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  A couple is getting out of a Checker cab on the corner. Those are my favorite kind because of the Checker pattern on the sides. The couple is having an argument, and the woman slaps the man and walks off. A second or two later, her shoe breaks, only instead of putting it back on, she takes them both off and throws them at him. He ducks and gets back inside the cab and then it speeds away.

  I stand there a minute, watching. Little Nell would never slap Gary Daddy-o and I’ve only seen ladies do stuff like that in the movies. There’s something about it, though, that makes you think. What would it be like to haul off and slap your man?

  All of a sudden she looks right at me and I have to start walking again. I pass a basketball court and a group of boys shooting baskets. Across the street is what looks to be a long line of people waiting to get into the movies. I’m at West Fourth and Sixth, about a half block from Waverly. I edge forward as slowly as I can, trying to snake my way to the corner when someone calls out my name.

  “Ruby!”

  I don’t have to look up to know it’s Sophie. I put my finger up to my mouth.

  “Shhhh!”

  Sophie runs over, peering at me like I’m from Outer Mongolia. “What’s the matter? What’s wrong?”

  How do you tell your best friend you’re running away from the police? Especially when she’s the worst person on the planet when it comes to keeping secrets?

  “Ruby?” Sophie says again.

  I pull her into the alley, and her blue eyes go wide.

  Here we go.

  4

  Kerouac Dreams

  SOPHIE PUSHES her glasses up so they’re resting on her head and squints at me. “What’s eating you?”

  “Nothing,” I say, and start walking.

  “Weren’t you going to the reading today?”

  “Yeah,” I tell her. “I got tied up.”

  “Not literally,” she says, smiling.

  “Not literally,” I repeat.

  “Ruby,” Sophie says. “WHAT is going on?”

  We edge around the basketball court and into another alley after crossing over Waverly. “I got . . . stuck at Tina’s,” I say finally.

  “Oh,” Sophie answers, and I let her ponder that for a while. “You okay?”

  “I think so. Was he good?”

  “You mean Kerouac?” she says.

  “Who else?”

  “Truth?” Sophie pulls her glasses down and looks at me. “I was late because of the lunch thing. I couldn’t even get in.”

  Sophie’s mom is a comic and writes television scenes and sketches at the Fisk Building. Every other weekend the writers get together for lunch and this week they were at Sophie’s. And since she wants to be an actress she would naturally like being around a bunch of TV writers. But still.

  “It was Kerouac.”

  “Well, you skipped it, too, Ruby.”

  I scowled. “I didn’t mean to skip it. That was Tina’s fault.”

  “Did she hit you?”

  “She twisted my arm.”

  “You’re kidding! That’s terrible!”

  “Shhh!” I put my hand to my mouth. The last thing I need is to get people watching us.

  “What’s the matter with you today?”

  “Nothing,” I sigh. One of these days Sophie’s going to have a secret and want me to keep it and then the tables will be turned.

  Don’t get me wrong—Sophie can be more fun than anyone else I know. Her mom taught her all these jokes and she does them with character voices, imitating stars like Eve Arden and Imogene Coca. Put Sophie next to Gordy, who collects facts like candy because his main ambition is to win a quiz show contest—and the two of them are a blast.

  Once, the three of us got on the D train at West Fourth and it was truly a creature car. Sophie twisted up her shoulder like the Hunchback of Notre Dame and we laughed so hard our faces hurt. Then Gordy recited the names of every nut in the world—filberts, almonds, walnuts, you name it—and Sophie pretended she was eating them. My favorite thing is, whenever it starts to go quiet, Sophie will do something outrageous—like tossing her head and saying, “Oh, mercy!” in a Donald Duck voice. And all of a sudden we’re cracking up again.

  But I know right now, today, if I say anything about what happened Sophie will go crazy, and the last thing I need is people staring at us while my friend jumps up and down like a maniac. So I just keep walking and hoping for the best.

  We get to the end of the alley and turn left, heading over to West Tenth. If I can still get my leotard, the day won’t be a total loss. We pass The Coat of Many Colors, where Nell-mom works, though not on weekends anymore.

