The Prince (Masterpiece Duet 0.5)

He studies me for a long moment. “Get in the sleeping bag.”

Only then do I remember that some men do bad things to girls. “Why?”

“To sleep,” he says, his voice mean. “What would I want with a puny kid?”

That’s a good answer. I climb into the sleeping bag. It’s not as soft or as warm as my bed at home, but it feels so much better. Like I’m safe here, even if I don’t know his name.

Like I can breathe again, even though I’m so close to the water.

“I’ll see if I can catch something,” he says, “but the fish aren’t active at night. And it’s harder to see. Pitch black. I have to go by feel.”

He can do that? And it’s even more surprising that he would do that for me. It must be freezing in there. Why would he help me? No one else does.

I want to ask him why he talks to me like I’m somebody.

I want to ask him why he cares.

Instead I say, “Thank you.”

Only when he ducks his head under do I see the green corner peeking out from inside his backpack. Money. I know enough about gambling to know that Daddy will come back empty handed. That means there won’t be food, not for days. Or money for the gas bill. Or the lot rent.

And I know enough about gambling to know that I don’t have a choice. You have to play the cards you’re dealt. I reach out and grab it, crushing the soft bill in my hand. Then I turn toward the tree line and run.





Chapter Two





The ground is soft beneath my feet, like it’s made from Play-Doh instead of dirt. Rainwater pools beneath the seat of the swing, where years of feet have dug a hollow. Droplets cling to the steel bars, shaking from some unseen force.

Usually I’m on that swing, rain or shine. I kick my legs as hard as I can, until I’m flying. My hair covers my face. Tears sting my eyes. The playground becomes a blur.

When I get to the highest point, I think about letting go. Every time, back and forth. I imagine letting go of the squeaky chains that leave the smell of rust on my hands. In my head I don’t crash to the ground. I keep going up and up, into the clouds.

Not today.

I was almost afraid to look at the money once I made it to my trailer, my heart pounding against my ribs. Like it could bite me if I smoothed it out. And when I did look I gasped. A hundred dollars. Enough money to feed me for a month. Two months. Forever.

What is he doing living on the ground, fishing for food, if he has a hundred dollars? I thought it was a five-dollar bill. Maybe twenty at the most. He could have stayed at a motel in the west side for weeks with that money. Has he been gone from home longer than that?

It didn’t feel right leaving that much money in the trailer, so I kept it in my pocket.

Maybe it weighs a hundred pounds too, because I don’t feel like I can swing today.

Mrs. Keller has been acting strange since this morning. She keeps looking at the door, at the clock. When we go to recess she holds me back. “There’s someone coming to see you.”

All I can think about is the money in my pocket. He must have told someone. I’ll be in trouble. My throat feels so tight I can’t even speak. I stole something. I deserve to be punished.

“Don’t worry,” she says, smiling gently. “It’s not bad. I told the principal how good you are in math. How you really need more than we can offer you. She got in touch with someone who can help.”

So it’s not about the money.

That doesn’t really make me feel better.

I wander away from the swings and the slide. Away from the strange climbing gym that no one ever uses, its metal surfaces too hot or too cold. Patchy grass gives way to uneven dirt near the red brick wall. There’s a place tucked into the corner, hidden from the street and from the basketball court where the teacher stands. A hiding place, but one I mostly stay away from. It’s too easy to get trapped back here. Fifth grade boys are the worst. If they trapped me here, what would I do? Fight? Scream? I’m not even sure anyone would come.

I’m afraid to find out.

I hope the wild boy never trapped any girls here. Never pushed them. I don’t think he would do that. He tried to help me. And you stole his money.

It smells bad in the hiding place, like mold and pee and something kind of sweet.

No one’s in the hiding place today. That shouldn’t make me nervous. Someone doesn’t get beaten bloody every single day. Only most. A knot tightens in my stomach. I can’t stand being out in the playground today, being around running and laughter.

A shadow appears over mine, longer and wider.

I turn around fast, but the sun blinds my eyes. There’s someone standing there, way too close. How did he get here without me hearing him? I know it isn’t Mrs. Keller. He doesn’t have her curly hair or her dress. It’s not Mr. Willis with his tennis shoes and track pants. This man’s wearing dress shoes. An overcoat. And the way he stands, so tall and proud. So still. I know I would remember it if I’d seen him before, even without seeing his face. He looks strangely familiar. Like I know him from a dream.

“Hello, little girl,” he says, his voice smooth like paint, spilling over my hands and turning them every color, mixing together until they’re only black.

Is he here about Daddy?

I know my eyes are wide, hands tucked behind my back. “Hello.”

“What’s your name?”

The way he asks, I can tell he already knows. “Penny.”

“Do you know my name?”

My stomach turns over. I shake my head, lips pressed together.

“I’m Jonathan Scott. Have you heard of me?” He doesn’t wait to hear the answer. He probably knows that everyone’s heard of him, even me. Almost everyone in the city owes him something. “Mrs. Keller says you like numbers.”

I don’t like numbers. Not any more than I like breathing or sleeping. It’s something I can do without thinking. It just happens. “I guess.”

“She said you can do all kinds of tricks. Do you want to show me?”

Tricks. Like I’m a dog. And I never want to show anyone.

I don’t want to show him in particular.

I have the sudden flash of Lisa Blake from two trailers down. Her family had less than us, which was saying something. They got in deep with Jonathan Scott. Then one day her momma got her a bunch of makeup from the drugstore. A new dress. She looked like some kind of beauty queen that afternoon. It was summer. And that was the last day I ever saw her.

The cops came around, asking questions, but everyone knew not to say anything. She just disappeared. No one mentioned the makeup. The dress.

Even the kids understood—we didn’t want to end up like Lisa Blake.

“Okay,” I say, my mind racing. I can’t let him think I’m special. “I’m real smart,” I add, with a touch of boasting, because I’d never really say that. It’s pretend.

I don’t want to be noticed by him, not for my brain and not for my body.

“Are you?” He sounds like I said a joke. “What’s twenty-seven times forty-three?”