Under Different Stars Read online

  The taxi peels away from the curb. Looking out the back window, I scan the area for Trey and his buddies. I don’t see them, so maybe they didn’t get off the train. Sitting back in my seat, I close my eyes as I tremble in fear.

  CHAPTER 2

  LUMIN

  I pay the taxi driver as he pulls up at the corner of Diversey and Clark. I jump out of the cab, looking rapidly up both sides of the street for anything suspicious. Seeing nothing, I hurry past the drugstore, bookstore, and drycleaner. I pull my keys from the pocket of my backpack and open the outer door next to the drycleaner.

  I make sure the door locks behind me after I step inside. I take a deep breath to try to calm the ache of fear in my chest. I haven’t been this scared since I climbed out of a second-story window and jumped from the run-down apartment where I once lived. I hadn’t felt the impact of hitting the ground then. It’d been nothing compared to the beating I’d just received. But I remember the fear. I just can’t remember if it was fear that I’d die in the fall...or fear that I’d live.

  I bypass the elevator because it’s slower than a cab in rush hour and walk to the stairwell. Climbing the stairs to the third floor, I peek out, looking at the door of my apartment near the end of the hall. The hall’s empty. Taking a deep breath, I walk to my door and unlock it. Pushing it closed behind me, I turn the dead bolt and secure the chain to it. Leaning against the door, I close my eyes, running my hand through my hair and feeling dampness from the melted snow.

  “Kricket!” Bridget calls from the end of the hall that leads to the one room of our studio apartment. I jump, not expecting Bridget to be up so early on a Saturday morning.

  “Bridge,” I exhale, trying to calm my racing heart. “What’re you doing up?” I ask, seeing that she’s dressed nicely in a designer skirt and top that we found at the Salvation Army. It looks great on her because she has a bangin’ body.

  “I’m packing. Eric talked me into going to his parents’ house a couple days early, since I don’t have to work this weekend. I’m so glad you’re home. I need your opinion. Do you think I should take this skirt…or is it too short for the suburbanites?” She tucks her long dark hair behind her ear before holding up a small, black-leather skirt to her slim waist.

  “Honestly?” I shake my head. “I mean, you’re meeting Mom and Dad…Dad might like it, but Mom. Will. Freak.”

  Biting her lip, she stomps her foot and whines, “You’re right. Are you sure you can’t come with me?”

  I shake my head slowly. “You’re gonna be fine…they’re going to love you, Bridget.”

  Her fingers twist in agitation. “Yeah…until the long silence comes after they ask me what my parents do and I tell them my dad’s doing a mandatory twenty for armed robbery,” she replies, grimacing.

  “Maybe you don’t have to tell them. Maybe you can just say you haven’t seen him lately because he’s upstate,” I reply.

  Bridget flails her arms. “You see, I need you there. You’re like a diplomat or something.”

  “You’ll be okay, just keep your eyes open. Watch what his mom does and follow her lead. If she eats her soup with a fork, then you eat your soup with a fork,” I advise her. “Just like we used to in juvie.”

  “Who eats soup with a fork?” Bridget asks, looking confused.

  “Not the point. I’m just saying, when in Rome…” I trail off.

  Bridget’s brow wrinkles. “They eat soup with a fork in Rome?” she asks, and I laugh.

  “Uh, forget the soup. Just have a good time and relax. Hipster Eric likes you.” I peel off my jumpsuit and throw it in the hamper. Finding a pair of pajama bottoms in my closet, I put them on.

  Bridget’s dark eyes narrow, “You should stop calling him ‘Hipster Eric’ ‘cuz you’re gonna slip one of these days.”

  “You really like him, huh?” I ask, seeing her try to hide it.

  “He keeps asking me to move in with him,” Bridget replies with a faux-casual shrug, watching my reaction. “But, you’ve been to his place. It’s completely ridic. I’m not the kind of girl who can live somewhere like that…it’s too…nice.” She wrinkles her nose, like “nice” is a bad thing.

  Something in my heart twists. Bridget is my only family. I want her to be happy. She deserves nice—she deserves love. But, if she moves in with Eric, I’m completely screwed. I can’t live here without a roommate. “I don’t know, Bridge, I think you’d do all right with nice. Enrique thinks he might be looking to move out. He might need a roommate,” I say casually. It’s only a half lie because he did say that Michael would get him tossed out.

