Anonymity Page 7

  “This book is due back in two weeks,” the woman said. “It's a high demand book, so please return it so others can enjoy it as well.”

  Lorelei thanked her and headed to retrieve her bedroll from the other desk. As she walked away she heard the woman say to no one in particular, “Well, we'll never see that book again.”

  That night, after mending the sleeping bag, Lorelei propped up against a log, switched on her flashlight and began to read. This would be her third time reading Twilight. At home, she had borrowed a girlfriend's copy and hidden it under her bed. She knew her parents wouldn't approve, even though Stephanie Meyer was LDS too. Mormons were a diverse group, a confusing thing for a kid.

  Mook and Elda were gone somewhere, probably somewhere warm, but the others had set up camp again. Freestyle was slumped in a rotten lawn chair, one of his eyes ringed like a raccoon. College boys had jumped him.

  Minion picked out Green Day's Good Riddance on the strings of an old guitar.

  He sang, “I hope you had the time of your life.”

  Lorelei always liked the song, particularly the part about tattoos of memories.

  When she felt the tug of sleep, she snuggled down into the comforting confinement of the sleeping bag. One advantage to sleeping bags was she could stuff her things into the bottom and not worry that someone would steal them while she slept.

  She was soon dreaming about walking to school through powdery snow a foot deep. Above her, slate-gray mountains pushed against a blue, blue sky. Her breath grew short, and she struggled through deeper and deeper drifts. Snowbanks rose around her ten feet high. She fell. She got up and trudged on. She fell again. She hurt her hand.

  She jolted awake. Pain seared her fingers and up her arm. She screamed and kicked, struggling to free herself from the sleeping bag. Another hot poker pierced her skin. She screamed again and fought the confines of the fabric.

  Then, somehow, Mook was there, unzipping her sleeping bag, rolling her out onto the hard ground. Flashlight beams scraped the night. Mook cursed and crushed something under his boot.

  She shrieked and slapped hysterically at her hand.

  “Calm down.” Elda tried to wrap her arms around her. “It's gone. He killed it.”

  “Get it off! Get it off!” Lorelei screamed. The pain streaked up past her wrist. She swatted at her stinging arm.

  Mook grabbed her and gave her a solid shake. “Shit, girl. It's just a big bug. You're okay. Calm down.”

  Her terror broke and she came to her senses.

  “Look,” Mook said as he lifted a six-inch centipede with the end of his knife. He held the black bug out in front of him. Its yellow pinchers slowly opened and closed; a few of its many red legs twitched in agony.

  “Yuck,” Elda said.

  “Texas centipede,” he said. “Hurts like a mother, but it won't kill you.”

  “Unless you're allergic to bee stings,” Elda said. “You aren't allergic, are you?”

  “No,” Lorelei whimpered. “I don't think so.”

  “It was just looking for a little warmth.” Mook flung the bug into the woods. “We've all been stung by some big nasty Texas bug. Just be glad it wasn't a scorpion. Comes with the territory. You're official now.”

  He walked back into the lean-to. The others scanned around them before they lay down again.

  “You should go to the clinic in the morning,” Elda whispered. “Just to be safe.”

  Lorelei sat alone on a log for the rest of the night, holding her injured hand out in front of her. Tears rolled out of her for a long while after she had calmed down. She was embarrassed by her inability to regain full control, and she tried to be quiet so she wouldn't wake the others again.

  The pain settled in her arm and started a throb in her shoulder. She grew cold but couldn't bear to get inside her sleeping bag again. She rocked herself, weeping softly, as she waited for daybreak.

  Barbara

  TEXAS HAD four seasons: drought, flood, blizzard and twister. Austin was usually horribly humid, but all of Central Texas had been parched for months and Barbara missed the sticky, moist air. This morning brought more clear skies, but the temperature had finally dropped to nonlethal.