  It’s about as perfect looking a day as you’ll ever see in the Village, with sunlight pouring down on brownstones, and guitar music floating out of windows. We pass a man on stilts and a group of guys singing doo-wop harmonies. The guy in the middle is really belting it out and even smiles at me. If his hair were a little shorter, he’d look almost like James Dean.

  I wave at him and Sophie bumps me, grinning. She’s always accusing me of having crushes on guys I barely know even though she’s much worse than I am. I bump her back and we giggle. I’m starting to get in a better mood and think about going by The Scene after the leotard store. Of course the reading will be over, but there might be something—say, something Kerouac left behind. A pen, maybe, or a scrap of paper. That happens a lot of times when people have readings. Sophie found a quarter she swears fell out of Ginsberg’s wallet, so why couldn’t I find something of Jack’s?

  What would happen if I found it? Would I keep it or give it back? If it was a pen I’d maybe keep it but if it was a piece of paper—say, with his writing—I’d have to give it back, even if it meant asking everyone I knew. They would all say, “Hey, Ruby,” when they saw me coming, knowing I had this piece of writing by Jack Kerouac and was trying to find him.

  Eventually he’d hear about it and maybe he would have forgotten he’d lost it and written a whole different set of words. Then when I found him he’d realize, no, that was the sentence he was looking for, just a fragment maybe, but a really important fragment that changed the entire story he wrote. When he saw it, he’d look at me with those big, dark eyes and for a minute, the two of us would stand there, not saying anything.

  I’d pull the piece of paper out of my book bag, which is where I’d be keeping it, and maybe look down at his boots, all muddy and scruffy. He’d lift my chin so I’d look at him and I’d hand him the paper or, no, just hold it up in front of him so he could see the words. And he’d fall at my feet like Marlon Brando does in A Streetcar Named Desire, and if it wasn’t too corny I’d put my hand on his head, and we’d both just stay there, me and Kerouac, in the middle of the street with everyone else looking on.

  I’m starting to smile when Sophie bumps me again. We’re about three blocks from the leotard store and a few doors down from Blue Skies when she tells me she wants taffy.

  We duck under the Blue Skies sign and look in the window, where Sky and Blu are setting out some new magazines. Sky looks up and waves, and then Blu points to something behind us and we turn around.

  A group of protesters are marching around in capes with white paint on their faces. They’re carrying signs that say BAN THE BOMB and NEVER AGAIN with pictures of the mushroom cloud that exploded over Hiroshima. Sky told us about that because he and Blu go to a lot of marches to ban the bomb. He says they dropped it over Hiroshima and Nagasaki, two cities in Japan, and most everyone died and we should protest it whenever we can. If we don’t, they’ll build more bombs and those will be a hundred million times worse.

  Sophie dashes over and I follow, and when one of the protestors sees us he holds out a sign and I take it. Sophie picks up another one and an older lady in a kerchief asks if we want makeup. Sophie lifts up her glasses and the lady puts this white stuff on Sophie’s cheek
s and starts rubbing it in. My friend picks up a sign and we start marching.

  “Ban the bomb! Ban the bomb! Stop the killing and ban the bomb!”

  Sky and Blu come out on the sidewalk to watch and I realize we’re starting to draw a crowd. Someone holds out a petition and a couple of people sign it. I see Sky giving us a thumbs-up sign and a few more people walk over and then Blu starts waving frantically and I wave back.

  Only now I see she’s waving and pointing at something—but by the time I realize what she’s pointing at, it’s too late to run.

  The angry sound of a siren cuts through the protesters’ voices as a squad car pulls up to the curb. We all keep marching as though nothing is happening and the lady with the makeup smiles. “Don’t worry,” she says. “This happens all the time.” The chants continue as Sophie grabs my arm, staring at the cop car. “Don’t move,” I whisper. “Just hold the sign up and stay behind it. Okay? No matter what.”

  “But Ru—”

  “And don’t act like you know me.”

