Little Peach Page 9

“You will, won’t you?” she says. “You kinda crazy, Peach. You got something good inside you.”

  Kat’s never hugged me before. She pulls me toward her for a second, holds me there with her shaky hands.

  “Queen Bee’s on her way. Boost’ll take you girls to work tonight. Daddy’s gonna stay here with me, to make sure everything all right.”

  Baby hasn’t moved. She shoves her thumb in her mouth and turns on the TV. She looks angry.

  “What’s wrong with you?” Kat asks. “I thought you’d be happy. You the one who said you didn’t want to be the baby no more.”

  Baby shrugs and turns up the volume. “You’re lyin’. You can’t have a baby.”

  “Whatever. You better get used to the idea. You gonna have to help out.”

  Kat sparkles, her hands on her belly. Baby drags herself up and hugs Kat. “Congratulations. I guess.”

  Kat rubs her head. “Relax, kid. It ain’t comin’ for a while. You still the baby, okay? Maybe it’ll be a little girl. You can do her hair and dress her up, like you do with those dolls under your bed.”

  “Shut up,” Baby snaps. “I don’t play with those.”

  “You better get dressed. Boost’s on his way.”

  Kat brings me an outfit—her favorite white shirt, the one that drapes off the shoulder, and her plaid skirt. “I don’t need it no more. Take it.”

  She fusses with me, fiddles with my braids. “They startin’ to frizz. I’ll fix ’em tomorrow.”

  I’m happy for her, happy to think about a little tiny infant here with us. But part of me is jealous too. And maybe a little scared. Kat won’t be next door at the Litehouse anymore. I don’t wanna be there by myself, just me and Baby and the other girls I don’t know that well.

  When Boost arrives, she walks us to the door. “Be safe,” she says, her T-shirt loose and comfy, her sweatpants hanging easy on her hips. “I’ll be here when you get home.”

  The door to Devon’s room is shut tight. He’s in there alone, talking on the phone. And though I’m not sure why, I don’t want to leave her.

  “Daddy’s happy?” I ask.

  “Of course he is.”

  Baby takes my hand, pulls me out into the hall. Behind Devon’s door, music starts to thunder. Hard and loud.

  Like a fist.

  “Wake up.”

  Kat’s face shines at me, burning through the fog of sleep.

  “What time is it?” I ask.

  “It’s early. C’mon. I got a surprise for you.”

  She wakes Baby too. We dress quickly, tiptoe in the silent apartment. Devon’s door is closed. She slips the key into the lock, leads us down the stairs into the daylight.

  “Where we goin’?” Baby whines. “Where’s Daddy?”

  “Hush,” she says, taking her hand. Baby’s still in her pajamas, me in Grandpa’s T-shirt and Daddy’s giant shorts.

  Kat trots down the street in her sneakers, her long hair bouncing. We head toward the ocean, turn left on Surf Avenue. It’s ten a.m. I glance around, looking for Boost or the little guy Fuse or anyone else wearing red.

  They’re not awake yet—only families, dragging kids with beach towels, and the subway station up ahead with people streaming out of it, pouring like water across the street. We mix with the crowd, with men and women and girls and boys and little kids in strollers. The yellow air is warm, the sun peeking up at us. Kat holds on to us, weaves us through the strangers. A woman with a child bumps Kat’s shoulder.

  “Excuse me,” she says.

  Kat steps aside, her face wide and welcoming. She smiles at the child. “Have fun,” she says, and the woman smiles back.

  We dive through the crowd, down Surf Avenue, until Kat halts us in front of the the amusement park.

  Baby stops, her face switching on like a lightbulb. “For real?!” she squeals. “But we ain’t supposed to be here. Daddy said.”

  “It’s okay. C’mon. We won’t stay long.”

  “But what if Daddy finds out—”

  “Don’t ruin this, Baby. You the one always complainin’ that you wanna go here. Now’s your chance.”

  Baby’s eyes shine up at the Ferris wheel. “But the cops. Daddy said—”

  “Ain’t nobody gonna take you, Baby. Look at all these people. Nobody even gonna notice you, unless you make a scene. So c’mon. We won’t stay long. We’ll be back before he even knows we’re gone.”