  Barbara cranked up the air conditioning in her SUV and blended with the traffic flowing toward downtown. Her phone rang and she could see on her dashboard that it was one of her PR interns from UT. She hit the talk button on her steering column.

  “Hey, what's up?”

  “Are you on your way in?” the girl asked.

  “A few minutes out, but I've got to stop and set up something before I come in. Is everything under control?”

  “Yes, but they're driving me nuts dragging ass.”

  “Apparently, nonprofits move slow.” Barbara had been hired to manage Keep Austin Cleared, the city's annual litter clean-up program. “How's media looking? This is a one hundred percent positive client. We won't have any protestors or crisis management today, no angry letters to editors tomorrow.”

  “No media yet. Shouldn't they be here by now?”

  “They'll show. Give them another hour. Then we'll start making calls. How do the shirts look?”

  “It's a sea of green around here.”

  “I picked up another 10,000 cups. The logos are crisp this time. They look much better. I'm going to make the printer eat the cost for the first batch. Banner for the after-party?”

  “Got it.”

  “Can you handle things until I get there?”

  “No problem. People are trickling in, but it's still early.”

  “Call me if you need me.”

  Traffic was fierce on the tangled highway system. She cut around slow cars and old trucks filled with produce. As she waited for a light, Barbara couldn't help but read bumper stickers. It seemed the majority of vehicles in Austin were held together by adhesive slogans. There were vegans and soccer moms and alternative bands. Plenty of people wanted peace and many had strong opinions about the former president from Texas. Austin gave new meaning to the term information superhighway.

  The city gleamed in the distance. It didn't look in need of a polish. Barbara suspected that Austin's litter problem came from tourists and transplants and the homeless, but that would be a very un-PC thing to express. Truly, she should be thanking whoever was mucking up the city because it meant she had a job.

  Since being downsized from a corporate public relations position, Barbara had struck out on her own. Businesses of all types were scrambling for attention in a tight market. Newspapers and television stations had cut nearly half of their reporters. Those who were left were overwhelmed with work, so getting them to appreciate a story was harder than ever. Oddly, being a small, reasonably priced PR firm seemed to be a growth opportunity in a bad economy.

  She parked in front of Group Therapy. Inside smelled of sour beer, but the hardwood floors were clean and the tables tidy and ready for the lunch crowd. Emily waved a giant knife in Barbara's direction. Fruit wobbled on a scarred cutting board in front of her daughter.

  “Hi, sweetheart,” Barbara said as she wiggled onto a barstool.

  “Hi.”

  “I don't have long. My assistant's taking care of things for me this morning.”

  “Can you eat?”

  “I'd love some of Angel's beef brisket if he's got any made this early.”

  “I'll check.” Emily opened the swinging door to the kitchen, spoke to someone and then came back. “No problem. So what's up? What are you doing downtown today?”

  “Working for the big cleanup, you know, Keep Austin Cleared? I did all the media and branding this year. We're handling the closing ceremonies and the party after. Why don't you come on down and help with the clean up efforts?”

  Emily gathered her hair behind her, twisted it up and stuck a pencil through the mass of curls. This was her way of thinking before speaking.

  “I'd like to, but I can't. One of my bartenders called in sick. I have to pull a double today.”

  She w
as probably lying, but Barbara couldn't blame her. Over the years, Barbara had made her family volunteer to do everything from handing out water at marathons to pretending to be happy customers for commercials. Why would Emily be eager to pick up trash?

  “So this is your new client?” Emily asked. “How's it going?”

  “Great so far. I did the volunteer media release and we got tons of people. I was surprised. Community organizations, business and social clubs, churches, bowling leagues and softball teams. Lots of UT students. Apparently, sororities and fraternities use Keep Austin Cleared as part of their social service requirements.”

  Emily set a Diet Coke in front of her mother and Barbara took a sip.

  “Thank you. So, I spent last week shooting b-roll of litter-packed areas of the city. I had that delivered with the media release a couple of days ago to all the TV stations. I'm hoping they'll use it as before and after shots.”