  The car door opens and a woman gets out, slamming the door behind her. My heart sinks: it’s Levitt. The chants grow louder and Sophie looks like she’s going to cry. I realize everyone thinks the police are here for the protest; I’m the only one who knows they’re not. I try to hide behind my sign but I’m pretty sure I’ve been spotted. “Over here, Flo,” Levitt says, and I can tell by the sound of her voice that she’s none too pleased.

  5

  Blue Skies

  I LOOK BACK at Sophie once and shake my head. All of a sudden Mrs. Levitt is practically looming over us, and Sophie holds her sign out in front of both of us.

  “Excuse me,” Mrs. Levitt says to Sophie. “I need to bring your friend inside the store over there.” Sophie looks like she wants to say something but I stare daggers at her and for once, she clams up. Mrs. Levitt, meanwhile, marches me across the street and up to the counter where Sky is combing his beard with his fingers. He always does that when he’s nervous, and I can tell he’s really nervous right now.

  “What’s goin’ on, honey?” Sky asks.

  “This is Mrs. Levitt. She’s a social worker.”

  “Oh,” says Sky. He stops combing his beard and leans forward. “What can I do for you?”

  “Well, Mister—”

  “Skylar,” he says, holding out his hand. Mrs. Levitt doesn’t take it.

  “We got a tip today, Mr. Skylar.”

  “Oh?”

  “Someone says you’re running some kind of school? And this young lady goes to it?”

  “I go to a real school, too,” I say. Sky looks at me sharply.

  “Which one?” Mrs. Levitt asks.

  “P.S. 41,” I tell her, which makes Sky’s face go pale.

  “I’ll check the records on Monday, Ruby,” Mrs. Levitt says, when Sky interrupts.

  “We do have some classes here, Miss—”

  “Levitt,” she says, and all of a sudden Blu is at the counter, looking about as serious as you can look while holding Mad magazine. Blu has what Nell-mom calls a “husky” voice, and when she laughs you can hear it for miles. It’s a great laugh really, the kind that comes straight from the belly and seems to go perfectly with her honey-colored hair and eyes. But right now Blu isn’t laughing. She’s staring at Mrs. Levitt, who is looking around the store.

  I can tell she doesn’t approve of the magazines. Some have painted covers like they were done by an artist—those are the poetry ones. Comics and motorcycle magazines fill another wall. A motorcycle is what Ray wants when he’s older so he can bike across the country like they do in The Wild One. Ray is crazy about motorcycles. I can’t afford a real bike but said I’d spring for some magazines on his birthday. If I ever get out of this.

  Mrs. Levitt turns around, and I try to see what she’s looking at. There are bins full of ribbon candy and chocolate drops but I don’t think she cares for those. Do social workers ever eat candy, or are they all too worried about cavities?

  Posters of famous actors are on all the walls, like Brando, James Dean, Sophia Loren, and my favorite, Natalie Wood. The girls around here all want to look like her, but Blu says by the time we’re old enough for that there’ll be somebody else on the wall, somebody better. I don’t really believe her because no one could be better than my Natalie.

  Now Mrs. Levitt is leaning backward, looking at a row of green footprints that lead downstairs, where we have class.

  “What is she learning here?”

  Mrs. Levitt is asking Blu, who is looking at Sky, who is looking at me. Then Blu starts telling her. “Poetry, numbers, history—”

  “What kind of history?”

  “All kinds—”

  “American? European?” Levitt asks.

  “Both,” says Blu. “We talk about the wars—”

  “Which wars?”

  “The World War. Korean War—”

  “Does she have textbooks?”

  “Textbooks?” Blu pauses and looks at me. Levitt looks at the policeman with a little smirk like she knows the jig is up.

  “We use all kinds of books,” Blu says finally.

  “Well,” Mrs. Levitt tells her, “if you don’t use textbooks, this is not a school.”

  “We have a couple here somewhere,” Sky says, but when Mrs. Levitt asks him where they are, the only one he can find is an old math book we used when I was seven.

