Raging Sea (Undertow, #2)(17)
San Saba is the Pecan capital of the world. A person can walk around it in about an hour and a half. There’s not much going on here except for the twenty or so businesses that sell pecans. The smell is everywhere. I could twirl it around my finger and plop it into my mouth.
There are a few two-story buildings lining the streets, a diner that hasn’t seen a customer in a long time, and a lot of empty storefronts and parking spaces. I don’t see a single person during our first silent stroll around town, which is good because we’re on the hunt for another loaner.
The cars don’t come. We try every door handle we come across, and all of them are locked. I do find a hatchback with keys in the ignition, but it’s a stick, and I’m barely managing automatic. We circle the town again, making friends with a stray mutt who follows close behind, clearly hoping for some food. He’s so skinny, we can see his ribs. Bex eventually breaks down and tosses him some crackers. Suddenly I feel bad for tossing out the bacon.
We eat our breakfast under the awning of an abandoned Woolworth, then our lunch beneath the awning of an abandoned Blockbuster Video. By dusk we’re still wandering aimlessly and the heat that pressed down on us all day lifts and makes room for its frosty cousin. Bex is shivering. I can’t hear myself think over my chattering teeth. We’ve got to find somewhere to stay.
“That park we passed might have something,” I say.
Bex and Arcade respond with grunts, too tired and cold to argue or agree. They follow me back down the street, into the shadows, where we hustle double-time, staying away from streetlights. The park is a lot bigger than it seemed each time we passed it. Inside, it is massive and fancy, considering the size of the town. It has a small lake, baseball diamonds, fountains, tennis and volleyball courts, and a nature trail. We run through it all on our way to a gazebo at the center. It’s an open-air building with a roof supported by sandstone pillars to keep rain and sun off, but not cold air. There we spot a couple of kids hanging around. One is using a picnic table as a skate ramp. The other kid is lying on top of another picnic table, staring up at the sky and burning a cigarette between her two fingers. I can’t really see what she looks like, but the skater is unforgettable. His arms are covered in tattoos. He’s also got piercings in his eyebrows and a huge one in his right earlobe. He’s got that urban wildness I used to see in the kids who lived on the boardwalk back home. It’s a combination of grime, nervous energy, and sunburns. I’m guessing they are probably homeless. They’ve got dogs with them, which is always a giveaway. Homeless kids love dogs. Maybe it’s the whole “unconditional love” a dog is happy to give. The kids back home paid for that love with loyalty. They would let themselves go hungry to buy kibble.
“Maybe they know a squat,” Bex whispers as we watch them from the safety of the shrubs.
“Can they be trusted?” Arcade asks.
I peer closely, wondering the same thing. My father told me that most of the homeless kids he dealt with were runaways trying to put distance between themselves and something back home. Others were dumped from the foster care rolls when they got too old and had nowhere else to go. They were all pretty harmless, he said, but he warned me that some had serious drug problems and mental health issues. But honestly, I’m more worried about how they might react to us. Bex and I come off pretty normal, if smelly, but one look at Arcade is all you need to know she’s not human. Her features are too perfect, too symmetrical, breathtaking and otherworldly. The scars on her forearms where her blades jut out aren’t exactly inconspicuous either. Maybe this isn’t a good idea.
“You need something?” a voice says from behind me. Startled, we spin around and find a tall, broad-shouldered Asian kid in baggy camouflage shorts, a Burger King T-shirt, and road rash on his forearm. His hoodie is strewn with patches from hardcore bands I’ve never heard of, and like the other kids, he’s got a beat-up skateboard under his arm.
“We need a squat for the night,” Bex says bravely.
He studies each one of us, as if we’re wearing little signs that read TRUSTWORTHY or UNTRUSTWORTHY. Oddly enough, Arcade doesn’t seem to intrigue him. He spends a lot of time on me.
“Are you Coasters?”
“Yeah.”
“Did you get dumped too?”
“Um, no,” I say, confused by his question.
“You got through the roadblocks?” he cries.
“Yes,” I say, though he doesn’t need to know we used our magical mittens to make it happen.
He nods approvingly.
“You got anything to eat in that pack?”
“Plenty.”
“Yeah, I got a place,” he says with a smile, then gestures for us to follow him as he joins his friends at the pavilion.
The dogs are the first to notice us, and their barks are shocking and loud, like thunderclaps on a clear day. All their hostility is aimed at Arcade. A golden retriever charges at her and bares its teeth, then circles around her slowly, sniffing and snapping. A German shepherd takes the opposite approach, lying on its belly, a sign of submission. Even the dogs know Arcade’s an Alpha.
“Easy now, Phil,” Tattoo Boy says as he hops off his board and hurries to the retriever’s side. He’s calm and loving, caressing the animal’s great golden head and neck.
The girl sits up and turns to us. She’s beautiful in a way that’s hard to define, with long black dreads that hang like ropes, light skin, freckles, big green eyes, and full brown lips. Unfortunately, all those amazing features are twisted and annoyed.