  “Really?” Bridget asks, looking happy as she tucks her brown hair behind her ear.

  “Yeah,” I nod, trying to smile.

  She tries to hide her relief from me by lowering her eyes. “Well, I’m still thinking about it. I want to see how this week goes. I may not be able to handle being with his family,” she says honestly. I nod absently, my mind tumbling over itself with the ramification of what this means for me.

  A knock sounds on the door, making me jump. “That must be Eric. He wants to get on the road before the traffic hits,” Bridget says, heading for the door.

  “Wait!” I flinch before running in front of her to the door and blocking her from opening it. Seeing the alarm on Bridget’s face, I put my finger to my lips. Then I say in a deep voice, “Who is it?”

  “Uh…Kricket? It’s me…Eric,” Eric’s muffled voice sounds through the door.

  Feeling relief, I look through the peephole before opening the door. “Merry Christmas, Kricket,” Eric says, shoving a beautifully wrapped package in my hands and kissing my cheek. As he walks past me, I close the door behind him, locking and chaining it.

  Bridget watches me closely, only distracted when Eric picks her up off her feet for a huge hug. “You smell great,” he says in her ear, causing her to smile and her hazel eyes to sparkle.

  “Thanks,” she murmurs before turning her eyes on me. She narrows them as she asks, “‘Sup with you?”

  I shrug, noncommittal. “Just some guys on the El giving me static. I thought they were DSS for a second, but maybe they’re just random.”

  “What’s DSS?” Eric asks, looking confused.

  “Dip shit sailors,” Bridget lies. “Did they follow you here?”

  Shaking my head, I explain, “I don’t think so. I got off at Fullerton and took a taxi.”

  Eric pulls his snowy hat from his head. “You should call the police, Kricket.” Eric’s blue eyes widen in concern. “You can make a report.” I smile. He doesn’t know anything about me.

  Bridget understands my dilemma. She knows I can’t go to the police because they’ll take me into custody and I won’t be able to get out of juvenile detention until I turn eighteen. I probably have zero chance of applying to be an emancipated minor, since I broke out at sixteen and have been dodging them ever since. But, once Bridget aged out of the system and got a job in the city, I finally had somewhere to go. We’d spent a year together as roommates in one of the worst juvenile centers in Chicago. We had each other’s back there. When she wrote me and told me where she was, it was only a matter of time before I found a way out during a rare fieldtrip.

  “It wasn’t a big deal…they were probably coming home from the club…you know how it is,” I say, downplaying it. I catch the look in Bridget’s eyes. She’s worried.

  “Maybe I should stay for the weekend,” she says. She wants details, but she won’t ask me now. Not with Eric here. She’d never put my freedom at risk and therefore she’ll never expose to Eric that I’m a runaway from DSS.

  “No. I’ll be fine,” I assure her. “They can’t possibly know where I live.” I use a P.O. Box for my mail, making sure that no one gets my real address here, just in case I get an investigator assigned to my case who doesn’t suck. Since I’m paid under the table at work, I don’t have to worry about any payroll checks being printed in my name.

  “You’re sure?” She doesn’t look at all c
onvinced.

  “I’m sure,” I reply, trying to appear confident.

  “Okay, come here and sit on my suitcase so I can get it to close,” she orders.

  I do as she asks and she pushes the latches closed. Eric picks it up off the bed, carrying it while I walk with Bridget toward the door. “Call if you need me.”

  “I will,” I agree, feeling choked up. I stop her at my closet, pulling out a present for her and one for Eric. “Merry Christmas, Bridge.”

  “I mean it…I’ll come right back if you need me,” she says, taking the presents from me. “Your present is on your bed.”

  “Thanks,” I say, trying not to let my eyes get teary.

  “Merry Christmas, Kricket,” she says gruffly, as she tries to do the same. Impulsively, she gives me a quick hug.

  “Ready?” Eric asks, unlocking the door.

  “Yeah,” Bridget says, following him into the hall. “Lock this,” she orders, pointing at the door.

  “I will,” I reply before closing it. I throw the bolt, latching the chain. Walking to my bed, I pick up my present.

  Sitting down on the worn coverlet, I slowly unwrap the present from Eric. It’s a very expensive-looking espresso machine. Looking for a gift receipt so I can take it back, my shoulders slump when I can’t find one. Maybe the pawnshop will give me something for it, I think. I set it aside on the floor near my bed.

