Fox Forever by Mary E. Pearson Page A

beautiful wavy hair and saved feathers that fell from the sky because she said they were gifts from loved ones in heaven. I want to tell her how my dad was the strongest man I ever knew and he wasn’t afraid to cry in front of me. I want to tell her about my grandparents who took us in when my parents were trying to save money for a new house in a better neighborhood. I want to share how my uncles helped gut and fix up that house and my aunts would bring casseroles and we’d eat on tables made of plywood and sawhorses. I want to share about my real family and how much I miss them, and how I let them down and how more than anything in the world I wish I could have just one more minute with them all, so I could at least say good-bye. I want her to know who they were and how they once walked this street, this sidewalk, this park, and breathed this air. Just like us.
    I look down at the pebble still at my feet.
    Kick it back, Locke.
    Kick it.
    I kick the pebble back to her and I stick to the story the Network has created for me—the family who doesn’t really exist. The lies are sour in my mouth.
    We end up back at the Commons and the tree with the giant twisted root. We look at the tree, the sky, the lawn. We listen to rustling in the bushes. Finally there’s nowhere else to look but at each other.
    “I need to go,” she finally says.
    “Sure.”
    “Will you have a hard time sleeping tomorrow night?” she asks.
    “I think I might.”
    She nods and leaves but when she’s only a few yards away she turns and says, “You answered my question. It’s only fair that I answer yours. Yes. Sometimes my father is stern with me too.”

A Sudden Dip
    I sleep through early afternoon. My habit of “sleeplessness” is catching up with me. For the last four nights I’ve met Raine in the park.
    Each night our visits grow longer, mostly walking through the Commons and public gardens, and each night I get a piece of information from her, probably small and useless, maybe not. I don’t push. These are small slips in passing. She offers these freely. The A Group has been together for three years. No new additions in that time. She’s surprised I was invited to join. I don’t tell her that I’m surprised as well. When I mentioned meeting LeGru at the Somerset Club, she told me she hates her father’s assistant. She thinks he has soulless eyes. When he comes to their apartment, which is often, she stays in her room or goes to the roof to feed the pigeons.
    I noted her spontaneous smile when she told me about feeding the birds even though it’s against the rules of the apartment association. It seems the rooftop is her domain and she does as she pleases there. A fat white pigeon that she’s named Rufus is her favorite. There’s still tension between us, distance that she’s clearly maintaining—and yet she still comes. And every night as we part she asks again if I might have a hard time sleeping the next night. And every night my answer is the same. Yes.
    I throw on some clothes and grab my pack. I’ve stayed put in the apartment during the daytime for as long as I can. I need to get out and I head for Quincy Market, walking at a brisk pace like something inside of me is stuck in high gear. I wonder how Raine fills her days? Will I ever see her in the light of day?
    I walk through the shops taking samples that are offered, mindful of not using my money card. It’s Miesha’s money and I’d like to give it back to her if I can. Free samples are scarce today so I finally splurge and buy a sandwich, an old-fashioned Italian sub. It tastes almost like the ones my mom used to bring home from the deli at her market, loaded with peperoncini.
    With the first bite, a wave of homesickness hits me, even though technically, I am home, and in practically the same moment, I think about the disposable phone tabs I saw at the checkout. Three on a card, each good for twenty minutes. Carver may have said no phone contact, but what harm