  “Smart.”

  “Hey, I'd like to hire you to help me. Can you go to the dump with me in the morning and take some shots? I made these bright-green branded garbage bags for the event and I found out where the city is taking them all. I'm hoping to get shots of a mountain of those bags. There will be literally thousands. Pictures like that will help me get the job again next year.”

  Emily pondered the offer, then she said, “Sure. Why not?”

  “I'll pay.”

  “Even better.”

  The kitchen door swung open, and Angel came out with a basket of food.

  “Hola, Senora Barbara.”

  “How you doing, Angel?”

  “Can't complain, but I still do.”

  Barbara had always liked Angel. She could felt his protectiveness toward Emily, which gave her some comfort about her daughter working in a bar.

  Barbara's iPhone chirped.

  “My assistant,” she said. Then, “Hey, what's going on?”

  “Where are you?”

  “I'm downtown. Just a few minutes away. Why? You need me?”

  “I think so. I've got some reporter being an asshole.”

  “Really? What's his deal?”

  “Apparently there's some standoff between gutter punks and frat boys down here in the alley by the drop-in. Students say the area is theirs to clean. Youth ministries had some of the street kids cleaning it. They got into a disagreement and wouldn't you know it, some reporter shows up right when things start to go down. Can you come?”

  “Fifteen minutes.”

  So much for no drama. Crisis management first thing. Damn.

  Barbara looked longingly at Angel's glorious sandwich.

  “Could you?” she asked.

  He smiled. “No hay problema. I wrap it up for you.” He took the basket back to the kitchen.

  Barbara parked in a no parking zone and attached a media pass to the rearview mirror. She didn't qualify for a media pass, but she had managed to pinch one from a political campaign she was involved in once. It always worked. People never messed with reporters.

  Down the urine-tinged alley behind a church she found the unhappy standoff. On one side of the alley, young men wore the bright-green protective gloves Barbara had ordered for the event. A couple had on her T-shirts. On the other side, boys were dressed in drab sweatshirts and pants. They seemed overly dressed for the warm weather.

  Barbara's fidgety assistant was standing next to a guy with a skinny notebook in his hand, a messenger bag slung over one shoulder—obviously the reporter.

  As Barbara approached, she heard the reporter say, “I heard that one of the street kids was assaulted by a student last week. You know anything about that?”

  “That's not really why we are here today,” Barbara interjected. “Hi, I'm Barbara Bryce. I'm helping with this event.”

  He looked perturbed. He didn't bother to shake her offered hand.

  “And can I ask your name?” She smiled her most sincere smile.

  “Travis Roberts. I'm with Be Here Now.”

  Great. The town's liberal rag would usually be a big supporter of this event. Were they suddenly hostile?

  “Let's focus on the positive aspect of this, shall we?” Barbara said.

  “I'm not here to report on the litter event,” he said. “I'm following up on a report that one of the street kids got punched in the nose. I just stumbled up on this fresh conflict.”

  “They're harshing our vibe.” This boy had black disks the size of quarters in his ears. Emily called those ugly things gauges, but Barbara always thought of them as tiny hockey pucks. His friends had hardware in their eyebrows and various orifices. “We're just trying to help and these dudes come along and move in on our territory.”

  “It's not like we want to be in this piss-soaked shit hole,” one of the students said.

  When she spoke, Barbara directed her words toward the frat boys, thinking it more likely she could reason with the students.

  “Hey, guys. What's the problem? There's more than enough trash to go around.”

  “Huh, I'll say,” remarked the student who seemed to be the leader. Like his friends, he had gelled hair and perfect white teeth.

  “Why don't you just pick another spot?” she suggested.

  “We were told to clean up this area. This particular spot is ours every year. Why can't they move?” the student asked.

  “Why can't you work together? Look, you guys take this side of the alley.” Barbara swept her arm past the street kids and then in the other direction past the students. “And you guys take this side. It's half the work for both of you.”