  I open the little cardboard box from Bridget and find a delicate gold bracelet that has a thin, gold plate with the word “sister” etched in the metal. Smiling and blinking back tears, I put it on, shaking my wrist so that “sister” sits on top.

  Pulling the blinds down over the window, I set my alarm clock so that I’ll be up in time to eat and relax before I go to the club downstairs to see if they need me. Laying my head on my pillow, I pull my blanket up to my chin. As I close my eyes, I try to blot out the images of Trey and his pals that invade my head, making my heart pound against the wall of my chest like it did when I was on the train. It takes awhile before I finally sleep.

  Dreaming of lush fields, running barefoot under an azure sky that contains not only a brilliant sun, but also another moon on its infinite horizon, I awake drenched in sweat. My alarm clock is blaring, reminding me that I have to get ready for another Saturday night in the trenches.

  After eating a quick meal, I take a shower. Combing out my hair, I braid it in two long plaits that fall well past my shoulders. Wrapping a black hair tie around the end of one braid, I pull a loose strand of hair from the end of it. As I hold the blond strand in my palm, it turns black immediately before it curls up and turns into a speck of dust. Letting my hand drop, I glance at the mirror.

  “Who are you?” I whisper to my reflection, knowing that she doesn’t have the answer either.

  I give up and go to my closet to get dressed. Putting on my jeans and a black, short-sleeved t-shirt with the words “boys lie” emblazoned in white letters on the chest, I lace up the second-hand, black boots I just picked up at the Salvation Army. They’re perfect because the leather is soft, having been broken in just right. Shrugging into my coat and backpack, I check the hallway outside through the peephole in my door. Seeing no one, I step out and lock it behind me. I take the back stairs and exit into the dark parking lot behind our building.

  “Luther,” I smile, seeing my favorite bouncer sitting on a stool, guarding the back door to the trendy nightclub called Lumin. “‘Sup, Sherlock?” I ask, using the nickname I gave him because he has an uncanny ability to sniff out the fake IDs from the real ones.

  “Nothin’ but my rent,” Luther replies, smiling broadly as he fidgets with the black permanent marker in his hand. “You workin’ tonight?” He gets up from his seat to give me a brief hug.

  “If they need me. You been working out?” I ask, squeezing his bicep that’s the size of my thigh.

  “Always,” Luther says, showing me his muscles with a broad, gold-toothed grin.

  “Nice,” I admire. “Don’t be giving the girlies that gun show or you’ll never get rid of them.”

  “You know that you’re the only one I want…just a few more months ‘til you’re legal, right?” he says with a wink.

  Pointing to my shirt, I frown, “No way, Luther. I’ve seen how you operate.”

  “That’s harsh, Bug. You’re calling me a boy and a liar?”

  Smiling and backing down the hallway, I ask, “Where’s Jimmy?”

  “In the kitchen, probably. Come and talk to me if things aren’t too busy,” he says, watching me head down the hall.

  Approaching the bar, I can see that the bartenders are getting slammed already. The place is at near capacity and it’s not even ten o’clock yet. Jimmy’s talking to the wait staff, and begins rapidly nodding his head as he sees me approach. Over the noise of the crowd, he yells, “GO TO THE BAR. THEY NEED YOU. FUMBLING FRANK DIDN’T SHOW AGAIN.”

  I nod, turn towards the bar, and see the look of relief on Tina’s face when she sees me. “WE NEED ICE…AND A CASE OF HEINEKEN…CORPORATE ASSHOLE NIGHT!” Tina yells, and I nod again. I rush to the kitchen, filling two large buckets with ice. I haul them through the crowd to the bar, dumping them in the ice bins. Taking the steep stairs leading to the basement behind the bar, I run down to the refrigerators. Locating a case of Heineken, I take off my coat and backpack, stowing them. I climb the stairs to the bar and begin stocking the small refrigerators. The night progresses quickly and I’m sweating from running up and down the stairs, keeping the bar stocked. I watch Tina and Sean work, making sure that whatever they need is available to them and refilled before they have to ask for it to be done.

