Remember To Be Dangerous

“Go ahead, choose something, kid, don’t be shy.” My sister’s lawyer cracked his knuckles and looked at his watch. “Five minutes should be plenty, don’t you think?”

I looked up into his fake-tanned, sharky face with its too-white teeth and wished I was tall enough to twist his nose or flick his ear, anything to see if he was human.

“Hey, Rob.” Francesca flipped her long, glossy hair and glanced up from Vogue to glare. “We’re talking a token. Something to remember Mom by. Not something to sell on Craigslist to fund your online gaming or skateboarding or whatever you do with your boring little life.”

“Shut up, Fran,” I said.

What I really wanted to say was, Stop acting like you knew Mom.

Francesca was hardly ever at the house, even though she was invited. She spent weekends with Dad, I guess, although she mostly stayed in her condo at UCLA.

“Them’s the breaks,” Mom always used to say. “She gets Dad and her trust fund and all you and I get is each other.” It was our inside joke because we had the better deal. We both knew it. I’d never felt poor or left out. Not until now.

Just thinking about it made angry.

But I couldn’t pull Francesca’s hair or yell at her lawyer. I wanted my "one thing" from the house. I didn’t understand how Fran had gotten the place, but all the grown-ups said it was hers. When Mom’s cancer came back, things had happened fast. Way too fast. Mom meant to take care of me, of course she did. But getting her will fixed, or maybe writing one in the first place—it must not have been at the top of her mind. And I couldn’t blame her, I sure couldn’t.

But man.

Now I wouldn’t even get to come here after school.

I balled up a fist and turned away from Fran and her shark lawyer to rub my eyes. I’d never thought I’d lose Mom so fast, and on top of it, that I’d be left with nothing but a car ride to foster care. And one little thing to remind me that I used to have a Mom who loved me.

I left my sister at the kitchen table as the lawyer stared at our warped counters. In the living room I stopped in front of our pretend fireplace with the space heater in the grate. Mom’s porcelain clock sat on the mantel. It kept uneven time and the watercolor rabbits she’d painted on it were a little scary. They looked more like vampires than cute little bunnies—but she’d loved that thing. I was reaching for it when the lawyer cleared his throat behind me.

“Breakable, kid. Fragile and old, probably valuable.”

I wanted to grab the clock and run—or throw it at his head. Instead I gulped a breath.

“My name’s not kid,” I said, and walked into the tiny corner room Mom called her office, trying to act all relaxed, even though I could feel blood rushing to my face.

Her old typewriter with its metal keys was cool, but I wasn’t much of a writer. Sports were my thing, all the contact ones. And if you call fighting a sport, well, I was a star. I really, really can't stand bullies. Mom would yell at me when the principal called, but then she’d say, “You keep getting in these fights, so where’s your black eye, kiddo? Where are the scratches, cuts, bruises?” I’d shrug and she’d look away or brush a hand across her mouth, but I’d still see the little smile.

Remembering those talks, I could’ve smacked myself in the head.

Dummie. It's the obvious choice.

Her sword hung on the wall above her desk. The straight, leaf-shaped blade was ancient Roman style, she’d said. It was way too shiny and sharp-looking to be a real artifact, but it was awesome, even if it was fake. I reached for it.

“Easy, kid,” the lawyer said behind me. “Foster homes have rules…”

He let the sentence dangle.

I felt my eyes getting wet. Anything of Mom’s I really wanted, they wouldn’t let me take. But I wasn’t gonna cry. Instead, I whirled around and yelled, “GET OUT!”

And know what? The guy jumped, he actually jumped. And he backed out of the little room. Maybe no one had ever snarled back at that shark before. I wiped my eyes—for the last time, I told myself. And I searched the cobwebby little room for something that said Mom. That would always say Mom, no matter how many times I held it.

And there it was.

The little black book, leaning on a dusty lantern on her bookshelf.

Worn but elegant, like most of her stuff. Obviously special.

Like Mom.

I remembered her bending over the kitchen table, chewing her lip and sipping from a mug with her black book open, twirling her straight black hair around a pencil—she'd still had hair back then. When I came in, she looked up at me with a smile that shone straight out from her brown eyes.

I slid the journal from the shelf. The soft leather smelled like coffee and ink and Mom’s lavender hand soap. It smelled like magic.

I folded it open.

STOP RIGHT THERE, Mom’s sharp, pretty handwriting said.

READ THIS SOMEWHERE SAFE.

I stared. And would’ve kept staring except I heard two sets of feet marching across the creaky living room floor. I held the little book to my chest and met them at the door.