  Baby doesn’t move. She looks at me, then back at Kat. “I dunno. It’s bigger than I thought. I don’t wanna get in trouble.”

  I wait for Kat to snap, to hiss at her like she usually does, but instead she wraps an arm around Baby’s thick shoulder. “It’s okay. Nothing’s gonna happen. Just have fun, that’s all. Like the rest of these people. Just act normal.”

  There are lots of rides. Small ones for little kids. Teacups that spin, a small red train, a miniature roller coaster. Kat pulls out a wad of wrinkled cash. “Which one you wanna go on first?”

  Baby grins. “The teacups!”

  We get in line, wait our turn, but the man looks at Baby and frowns.

  “This ride’s for children. How old are you?”

  “None of your business,” Kat answers. “We got money. Just let her on.”

  “Sorry. She’s too big. She won’t fit.”

  Kat shoots him a glare like a punch. “We got money.”

  “She’s too big. Sorry.”

  Baby’s face falls a little.

  “You’re an asshole,” Kat snaps. “C’mon, Baby. We’ll find a different ride. This one’s stupid anyway.”

  And so, we wander. There are games to play. Kat gives Baby a dollar. She steps up to a counter, throws a ball at a target, and misses. “Keep tryin’,” Kat insists with her new voice. Baby tries again, but the ball plops to the ground.

  “This is stupid,” she grumbles. Then Kat grabs a ball, scrunches her forehead, and whales it hard at the target. A bell squeals and the whole thing lights up.

  “We have a winner!” the man announces. Someone behind us cheers. Baby jumps and claps. “You did it!” she shouts. “You did it, Kat!”

  “Choose your prize, young lady,” says the man. Baby picks a stuffed giraffe and hugs it tight, her big saucer eyes shining and full as she runs to the next game. “I wanna try this one!”

  “You better win me something, girl,” Kat says with a laugh, rubbing Baby’s head, and my heart lifts up, fills me up till I think I might explode. Baby, in her striped pink pajamas. Kat, with her unpainted face. And me.

  All together. Like a family.

  You see me, Mama?

  “Can I get some cotton candy?” I whisper.

  “Hell yeah,” says Kat, holding out a ten. “Get two.”

  And I do. I get two, and I don’t wipe the sugar off my face.

  For the next hour, we dash from one game to the next. Kat can throw a ball at anything. She hardly ever misses. We win another animal—a huge panda bear. Then we race, all of us holding guns, squirting water at metal frogs that swim across a fake ocean. Kat wins again and the man hands us a goldfish in a plastic bag.

  “Like Nemo!” Baby shrieks. “Kat! Can we keep him?!”

  “We’ll see,” Kat says. But I know we can’t. We can’t keep anything, or Daddy will know we were here.

  Then we approach it. The Ferris wheel. The fake moon I see at night.

  WONDER WHEEL, it says, in giant red letters. Baby stares up at it.

  “Wanna go on?” Kat asks.

  And Baby can only nod, her mouth hanging open. “I bet you can see the whole world from up there.”

  “Go ’head. I’ll wait here.”

  “Come with me,” Baby whines.

  “Nah. I can’t. The baby and all. Queen Bee says I gotta be careful.”

  “I’ll stay with you,” I say.

  “I don’t wanna go on by myself,” Baby complains.

  A woman standing ahead of us in line smiles with her face freckled and brown hair with streaks of blond. “She can come
on with us if she’d like to.” Her little boy grins with ice-cream-covered teeth.

  “Okay,” Baby says, and we watch as she climbs into a blue swinging cage. The door shuts noisily, and then she’s in the air.

  Kat and I sit on a bench, the ocean right there next to us. I breathe in the air, the sun that keeps rising, the water that licks at the shore. I wonder where my mother is. I wish that she knew that I’ve made it to New York, that I have a family. A real family. And that soon we’ll move away, to someplace beautiful and quiet.

  Maybe I’ll go back to school.

  I’ll teach Kat how to cook all sorts of good things. Just like Grandpa taught me.

  And once the baby comes, we’ll take care of it.

  Nothing bad will ever happen again.

  “We should get home,” Kat says. She’s shivering again, like she’s been doing for the past couple weeks. “Daddy will be up soon.”