  Sipping a glass of water, I glance at the world beyond the bar. It’s a crush of people and I’m glad that I mostly get to stay back here and don’t have to venture out there except when we need ice. Drunken people make me nervous. I dislike their predictable unpredictability—the emotions that are so intense and seem to turn on a dime. I’ve been subject to too many drunken people in my life. Once I get out of my situation, I plan on staying away from bars and nightclubs…and drunken people.

  “HEY…HEIDI…HEIDI.” I hear a male voice slurring behind me. A handsome man dressed in a dark suit is hailing me. His tie has been loosened rakishly at the neck while his short, brown hair is falling artfully over his brow. He’s leaning over the bar between us. Seeing that he has my attention, he shouts, “I DON’T LIE, HEIDI. WHERE ARE YOU FROM, SWEDEN OR SOME SHIT? HEY, COME OVER HERE.” He crooks his finger at me, trying to get me to approach the bar.

  I shake my head and continue sipping my water.

  “HEIDI…I LIKE YOUR BRAIDS—COME ON—I WON’T BITE. I DON’T LIE! I SWEAR I’M TELLING THE TRUTH WHEN I SAY THAT YOU HAVE THE SWEETEST ASS I’VE EVER SEEN,” he calls with the look of drunken earnestness.

  Glancing down the bar, Tina approaches the man calling to me. “YOU NEED SOMETHING?” she yells above the din, throwing down a napkin in front of him.

  “I NEED HER,” he points to me, leering.

  Before Tina can answer him, an enormous man behind the drunk reaches down and pulls him off his feet by his necktie. “Apologize to her,” I hear him say, just above the noise of the crowd. The look on the corporate man’s face would’ve been comical if I wasn’t so absorbed by the sheer size of the man holding him. He’s at least a half-foot taller than the man he’s holding. In this light, his hair looks blond—platinum, the same as mine. It’s long, to his shoulders, pulled back from his face and tucked into his black, leather jacket.

  “I’M SORRY!” the drunken man shouts hastily. I give him a mute nod, accepting his apology. The giant blond man in front of me lets go of the drunk’s tie, dropping him to the floor. The intoxicated man fumbles backward away from the bar, disappearing into the crowd behind him.

  “Thank you,” I sigh in relief to the tall stranger, beginning to step forward to speak to him. Then, I see his neck. Large, inky, tribal tattoos shoot up one side of it. I stop and my eyes widen. Two other blond
men, each around the same size as the one in front of me flank him then, their eyes focused on me.

  As I step back, Tina gets closer, dropping a new napkin in front of each of them intending to take their orders. Backing up further, I put my hand on the wooden doorframe leading to the basement. Feeling like I just hit a tripwire of a trap, I place my foot on the top step leading to the basement and see what I don’t want to see. The tall, blond man tenses and begins to spring over the bar.

  Pounding down the stairs, I dash toward another set of stairs that lead up to the cargo doors. My braid is seized from behind and my head snaps back brutally, knocking me off my feet. A meaty arm goes around my waist pulling me back into a tree-like chest.

  “Kricket, you can’t outrun me,” he whispers in my ear.

  “Who’s Kricket?” I ask, clenching my teeth against the pain from the whiplash he just gave me. “Let go of me, freak!”

  “You’re Kricket,” he says lightly, turning me around to face him. “Daughter of Arissa Valke of Alameeda clan.”

  Holding my neck and staring into his blue eyes, I retort, “I’m Jane Klume…of the White Sox clan, so let go of me before I scream, you piece of sh—” He shakes me roughly.

  “You’re a little rebel and you’re definitely Etharian—I’ll prove it,” he says sternly, pulling out a knife from a shoulder holster. Holding my braid in his hand, he slashes the sharp edge over my hair, severing it. Immediately, the hair in his hand turns black and becomes dust while the stub of hair that’s still attached to my head begins to lengthen and grow until it’s the exact same length it was before. I’m not shocked. It has been doing that since before I can remember. He smiles. “Greetings, Kricket.”

  “Who are you?” I ask, watching the stairs as the other two men tread cautiously down toward us.

  “My name is Kyon and this is Forester and Lecto…we’re your friends,” he replies, attempting a smile that looks more like a shark showing its teeth. Visions of every social worker I’ve ever been assigned to bounce rapidly through my head. They were all very different, but they all have one common thread. They always claim to be my friend right before they leave me in the deepest pit of hell.