The Prince (Masterpiece Duet 0.5)

The sound breaks the silence.


He stands and faces me, moonlight across his face. He’s younger than I thought. Maybe in high school. I think through the families who live in the trailer park, but no one has a kid his age. And I would remember him if I had seen him. There’s something about the way he holds himself. Smooth and strong, so different from the hunched over way people move around here.

He’s got something in his hand. It glints in the dark. Some kind of weapon.

“Who’s there?” he says.

He doesn’t sound afraid. I don’t want to be afraid.

But I am. I take a step back, breaking a branch.

“Come out where I can see you! I have a gun. I’ll start shooting if I have to.”

Shooting? Part of me wants to run the other way, to keep running until I make it back to the trailer and lock the door. But what if he does start shooting? I take a step forward.

Then another.

I’m standing in front of the trees, trembling too hard to speak. He’s maybe a few yards away, but it might as well be a few inches. Too close for me to run.

“Where’s your daddy?” he says, like maybe he knows him.

I lift my shoulder. “Dunno.”

“You alone?”

That’s a scary question for a boy to ask a girl. “Are you?”

He lowers his weapon. “No one comes here. There’s nothing but bugs and dirt. And maybe wolves.”

Wolves? No one told me about wolves. “For real?”

“Haven’t seen one, but I have a knife. I can fight if I have to.”

“You don’t shoot them?”

He looks away, like he’s embarrassed. “That was a lie.”

I understand that. And it means he was scared, even if he didn’t sound like it. I understand that, too. I take a step closer to him, curious now. “Why are you here then? If there’s nothing but bugs and dirt?”

“Better than home. Why are you here?”

Because I’m hungry. Because I’m lonely and afraid. The lake glistens dark, looking more like ink than water. “You ever go swimming?”

“Sometimes.”

He’s probably not afraid of the water. “Are there sharks?”

“Sharks don’t live in lakes.”

Bending down I touch the surface and find it cold. “What’s here then?”

“Alligators, probably.”

I pull my hand back. “You fight those too?”

“Nah, they have to be pretty desperate to go after a person. Mostly they eat fish.”

Alligators don’t sound like fun, whether they’re desperate or not. Wiping my hand on my nightgown, I move away from the water. There’s a little space with no weeds coming up. Only dirt. A sleeping bag and some food. Clothes spread out like they’re drying. How long has he been here?

I glance at him. “You live here.”

He lifts his chin. “And you live in the trailer park.”

The way he talks to me, it’s like I’m his equal. A person.

Most people dismiss me as soon as they look at me. I know I’m small, maybe smaller than other girls my age. Even Mrs. Keller looks at me different, like I’m special.

This boy talks to me rough, like he knows I can take it. There are twigs on the ground. When I pick one up I realize it’s a reed from the water, dried out and snapped.

I press the sharp tip to the dirt and draw one side of a heart. Then the other.

“Go home,” he says.

When I’m alone it feels like I’m on the moon, far away from anyone who can help, from anyone who would want to. “Daddy didn’t come back. He went drinking.”

“Does he usually do that?”

All the time. “But I ran out of food.”

“I don’t have any food,” he says.

I shrug, because that’s not why I’m out here. Not now. Something worse than hunger has been hounding me since Daddy left. The fear that he won’t come back. Like Mama.

My stomach feels so high it’s almost in my throat.

“It’s okay,” I say, the same way I told the parole officer. The same way the boy told me he had a gun. It’s a lie we tell to make ourselves feel better.

He studies me, his dark eyes narrow. “What’s your name?”

“Penny. What’s yours?”

“Quarter,” he says, his face completely serious.

It’s such a grownup joke. I make a face. “What do you eat then?”

“Fish, sometimes. If I can catch them.”

He’s living on fish? Then he’s probably hungrier than me. “Like the alligators?”

“Pretty much.”

It would be nice to catch fish, if I knew how. If I wasn’t so afraid of water. If I didn’t dream about slipping under. “Did your daddy teach you how to fish?”

“No. I don’t have a pole or anything.”

“Then how do you catch them?”

He doesn’t answer for a long time. I almost think he’s done talking to me. Then he says, “How long can you hold your breath?”

The question makes me shiver.

“Dunno.” I’ve never stayed in water long enough to find out.

“Most people can hold it for two minutes. Then carbon dioxide builds up in your blood. Your eyes get dark. And then you take in a breath full of water.”

My eyes widen. Black water. Sharp rocks. “You’re talking about drowning.”

“I don’t drown. Not for five minutes. Not for ten.”

I suck in a breath, part surprise and part awe. He’s like a wild animal. A tiger. Or maybe that black panther from the Jungle Book. Some people would think he’s strange, but it’s really normal people who are dangerous. With their needles and their movie star smiles.

He doesn’t seem to realize how special he is, though. He looks almost sad about it. “Fish don’t expect that, a person being so still. And when they’re going by me, I stab one with my knife.”

I can’t even imagine getting into the water, much less putting my head under. And staying there. He really isn’t afraid of anything. Not like me. “For real?”

He shrugs. “It’s weird.”

“I wish I could do that,” I say, my throat tight around the words.

“Well, sure,” he says, his voice sharp. “It’s on every little girl’s to-do list. Learn ballet. See the Eiffel tower. Stab a fish with a knife.”

“I wouldn’t have to wait for Daddy to come home for food.”

He looks away. “The whole camping outdoorsy trend isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. There aren’t any pillows, for one thing.”

That sleeping bag can’t be comfortable on dirt. Why does he live out here instead of in a trailer? Why would anyone choose rocks over carpet? “Your daddy never came back home, too?”

“Oh, he’s still there. That’s the problem.”

My heart squeezes. It’s bad to want your daddy to come home, worse to wish he wouldn’t. Whatever happened to this boy must be truly scary. “How long have you been here?”

“Maybe six months.”

Six months is a long time.

The solution seems simple. I’m afraid to be alone in the trailer without a grownup. He’s almost a grownup. “You can stay with me,” I tell him. “I’ve got a pillow.”

“No.”

It means he wants me to leave, how short and sharp he said it. Something keeps my feet stuck on the ground. The empty trailer doesn’t feel safe anymore.

This wild boy could protect me, with his knife and his courage.

“Can I sleep here tonight? I won’t get in the way.”