratulations, Dan, you’re now an official charity case. And everyone knows it.

  * * *

  They say timing is everything, but what they don’t add is that it’s true of bad timing as well. They also say that things come in threes. After being publicly humiliated twice in less time than it takes to lace up a pair of cleats, I couldn’t wait for lunch to end. Food wasn’t the only thing simmering in the cafeteria at that point. So was I. As soon as Talia and I left, I planned to ask her to be a little less obvious about the signals she sent in front of her friends.

  “Yo, Dan.” Out in the hall the scraggly haired kid came around the sign-up table and planted himself in front of me, blocking my path, intruding in my space. Then he said, “I mean, come on.”

/>   That may have been what he said, but it wasn’t what I heard. What I heard was, Dude, now that the whole school knows you’re living in Dignityville, how can you not sign up for the march?

  I snapped. Grabbed his collar and yanked him toward me until our faces were so close that I could count the blackheads dotting his nose and forehead.

  “Hey!” he cried, clamping his hands around my wrists and struggling to get out of my grip; but the only things clenched more tightly than my fistful of shirt collar were my teeth.

  Everyone in the hall stopped and stared.

  “Dan!” Talia gasped.

  “Jeez, man, come on!” The kid squirmed.

  It was over in a flash. I’d made a mistake, and let go.

  Red-faced and breathing hard, the scraggly haired kid scuttled back around the table. Feeling everyone’s eyes, I raised my hands, palms out. “No harm, no foul.” It must have sounded lame, but it was all that I could think of.

  Talia tugged my arm and we started down the hall again. “What was that about?” she hissed, as if she was the one who’d been embarrassed.

  “Maybe my girlfriend freaking out because I’m temporarily homeless?” I spat angrily.

  “I’m not the one who’s freaking out. I just . . . wish it didn’t have to be this way.”

  “And you think I don’t?” I asked incredulously.

  She had chemistry next and we stopped outside the lab, but neither of us spoke. Finally, Talia let out a long, dramatic sigh. “Let’s just go to Wally’s on Friday and have a good time, okay?”

  “Sure,” I mumbled. “Whatever.”

  19

  That night on the phone Talia and I smoothed things over. But it was starting to feel like each time we saw each other, a problem developed that related to me being homeless. And this time there were other repercussions. The next morning after second period, Noah and I were passing the counseling office when Ms. Reuben came out. “Oh, Dan,” she said as if seeing me reminded her of something. “Don’t go anywhere.” She went back into her office and returned with a folder. “You’ve got a study hall seventh period. Why don’t you come down here.”

  “How come?”

  “We’ll chat about your current situation.”

  * * *

  Had this happened to Meg, too? For the next few periods I kept an eye out for her. Maybe she could give me an idea of what I was in for. But seventh period arrived before she did.

  When I got to the counseling office, Ms. Reuben wasn’t alone. Coach Buder and Mrs. Collins, the school psychologist, were also there. “Have a seat, Dan,” Ms. Reuben said cheerfully.

  What’s Buddha doing here? I wondered.

  Ms. Reuben interlaced her fingers and leaned forward with a smile. She was a hefty lady with rosy cheeks. “So, how are you?” she asked, like this was just some friendly get-together.

  “Fine, thanks.”

  She nodded as if that was what she’d expected me to say.

  “And your family?” asked Mrs. Collins, looking concerned through her large, round glasses.

  “They’re fine. We’re all fine. Look, whatever’s going on is just temporary, okay? It’s not like I’m the only kid in school who . . . who doesn’t have a place to live right now.”

  “We understand,” Ms. Reuben said with a phony smile. “We just want to make sure you’re okay. Are you getting enough to eat?”

  “Yes.” Even if I was accepting handouts from the lunch ladies.

  “Did you know you probably qualify for the free breakfast and lunch program here at school?” added Mrs. Collins.

  The bus circle was right outside the cafeteria, so every morning the free breakfast kids were on display for everyone who took a bus. I couldn’t imagine myself being part of that spectacle.

  On the other hand, free lunch sounded great as long as some gong didn’t ring every time I got one. “I wouldn’t mind free lunch, thanks.”

  “Excellent.” Mrs. Collins wrote something down on a pad. You could see it made her feel good to be able to help. “Do you need an address?”

  “Sorry?”

  “For your mail. We can arrange for you to get it here.”

  “Oh, uh, thanks, but my dad got us a post office box.”

  “Do you take the school bus, Dan?” Ms. Reuben asked.