  “If Ruby isn’t in school, she’s truant,” Levitt says. “And if her mother knows she’s truant, then she’s liable. And that could mean Ruby shouldn’t be living with her.”

  “What?” I say, and my voice sounds high and reedy, even to me.

  “You need to be cared for properly,” Levitt replies, and all of a sudden my heart skips, whoosh, right into my throat, because I think she’s talking about what happened to Nell-mom, which is a foster family.

  Once you get in there, you don’t get out so easily. So I’d not only have to leave my family, but Gordy, Sophie, and everyone else here, and probably never have another shot at seeing Kerouac. Not to mention having to go to a school and wear a uniform and have real homework with teachers who can hit you. God knows I’d never see Solange again.

  “Hold on a minute,” Sky says. “What if this is a real school?”

  “You need to prove it,” says Mrs. Levitt, turning to the policeman, who’s been quiet all this time. “Isn’t that right, officer?”

  “You bet,” he says, giving Sky and Blu the once-over like he wants to arrest them.

  “Schools are accredited,” Levitt is saying. “They’re registered with the state of New York to teach certain subjects, which do not include the kind of poetry—”

  “What’s wrong with poetry?” Sky asks.

  “That depends on what kind of poetry you’re teaching,” Levitt says. “Emily Dickinson and Shakespeare are fine, but some of the other people I see here—”

  “What people?” Blu asks.

  “One of your magazines features Allen Ginsberg,” Levitt says, and I’m not kidding about the word “features.” Then I hear her say, “Beyond the standards we set for decency.”

  “And whose standards are those?” Blu asks in a tight, hard voice.

  “The standards of the state of New York,” Mrs. Levitt answers. “Which mandates tests every year to be sure you meet them.”

  “I see,” Sky says.

  “Do you?” the policeman says. Sky looks like he wants to say something back, but Blu puts a hand on his arm.

  “Not exactly,” she says.

  “Any student who goes here will have to pass a test,” says Mrs. Levitt, “and you have until June to prepare for it.”

  “What happens if they don’t?” says Blu.

  Mrs. Levitt smiles. “Well now, look. I think you know the answer, don’t you?”

  Blu doesn’t say a
nything.

  “Look,” Levitt says. “I know Beatniks have trouble with authority—”

  “We don’t call ourselves Beatniks—”

  “Whatever you call yourselves. You do.”

  “Okay, fine,” says Blu, narrowing her eyes. She has a really hard time when anyone tells her to do something, which I guess is what authority means, and most of the time, I agree with her. But right now it’s my head on the block and if Levitt doesn’t get what she wants I could be leaving the neighborhood. Which Blu knows of course, but it’s like she can’t help herself.

  “What I have trouble with is people coming into our lives and making decisions.”

  “Honey,” Sky starts saying, but Blu is on a roll.

  “Which is why we all came down here in the first place,” she says. “To get away from people like YOU holding up hoops and making us jump through them—”

  “HONEY! BLU!” Sky shouts, and Blu finally starts to calm down. “Okay, fine,” she says, “we’ll pass your stupid test. You tell me what it is and she’ll pass it.”

  “Very good,” Levitt replies. “I’ll be back this week with the standards. And you’re right, there are hoops to jump through. If you don’t agree, you can go to court and challenge us. But until you do and until you win that challenge, you still need to play by our rules. Is that clear?”

  Blu looks at Levitt for a long time, and for a second I think she’s going to slap her.

  “Can you get out of my store now?” Blu says, and Sky starts combing his beard again.

  “Be happy to,” says Mrs. Levitt, and I start thinking she’s going to turn and leave. Instead she looks at Sky. “Anyone else go to your school?”

  Before Sky can answer, Blu looks right at her and says, “If you have any more questions I’m going to get a lawyer.”

  Mrs. Levitt doesn’t say anything, but she puts a hand on my shoulder. “Well. You and I, young lady, have another stop to make, don’t we?”

  I look up at her, wondering what would happen if I double over and pretend to be sick. Except Levitt seems to be onto me, because she leans over and whispers, “Don’t even think about it.”