Alosha (2 page)

Sam had gone to high school with her mom, had played football on the team when her mother was a cheerleader. He had cried at her funeral.

She smiled and stuffed the food in her daypack. “Thanks, Sam.”

“Any time, Ali.”

She had just left the store when she ran into a strange little man. He was hanging around the parking lot, looking either lost or up to no good. He was dressed in a green coat and a yellow bow tie, and wore a green wool cap over his head, covering his ears. He must be a midget, she thought, he couldn't have been three feet tall.

Yet his proportions were odd. His head was bigger than her father's and his hands were long and bony like a skeleton's; never mind his hook nose, which was shaped like a bent hanger and dotted with dozens of tiny bumps.

He appeared to be wearing women's makeup; the stuff was thick and poorly applied. It gave his skin a sickly yellow color, or else, she thought, that was his natural color and he was trying to cover it up.

Whatever, she didn't like the look of him and tried getting on her bike
when she saw him staring at her. But he called and came running over, and she felt she had to stop. She did not like being rude to people.

Still, she glanced around for support, and was relieved to see Sam watching her from inside his sandwich shop. She preferred to trust people, but she was not careless. If the tiny man tried to harm her, she would shout out, and Sam would be there in a second.

“A second, Missy. Need to ask you a few questions,” he said as he approached. Close up his eyes were as weird as the rest of him. Large and deep set, they were bright green but splintered with gold streaks that seemed to swim around black pupils. Peering at her from beneath brown eyebrows that were so bushy he could have combed them like mustaches, his big eyes seemed to glow. She wondered if he was nuts, if he had decided to dress up for Halloween a few months early. In his left hand he carried a white pillowcase that appeared loaded with goodies.

“Yes?” she said.

He glanced at her sandwich that stuck halfway out of the pack on her back. “What's that?” he asked, interested.

“Lunch. What can I do for you, sir?”

He offered his right hand. “Paddy O'Connell, a pleasure to meet you, Missy. It is I who would like to serve you.”

She shook his hand quickly; it was hairy on top of everything else. “I'm sorry, I don't need any service today, thank you.”

She turned to go. He blocked her path.

“A moment, Missy. I have here items I know you're going to like. Items I'd be willing to part with—for you—for less than a fair price.”

He lifted his pillowcase, drew forth an elegant gold watch and held it out for her to inspect. “Note the fine workmanship, the gold band and the many diamonds set in the exquisite face. This watch must be worth a thousand dollars. But I'd be more than happy to give it to a young lady such as yourself for . . . oh, three hundred dollars.” He stopped and grinned; his crooked teeth were as yellow as his weird skin. He added, “What do you say, Missy?”

“I don't have three hundred dollars,” she said.

He stopped, scratched his big head. “How much do you have?”

“None of your business. If I had a thousand dollars, I wouldn't buy that watch. It's obviously stolen.”

He drew back, shocked. “Stolen? How dare you say such a thing? Paddy may be new to these parts, but that gives you no reason to judge me so harshly.”

Ali felt a pang of guilt. He might be telling the truth. It was possible he made his living selling stuff out of his bag. She couldn't see him working in a normal store.

“I'm sorry,” she replied. “I shouldn't have said that. But I don't need a watch and I couldn't afford one even if I did.” She turned to walk away, but once more he stopped her. He brought a Walkman out of his bag, held it out for her to study.

“I'm sure you could use one of these,” he said. “I'd be willing to part with this for a much smaller amount.”

Ali was curt. “I already have a Walkman.”

“But this is a brand-new . . . Walkman.” He added, “I wager it could help you walk your man much better than the one you own.”

At first she thought he was joking. “Walk your man?” But then she realized the little guy had no idea what a CD player was. He continued to stare at her eagerly. Once again it made her think the items were stolen.

“Where are you from?” she asked.

He was cautious. “Why do you ask?”

“You said you were new to these parts. Where are you from?”

He slipped the Walkman in his bag and averted his eyes. “The old country. I only just arrived a few days ago. I mean you no harm.” He paused and stared at her sandwich again, adding, “I haven't had lunch today.”

“You're hungry?” she asked.

“Very hungry. I've not had breakfast yet, either. I'm sure a bite or two of your bread would satisfy me.” He added hopefully, “If Missy wishes to share it?”

Ali handed him the sandwich. She could always buy another before she left town. “Take it, that's fine,” she said.

He took a step forward and grabbed it, ripped off the wrapper in a second. His mouth, when he opened it all the way, was gigantic. He put an entire end of the sandwich in his mouth and chewed hungrily. Then he started to sniff her daypack.

“You have chips?” he asked.

“Yes.”

He set down his own bag. “May I have some, please?” Before she could answer, he grabbed the bag of potato chips—and the Coke—and began to stuff himself. Ali had never seen anyone eat so fast. “What else do you have?” he asked between mouthfuls.

“I'm not giving you any more food.”

He waved the sandwich. “Now, now, Missy, I meant no offense. Just a starving traveler, I am.” He reached for his bag. “Could I interest you in a wallet or purse? I have a fine selection.”

“No. Take that stuff to the pawnshop if you want to get rid of it.”

He paused, interested. “A pawnshop? Where is that?”

“On Hadley. That's around the block from here.”

“They buy things there? They pay go . . . cash?”

“Yes. Don't you know what a pawnshop is?”

“I do indeed,” he said, putting the remainder of the sandwich in his pillowcase. “It's been a long day for me and I really must be on my way. Thanks for your time, Missy.”