  “Let her stay a little longer,” I say. “It’s nice to see her be a kid, you know? Not just sleeping all the time like she does. Or watching Nemo.”

  “True enough.” Kat crosses her arms, rubs her shoulders like she’s freezing. “That kid came up hard. You know her father lives around the block from us? He used to score his shit right on 25th Street. Baby’d sit on the step of the Laundromat waiting for him to come back. He’d yell at her, call her names. Forget she was there sometimes. When Devon brought Baby home, her father figured out where she was, and he’d hit her up for money. Tell her she owed him. He got those eyes, you know? All lookin’ at her the wrong way, like a trick. Not like a father. That’s why she sleeps all the time. I think she still trying to forget.”

  The blue cage swings in the air, reaches the top of the Wonder Wheel, and starts to descend. We wave. Then we see.

  Chubby fingers stretched through the metal. Reaching for us.

  A little boy crying.

  Baby’s face pressed against the side. She’s crying too.

  “I don’t like it!” she screams. “Get me off!”

  Kat jumps to her feet. “Shit,” she says. She pushes past the crowd as the blue cage grazes the ground and starts to ascend again. “Wait! Stop! Stop the ride! She’s scared!” Kat lunges for the man at the bottom, his hand on the lever. “Stop it! She need to get off!”

  Baby’s eyes are frantic. She’s screaming at us, the little boy wailing. “Get me off! I don’t like it!”

  “Step back!” the man commands, pushing Kat away. “She can get off the next time around.”

  “Motherfucker,” she snarls. “Get her off. Now.”

  “Step back,” he repeats.

  Then I see the blood. A dark spot between Kat’s legs.

  “Kat,” I say softly.

  “Get her off!” she screams.

  “Back up!” the man yells.

  “Kat. Wait.” My hand on her shoulder.

  Baby’s cage teeters at the top of the wheel, slowly makes its way back down to earth. The man opens the door, Baby bolts right to us, her face wet and twisted. I open my arms, but she pushes me away.

  “I don’t like it,” she cries. “It’s too high.” Then, to Kat, “Why’d you bring us here? Why’d you make me go on there?”

  “I’m sorry! I thought you’d have fun.”

  “You wanted me to get scared. I know it!”

  “Kat,” I whisper. “You’re bleeding.”

  A crowd has formed around us. The freckled woman carries her son past us, hurries away like we’re crazy.

  Kat looks down.

  Baby screams.

  I take their hands, through the crowd, to the street. “Baby, go home,” I command.

  “I want my fish. I want Nemo! Where is he?”

  She won’t let go of my hand. I push her. “Go home. Right now.”

  “You can’t just leave him like that!”

  Kat and I lock eyes. Clench hands.

  And run.

  13

  CONEY ISLAND HOSPITAL

  Coney Island, New York

  And then you are there. Your brown hair pulled back into a ponytail, your white coat like a doctor, a plastic card clipped to the pocket.

  Daniela Cespedes, CSW.

  They put us in the back, away from everyone else. Because I was screaming when we got here, because we busted through the emergency room doors and Kat fell to the floor, cursing and crying and bleeding.

  She’s quiet now, curled in a ball on the bed. Her hands shake in silence. Her bloody pants are crumpled on the floor.

  She sobs.

  Her whole body shakes.

  I am too scared to touch her.

  A doctor comes in and sits down next to Kat.

  “I’m sorry,” he says.

  Because the baby is dead.

  “Get the fuck away from me.” Her new voice is gone now, replaced by another. Her words flop to the ground, limp and wasted.

  He nods, his lips pressed together like he understands, his eyes resting on Kat before he stands to leave. “You can rest here for a while. If you need anything, Daniela will take care of you.”

  And then he’s gone—the heavy door shut behind him.

  Kat’s tattoo leaks like a stain from the top of her thin hospital gown.

  “You’ve had that for a while, huh?” you say.

  “What?”

  “The tattoo. It’s fading already.” You look at me. “You have one too?”

  “Don’t answer her, Peach,” Kat says. “Don’t tell her shit.”

  You smile at her, pull the blanket up around her quaking body.

  “How come she’s shakin’ like that?” I whisper.

  “She’s in withdrawal,” you answer. “That’s my guess. Right?”

