broken man, wizened skin like moose-hide leather left for months in the sun. A hat sits in front of him with coins inside, and empty metal cans with BEER printed on them are scattered around him.
I approach. His odor is pungent. Rancid. “May I sit next to you?” I ask, and he looks up at me with watery red eyes.
“Sure,” he says, and knocks a few of the cans out of the way. I ignore the stares of the passersby who look at us oddly.
“Can I ask you some questions?” I ask.
“Well, why not? Shoot away!” he says, and I reach for his hand. His fingers are caked with grime; his fingernails outlined in dirt. I grasp my opal with my free hand and look him straight in the eyes. “Do you mind being my oracle?” I ask. “There is some information I need to know.”
“Well, I can sure as hell try,” he says with a shattered-glass voice. And as the tingling of the Yara connection moves through me to him, his breathing grows calm and his eyes clear.
“I am picturing my father in my mind. Could you tell me how I can find him?”
The man sits silently for a moment, looking at a space above my head. “You can’t do it alone,” he says finally. “You must find someone to take you on your journey.”
“Who?” I ask. “How will I find them?”
Frankie leans his head to one side like he’s thinking, and then says, “You will know who he is because his name will take you far.”
My heart drops. It’s a riddle. I don’t know why I’m so disappointed. I can’t expect a clear answer from a divination. “Can you tell me anything else about this person?”
“Yes,” responds Frankie. “You must be completely honest with him. Tell him everything he wants to know. But whatever you do, don’t trust him. He needs you as much as you need him.”
I push a little further. “Once I find the person you’re talking about, where do we go to find my father?”
“South . . . southeast. A place that is the exact opposite of here,” Frankie says, and an image forms in my mind of a barren landscape with cactus and strange rock formations.
He’s given me more than I was hoping for. “Thank you,” I say.
“One more thing,” the man says, and I can feel our link weakening and see the watery haze start to return to his eyes. “When you find the one who will accompany you, don’t let him use his cell phone.”
“What’s a cell phone?” I ask, releasing his hand and letting our connection break. He leans his head back against the wall and begins chuckling.
“Thank you for helping me,” I say, and fishing in my bag, pull out a few bills and place them carefully in his hat.
He picks up the money and looks up at me, surprised. “Hey, missy, that’s way too much,” he says as I walk away.
“It’s not, believe me,” I say, and set out to find a place to sleep for the night.
18
MILES
I’VE BEEN WANDERING FOR HOURS WITH NO LUCK, feeling like the biggest fool on earth. I want to give up, but remember the look on my father’s face when he said I needed to prove myself to him. That’ll never happen in the mail room. I’ve got to find this girl.
I try to think like a detective would. If you’re new to a city, you most likely go to touristy areas. I walk up a road with several restaurant terraces and sit down on a street bench to watch the people passing by.
At least I got out of the house for the weekend. When I told Mrs. Kirby I would be fine on my own, she actually sounded relieved. And I answered Dad’s Is everything okay? text this morning with: Just watching TV in my jail cell. Don’t worry, I’m fine.
I finally get up and begin following signs for Pike Place Market, the one spot in Seattle that I’ve actually heard of. Across the street a rowdy crowd sits at tables outside a sports bar. I doubt this girl will be in that group. I sigh. This is worse than finding a needle in a haystack.
“Hey, Starry Eyes, baby! Come back, I was just kidding!” someone yells.
I’m suddenly on high
I approach. His odor is pungent. Rancid. “May I sit next to you?” I ask, and he looks up at me with watery red eyes.
“Sure,” he says, and knocks a few of the cans out of the way. I ignore the stares of the passersby who look at us oddly.
“Can I ask you some questions?” I ask.
“Well, why not? Shoot away!” he says, and I reach for his hand. His fingers are caked with grime; his fingernails outlined in dirt. I grasp my opal with my free hand and look him straight in the eyes. “Do you mind being my oracle?” I ask. “There is some information I need to know.”
“Well, I can sure as hell try,” he says with a shattered-glass voice. And as the tingling of the Yara connection moves through me to him, his breathing grows calm and his eyes clear.
“I am picturing my father in my mind. Could you tell me how I can find him?”
The man sits silently for a moment, looking at a space above my head. “You can’t do it alone,” he says finally. “You must find someone to take you on your journey.”
“Who?” I ask. “How will I find them?”
Frankie leans his head to one side like he’s thinking, and then says, “You will know who he is because his name will take you far.”
My heart drops. It’s a riddle. I don’t know why I’m so disappointed. I can’t expect a clear answer from a divination. “Can you tell me anything else about this person?”
“Yes,” responds Frankie. “You must be completely honest with him. Tell him everything he wants to know. But whatever you do, don’t trust him. He needs you as much as you need him.”
I push a little further. “Once I find the person you’re talking about, where do we go to find my father?”
“South . . . southeast. A place that is the exact opposite of here,” Frankie says, and an image forms in my mind of a barren landscape with cactus and strange rock formations.
He’s given me more than I was hoping for. “Thank you,” I say.
“One more thing,” the man says, and I can feel our link weakening and see the watery haze start to return to his eyes. “When you find the one who will accompany you, don’t let him use his cell phone.”
“What’s a cell phone?” I ask, releasing his hand and letting our connection break. He leans his head back against the wall and begins chuckling.
“Thank you for helping me,” I say, and fishing in my bag, pull out a few bills and place them carefully in his hat.
He picks up the money and looks up at me, surprised. “Hey, missy, that’s way too much,” he says as I walk away.
“It’s not, believe me,” I say, and set out to find a place to sleep for the night.
18
MILES
I’VE BEEN WANDERING FOR HOURS WITH NO LUCK, feeling like the biggest fool on earth. I want to give up, but remember the look on my father’s face when he said I needed to prove myself to him. That’ll never happen in the mail room. I’ve got to find this girl.
I try to think like a detective would. If you’re new to a city, you most likely go to touristy areas. I walk up a road with several restaurant terraces and sit down on a street bench to watch the people passing by.
At least I got out of the house for the weekend. When I told Mrs. Kirby I would be fine on my own, she actually sounded relieved. And I answered Dad’s Is everything okay? text this morning with: Just watching TV in my jail cell. Don’t worry, I’m fine.
I finally get up and begin following signs for Pike Place Market, the one spot in Seattle that I’ve actually heard of. Across the street a rowdy crowd sits at tables outside a sports bar. I doubt this girl will be in that group. I sigh. This is worse than finding a needle in a haystack.
“Hey, Starry Eyes, baby! Come back, I was just kidding!” someone yells.
I’m suddenly on high
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