“This is mine,” I said, ready to fight.

But they didn’t try to take it. Francesca rolled her eyes. Her lawyer shrugged.

“Fine,” she said. “Don’t get excited.”

Five minutes later, the lawyer locked the front door. We rolled away in his way-too-clean SUV. A couple hours after that, when they were gone, I read Mom’s journal in my top bunk at the group home. Here’s what it said.

Ok, are you alone, Robbie? Good.

I’ve worked and worked on how to say this.

Do you know I thought I’d write a story in this journal? And let me tell you, it would’ve been an amazing story. Instead I’m doing something better.

I’m helping you write yours.

So, you’re probably wondering why I left Francesca the house.

It’s because you won’t be there, sweetheart. You’re blowing that joint, that popsicle stand. Remember when you said that if we cut a hole in the wall, we’d probably find popsicle sticks holding up the roof? Man, that was funny. We laughed and laughed. And we did as well with that place as anyone possibly could, don’t you think?

Oh, another thing. It’s triple-mortgaged! Your sister doesn’t know that.

Yet. : )

Here’s the point. I’m not from here, honey, and neither are you, not really. I did my best to fit in, but it didn’t work. I’ve thought so much about going back, and when you get where you’re supposed to be, where I wanted to take you, you’ll see why. You’ll like it so much better than where we've had to live. I wanted to take you when you were older, ten or eleven, but you know…things didn’t go the way we thought they would. I wish we could’ve gone together, buddy. But you’ll be ok.

You’ve got what it takes.

Ok, details.

Every dollar I could raise is in your backpack.

$20,000 in cash, Robbie. Don’t freak out when you see it. Not much for a house, but it will seem like a lot to you. It will get you where you’re going. And I think it’ll jog some people’s memories.

Just remember, when you arrive, you really do belong.

Civilian life was never for you. It’s been so obvious. You’re one of them.

One of us.

You used to climb up on the roof where that big pine tree leaned down like a secret hideout and you thought I didn’t notice. That’s where I left your pack. Maybe you can steal my old sword while you’re at it. Take her with you, she has life left. Plus—carrying so much cash is dangerous!

But I know you’ll handle it.

So, where are you going?

It’s a place called Vintage Woods, Oregon. It’s on the map.

Buy a phone—you can afford it—and use the GPS. Get a bus, get an Uber, take a taxi, whatever. Try not to be scared. Just get there. You can do it.

Where you’re going is close to Vintage Woods, but it’s not on the map.

Be sure to throw away the phone before you do this next part.

Go to the back edge of Vintage Woods, where the backyards brush the forest. Then...hike into the woods, deep into the woods. Keep going.

Be sure to start no later than noon.

Pretend you’re looking for me. Because In a way, you really are.

And you’ll find our people. Don't worry, they're not weirdos. They're the best you'll ever know.

When you feel the woods pushing you back and the trails turning you around, that’s when you’re close. And when you get in—into Sylvan Woods, on the other side of the border—don’t let them scare you. Tell them your mom sent you and tell them our last name.

Pierce.

Then your new life will start. You’ll do so well, honey. You’ll be the best.

If anyone picks on you or says you don’t belong, here’s what you tell them. You look ‘em right in the eyes and say, “Hey, these monsters aren’t gonna police themselves.” It’s a good line. True, too, and they'll know it. It'll set them straight.

Don’t let anyone stop you.

And honey, while you’re on the road, don’t flash that money around—don’t let anyone take it away. Or your sword, or this little black book.

I hope you use it to write your own story.

I love you, baby Robert.

I’ll always be as close to you as I can. Remember to stay dangerous.

I sat in my bunk, staring at the wall, for about an hour. Then I put Mom’s journal in my back pocket and I snuck out. I never spent a night in that group home. I ran and walked across town to our ugly little house and I climbed the roof. I found my backpack just like she said, hidden by the branches of my favorite tree.

The money was a lot. It made me think about how Mom and I could've escaped together. Sitting on our scabby shingles as the stars came out, I broke my promise to myself and cried, a whole lot, for the last time.

Then I made two promises. I promised Mom I’d get to Sylvan Woods even if I had to walk all the way there, and I would find whoever was waiting for me in the forest.

And I promised Mom I’d stay dangerous. I told her I was sorry I hadn’t been strong enough to keep her with me. And I told her I’d be so dangerous that if I ever got anyone else to love, in my whole life, nothing would be able to take them from me ever again.

Then I climbed down and broke a window and stole Mom’s sword, which I guess was real after all. I told the house goodbye. Then I took my backpack and the sword and the little black book.

I headed north under the stars.