  Kat shrugs, curls herself up tighter.

  “You try to quit by yourself when you got pregnant?”

  Silence.

  “Okay. Listen. There are three men outside, waiting for you. One of them says he’s your cousin. But judging from the star on his shoulder, my guess is he’s your pimp. He’s definitely Blood. And you’re gonna be in a lot of trouble for coming here. So how ’bout we talk?”

  Silence.

  “C’mon, kiddo. You’ve made it this far. Take a chance. Trust me. Maybe I can help.”

  Kat groans, a deep, hollow sound that sucks the air from the room. Then she starts to shake again. The tears fall down, crash on the bed, and disappear.

  “Shut up,” she whimpers. “Please. Just shut the hell up.”

  You sigh gently, then turn your eyes on me.

  “How ’bout you? Is he your pimp too?”

  “Don’t tell her shit, Peach.”

  The baby is dead. Kat is broken. I open my mouth to speak. I want to talk to you.

  I don’t know why. I know I shouldn’t. I don’t know what you’ll do to me. But there’s something about the way you look at us, like we’re not in trouble at all. Like we’re nice girls.

  And then I hear another voice, reaching out from a faraway place. From somewhere I’d forgotten, or tried to escape.

  Punky, it says.

  Punky.

  Talk to her. Remember? What do you do if you’re in trouble?

  “He’s not a pimp.” My voice is small. Tiny. “He takes care of us.”

  “He sell you for sex?”

  I don’t answer. A pimp is a guy in a music video, with a tricked-out car and gold chains. That’s not Devon.

  You keep looking at me. “Is someone selling you?”

  I don’t answer.

  “Okay. Let me put it a different way. Someone is selling you—and that person is a pimp. And I know he’s a Blood because all those boys waiting for you two are flagging red.”

  Pimp. If he’s a pimp, what does that make me? I feel like I might be sick. “What’s withdrawal?” I ask you.

  “That’s what happens when you stop taking drugs. You feel very, very ill.”

  “We don’t do drugs.”

  “Okay.”

  “We take medicine. So we don’t feel s
cared.”

  “Okay. Do you want to go with them? With the guys out there?”

  Through the small window in the door, I can see Daddy. Boost and Fuse, too, the little guy I don’t like. Where’s Baby? She must be so scared, seeing Kat bleeding. We ran away from her. We left her there, alone.

  No. I don’t think I want to go with them. But I can’t leave Kat. I can’t leave Baby. They need me.

  I don’t have anyone else.

  “Can Kat stay here? Till she’s better? I could stay with her.”

  “I wish she could, but the doctors need the bed for other people.”

  “Like who?”

  “People who are hurt worse than she is. Physically, at least. If you tell me those guys are related to you, I have to let you go. I have no choice. But if you girls want help, let’s talk. . . .”

  Kat pulls herself up, wipes her face. “C’mon, Peach. We out.”

  “But maybe we should—”

  “Maybe you should shut up like I told you to. This woman can’t do shit for us.” Then she turns her eyes on you. “They’re our cousins. They came to get us, a’ight? I said it. So now you can leave.”

  “Okay,” you say. “Well, at least take this.”

  Your hand reaches out.

  A card. A small white card.

  Daniela Cespedes, CSW.

  I take it tight into my fist.

  “You know where I am. If you change your mind, I’m here.”

  And then you’re gone too—lost in the noisy chaos of the world outside our door. Doctors rushing past. Nurses in a hurry. Families waiting for people they’re worried about. People who are hurt worse than Kat. People who get to stay here, with you—the lady with the soft eyes who didn’t yell at us at all.

  Kat shoves her feet into her sneakers, yanks her T-shirt over her hospital gown. She kicks her bloody pants across the floor.

  “Kat,” I say. “Maybe we should talk to her. Maybe—”

  “My name ain’t Kat, it’s Keisha.” Her eyes are puffy and wet, the color of a bruise. “And nobody’s gonna help us. She ain’t gonna do shit but send us to a group home. So let’s just go. Lemme tell you somethin’, Peach. You wanna survive? You want a life? Then you better start thinkin’ for yourself. Don’t be listenin’ to no lady in a hospital. She ain’t magic. Nobody is.”