Twenty-four years ago
Jag says this place is Portland, but it doesn’t look like a port or a land.The sky is always gray.The people are strange, and this corner store smells like old gum under the counter.But I don’t ask questions.If Jag says Portland, we’re in Portland.
All I know is it’s far from home.
Home is where I left my toys, pretty shoes, and soft sweaters.All the things I grew out of without meaning to.
I try not to think about Mom.Not because it hurts.It hurts a lot.But my head doesn’t know what to do with a hurt that big.
Jag says eight-year-olds aren’t built for that kind of thinking.Besides, my brain is too busy with the pinch in my belly.I’m always hungry, and it makes my tummy squirm and buzz like a mosquito.
I stare at the bag of peanuts in my hand, my mouth watering for the salty crunch.I just know the tiny pieces would fill the tiny pockets inside me.
Standing on my tiptoes, I search for Jag.I always know where he is, even when I can’t see him.
A few aisles over, I catch the top of his head.His messy brown hair never sits down, no matter how many times he pats it.
He’s taller than most sixteen-year-olds.I didn’t know that until a cashier somewhere told me.
I look down at my jeans, at the stiff dirt around the knees.They don’t touch my shoes anymore.Maybe I’m tall, too.My shirt has holes that weren’t there last year, and the rips around my neck are getting bigger.They flap when I move.The wind gets in.
But I’m not scared.The stomach ache doesn’t scare me.The holes don’t scare me.Nothing scares me when Jag is near.
Because he’s always near.
I hear his footsteps before I see him, a sound I know better than music.He appears in my aisle, wearing sneakers that have more holes than my shirt.His toe sticks out of one, like it got too big and broke free.
“Let’s go.”He snatches the peanuts from my hand and shoves them into the pocket of his denim coat.
A candy bar disappears into the other side, so quick it’s magic.
His hand closes around mine, his fingers warm and strong and never shaking, as he walks fast toward the door.
We don’t run.Running makes noise.Running makes people look.
We walk like we belong here.Like we’re supposed to have food in our pockets and empty bellies and nobody waiting for us anywhere.
Outside, the cold air bites my cheeks and stings my eyes.I’m thinking about tearing open the peanuts, about how good they’ll taste, when the cashier shouts from the doorway.
“Hey!You need to pay for that!”
My heart jumps.
Jag doesn’t flinch.His hand clamps harder around mine, and I squeeze back.
Now is when we run.
He pulls me forward so quick I almost leave my shoes behind.His legs are longer and faster.The sidewalk blurs, and my breath comes out in little squeaks.I try to keep up.I really do.But my feet tangle.Oh, no, I’m stumbling.
Jag immediately stops.
The cashier bursts around the corner behind us, yelling louder, waving his arms, and calling for help.
Jag doesn’t even look at him.
He scoops me up, an arm under my knees and another around my back.My face presses into the warm denim of his coat.Then he runs.
Not normal running.He runs like an action hero, veering between cars, leaping over trash, and dodging people and their dogs.He flies around corners without slowing, his legs mighty and strong.My arms stay tight around his neck as the world jerks and swings and spins.