  Less work seemed to strike an acceptable accord with both sides. As they thought it over, a disheveled man in his thirties sauntered up the alley, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his camo pants.

  He stopped and took in the situation.

  “Hey, David Simpson,” he said. “I'm the director at the Tumbleweed Center. Is there something I can do to help here?”

  The angry demeanor of the street kids immediately cooled.

  “Are you in charge of these boys?” Barbara asked.

  “Not for this event,” he said. “That would be the Street Youth Ministry. Is there a problem?”

  “I don't know,” she said. “Is there a problem here, boys?”

  They all shook their heads and mumbled.

  “Great. Then let's all get back to doing our thing. How about it? We're all happy, right? Can't wait for the big party tonight, right?” she said.

  “Like we'd be welcome at your stupid party,” one of the punks said under his breath.

  “Of course you guys are welcome to come. We'll have hot dogs and popcorn and all sorts of goodies. I'll give you some shirts.”

  “Like those?” One of the street kids pointed to the frat boys in Barbara's bright-green creations. “No thanks.” His group snickered and the students bristled.

  “Guys, stop it,” David said. He had a strong masculine voice that got their attention. Trash bags rustled open and both sides turned to their tasks.

  “Barbara Bryce, and this is,” she said, motioning to Travis.

  “We know each other,” Travis said. “What's up, David? I guess you're the person I really should ask about this. I heard about an altercation between some UT students and a Drag kid last week. Said a boy ended up with a bloody nose. You know anything about that?”

  “It was no big deal. We diffused the situation.”

  “Was it students bum hunting?”

  “No. That's not the case and don't write that.”

  “Look, man. We're on the same side here. People should know what it's like to live like these kids do. Face the things they have to face every day just to survive.”

  “I'll let you two talk,” Barbara said. She handed the reporter her card. “If you want to discuss the cleanup, give me a call.”

  “Yeah, okay. I got all your releases and stuff already,” he said, dismissing her. Sometimes it was easy to hate reporters.

  “Great, then,” she chirped. “Maybe I'll
see you at the afterparty.”

  Lorelei

  EXHAUSTION OVERTOOK Lorelei just after daybreak, so weary she forgot her fear of giant insects. She had crawled back into her sleeping bag and cinched the opening around her face.

  The voices started far away. Was she dreaming? She could hear people stomping through the underbrush like awkward animals. Without warning, three adults, all in the same DayGlo shirts and gloves, stepped into her fuzzy vision.

  “Oh,” one of the women said. “People are living here.”

  “This must be a hobo camp,” another said. No apology. They just stood and stared, obviously unsure how to react.

  They held garish green garbage bags and sticks with metal ends for collecting trash. The man gripped his stick tightly, but the women held theirs loosely at their sides.

  Lorelei's head felt as if it would split down the middle, and she pulled her hood tightly around her face. She longed for dark glasses to cut the flash of sun through the trees. She could hear other people moving through the woods, apparently stumbling upon other camps. She heard Mook.

  “Hey folks. How y'all doing?” he drawled cordially.

  “Oh.” They were startled and obviously a little frightened.

  “This must be cleanup day, huh?” Mook said.

  “That's right,” the man said.

  “That's so nice of y'all to help keep the city clean. How about we take care of this spot right here and you can find somewhere else to clean up? As you can see, some of us are still sleeping.”

  Lorelei moved to get up, but when she pushed up on her arm, pain seared her right side. She collapsed to the ground in a whimper.

  “What's wrong with her?” one of the women asked. “Is she drunk?”

  “Centipede sting,” Mook said.

  They looked as if they didn't believe him. He crouched next to Lorelei.

  “Let's see that hand,” he said.

  She could barley move her arm away from her body. Mook pushed up her sweatshirt sleeve and there was a collective gasp.

  He gave a concerned whistle. “Man, her arm is hot.”