  “Not if I can avoid it.”

  “We recently arranged for a stop . . . so that it’s not immediately obvious where you’re living? It was a bit tricky because officially, you no longer live in the school district.”

  “But of course you can stay and finish the year,” Mrs. Collins added hastily.

  That was a jolt. It had never occurred to me that if you had to move because you were homeless, you might have to change schools, too.

  “We’d also like you to get a free yearbook,” said Ms. Reuben as if I’d just won a prize on some game show. “You won’t have to pay for a ticket to the winter formal and we can give you an extra locker.”

  Huh? “So I’ll have a place to stay at night?”

  Buddha grunted like he was trying to suppress a laugh. Mrs. Collins shot him a dirty look, then said, “Some students find they need space for extra things.”

  That made me wonder. “How many of us are there?”

  Mrs. Collins and Ms. Reuben shared a quick glance.

  “Let’s focus on you,” said Mrs. Collins.

  “Is it a secret?” I asked.

  “It’s a sensitive issue.”

  “In other words, more than people think?”

  “So . . . we heard there was an incident at lunch yesterday?” Mrs. Collins changed the subject.

  I knew that would come up. “Yeah, my bad. Kind of lost it. One of those perfect storm things, you know? I mean, the kid’s okay, right? All I did was grab his shirt.”

  From the silence that followed, I could tell that my response had caught them off guard. Finally Mrs. Collins crossed her legs and leaned forward with an earnest expression. “Dan, giving a glib acknowledgment of what happened doesn’t necessarily mean you’ve accepted the pathology behind it.”

  Excuse me?

  “None of us can remember you doing anything like that before,” added Ms. Reuben.

  “Yeah, well, I was never homeless before.”

  The slightest smile appeared on Buddha’s lips, but he quickly crushed it.

  “So you acknowledge your current situation had something to do with it?” Mrs. Collins asked.

  “I sure hope so,” I said.

  The school psychologist’s forehead wrinkled. “You hope so?”

  “I’d hate to think I’d do something like that for no reason.”

  Buddha smiled again and both women gave him a murderous look.

  “Dan, the purpose of being here isn’t to demonstrate how skilled you are at finessing your way out of what happened,” Ms. Reuben said. “Things like that occur for a reason. And we’re concerned.”

  I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Okay, seriously? Being in my situation sucks. I’m not gonna pretend it doesn’t. But I think so far I’ve handled it pretty well. Yeah, yesterday I blew it. But here’s what I’m thinking. Maybe instead of putting me under a microscope for every little mistake . . . instead you could cut me some slack? I know what I did was wrong, but I caught myself, right? Did it ever occur to you to put a positive spin on this? Like, ‘Hey, Dan, we’re proud of how you handled the situation yesterday. Someone else might have let it get out of control, but you really nipped it in the bud. Way to go, dude.’ ”

  Buddha smiled and nodded with approval, which constituted about the biggest display of emotion on his part that I could ever recall. Both Ms. Reuben and Mrs. Collins gave him cold glares.

  “We just want to make sure there isn’t something more we can do to help,” said Mrs. Collins.

  “Hey, I’ll take the free lunch and the extra locker, but unless you can find my parents jobs and a place to live, what else is there?”

  “What we can do is be here for you,?
?? Ms. Reuben said. “We want you to feel like you can come to us with any concern or problem, okay?”

  “Uh, sure, thanks.”

  Mrs. Collins checked her watch. “I guess that’s all.”

  As we got up, out of the corner of my eye I saw Mrs. Collins exchange a look with Buddha, as if it was now his turn to step up. He and I left the office together and went out into the hall.

  “They brought you in to be the closer?” I asked.

  Coach Buder shrugged. “Moral support.”

  “Seriously, coach, I’m coping. What else is there to say?”

  I’d meant the question to be rhetorical, but Buddha paused and gazed out the windows. It was windy, and bright swarms of orange, yellow, and red leaves swirled past. “You know how they say playing outfield is the loneliest position in baseball?” he asked. “Well, I think it’s pitcher. When you’re on the mound, it’s all on your shoulders.”

  Coach Buder glanced back down the hall at the counseling office. “What you have to do on the field is difficult enough, Dan. Don’t make it hard for yourself off the field too. If you need help, ask for it, okay? You don’t have to do it all alone, and you shouldn’t try.”

  20

  A PHONE CALL

  “Have you decided?”

  “I’d like to know what you’re planning.”

  “That’s not your concern.”