“No problem,” Ali muttered as she watched him disappear in the direction of the pawnshop. Even the way he moved was odd; he was like a squirrel on two legs. What a strange fellow! He almost didn't look human.

Ali turned and walked back toward Sam's Subs, reaching in her pockets for her money. She had brought a twenty with her, and knew she had over fifteen in change.

But her pockets were empty.

It took her a moment to realize what had happened.

“That guy stole my money!” she exclaimed.

She fumed. Fifteen bucks—that was a lot of money to her. Paddy had
probably swiped it when he had grabbed the sandwich. For sure, he must have stolen all the watches and wallets he had in his pillowcase. She wondered if she should call the police.

In the end, though, she did nothing. She didn't even bother asking Sam for a free lunch, although she knew he would have given it to her in a second. The day was wearing on, trees were dying. Suddenly, she was anxious to get up in the woods.

Turning her bike in the direction of the forest, Ali rode out of town.

L
ater, high on the mountain, she found herself surrounded by trees so green they seemed to breathe fresh air, and a silence so deep her thoughts sounded like spoken words in her head. Already, the forest was working its magic on her; she felt much happier.

Yet she had come to an obstacle, a roadblock. A wooden bar—yellow as that weird man's putrid makeup, and high as her neck—stretched all the way across the road. The roadblock had not been there before, and she wondered if the logging company had put it up to keep her out. The sign on the bar said no trespassing, go away nosy girl, stop hassling us with your stupid guilt trips. Well, not exactly, but something like that. It sure wasn't a friendly sign.

Ali stopped and got off her bike to catch her breath. She had been about to
take a break anyway, but was disturbed by the roadblock. She realized she could get in trouble if she went on, yet she was not in the mood to give up. She had always been headstrong and, ever since her mother had died, had made it a point not to quit anything she started.

The sign was a square of hard cardboard, not metal. Feeling rebellious, she tore it off the bar and folded it and stuffed it in her daypack. If she got caught, she could always deny she had seen the sign. She hated to lie to anyone, but these were the same guys who were murdering her forest. It was not like they would arrest her or anything.

“They might,” she said aloud. They might do exactly that. Then she would have to call her father, raise bail, appear before a judge, and maybe have her picture on the front page of the local newspaper. Worse things could happen, she decided.

Ali heard a truck approaching from the direction of town. She knew it was not a car because it was making too much noise. A minute later the gas guzzling, air polluting vehicle came around the bend and stopped in front of the roadblock. Mr. Ted Wilson—Sharla Wilson's dad, a so-so friend of hers at school—got out of the truck and smiled when he saw it was her.

Like Sam at the sandwich shop, Ted was one of the few adults in town who didn't mind being called by his first name. He was not paranoid about losing face or anything stupid like that—not like most of the teachers at her school, who had trouble seeing the students as real people, instead of hyperactive creatures that had crawled out of holes in the ground.

Because Breakwater was so tiny, she had been going to the same school since she was six, and the place was beginning to feel like a cage. It would be another year before she could move on to Tracer High, which was located in a town ten miles south of Breakwater. She was looking forward to the change. Except for hanging out with Cindy and Steve, she kept mostly to herself at school, spending her lunch hours in the library reading. She wasn't a snob—she hoped she wasn't—but she just wasn't interested in the same things as most of the kids her age. For example, she could not watch MTV without getting a headache, although she loved music. She was learning to play the piano,
and her teacher said she was a natural talent. The only problem was, she did not own one; she had to practice on the one in Cindy's living room—usually while Cindy was watching MTV.

“Hi, Ali. What are you doing here? Or do I need to ask?” Ted said.

“Just out for a little ride, is all,” she said innocently.

“Sure. You're going up to the logging site. What are you going to do this time? Tie yellow ribbons around the trees we have to cut down?”

“Red ribbons.” She added, “You don't have to kill the trees, you know. You have a choice.”

Ted was a friendly man, tall and thin, a bit of a scarecrow in his walk, with a face that somehow reminded her of a hero in a cartoon. His jaw was just a bit too strong, his gray eyes a little too round; nevertheless, he had a quick smile that was disarming, and he was always fair.

“It's my job,” he said. “The world needs lumber. How could we build houses without it? Where would we get paper from? Besides, for every tree we cut down, we plant a sapling.”

“It will take ten years for those saplings to grow,” she began, before stopping herself, knowing it would be useless to argue with him. Ted knelt beside her.

“As you get older, Ali, you're going to discover many things in this world aren't fair. It's the way it is. The best you can do with your life is to try to fix those things—”

“Then I can ignore the roadblock and go up to the site?”

He held up his hand. “You didn't let me finish. You should work to fix things that can be fixed. You know as well as I that you're just going to get in the way at the logging camp. You're going to annoy the guys, and eventually somebody's going to have to grab you and stuff you in a truck and drive you down the mountain.”

“I have my bike. I can get down myself, thank you.”

“No, Ali.” Ted stood and looked up the mountain. Clouds continued to hug the trees, gray ghosts drifting through branches, painting the entire area with gloom. Ted added, “The road's quiet now but in two hours there's going to be traffic. Lots of trucks barreling down here with full loads. Today we start our
big push along the ridge. You know where that is. You're not going to be able to ride up there and then back down. You could force a truck to swerve to avoid you, and cause an accident.”

Ali knew he was right. The road was narrow, the turns sharp. A truck could catch her by surprise. She was fooling herself when she thought she could make a difference.

Still, she did not want to go back home, not today. There was something special about today. She felt it in her heart, and she had learned to trust her heart ever since her mother had died. Sometimes, she felt, it was all she had left to trust.