Page 38 of Privilege

15

VALE

I was gonefor a couple weeks, working on this latest run, and spring has finally taken hold in Anchorage. It feels good, the heat of the sun on my skin. My mom would have hated it up here, she loved warm weather. Even Maryland in winter was too cold for her, she always wanted to flee to Texas and visit her family for long stretches in January.

The people around me look a little desperate, but not more than usual. I feel bad for the homeschooled kids up here, who get whatever education their parents can scrounge up.

I thought the Forge could organize a school, but I don’t think that’s going to happen. We’ve contributed, we’ve helped keep the peace, but now my dad has bigger plans, and they don’t involve school.

“Vale,” says a man behind me in a voice I don’t recognize.

I turn slowly, not in a rush, but wary. It’s a guy my agefrom the Forge. He’s been here almost as long as I have, dragged by his father. I try to remember his name.

“Vale, how’s it going?” he asks, hurrying to catch up.

I nod, giving him a curt “Good” and wondering how to keep this interaction as short as possible. I don’t know him, and I’m not interested in changing that.

“I’m on a supply run,” he volunteers. I glance over and he looks happy, excited.

“For what?” I ask.

“Another bike,” he tells me, his voice vibrating with excitement.

“Nice,” I allow. Now I remember, this guy is super into motorcycles.

There’s an awkward pause while I wait for him to leave.

“What…what are you up to?” he asks.

I guess I was supposed to volunteer that information.

I sigh. I’m not telling this guy anything about Amity. Frankly, I don’t want any of the guys at the Forge to see her or know about her. The silence is awkward while I self-reflect about why I’m so protective of her.

Probably stuff I was brainwashed with as a kid, about protecting women and all that. What a crock. We found out how that worked out. The minute they got a little power they ran rampant with it, at least in the PS.

“Uh…” the guy says. “I guess this is me.”

Oh, he’s still here. He peels off down a side street to a place that works on cars and bikes, all kinds of vehicles. I keep my stride steady.

I’m almost to the market now. I want to look confident, like I have a clear purpose for being here. The market brings together a lot of different kinds of people.Sometimes that works out fine, but sometimes there are disagreements and fights.

I sweep the entrance with my eyes. A leaning sign jammed into the rough ground next to the parking lot says “Spenard Market.” Then it’s rows of haphazard tables and pop-up tents.

I’ll pick up something to eat where I can take a look around. With that decision I stride past people selling art and clothing and bread and vegetables and get to another reason I came down here.

“Back safe?” a warm voice inquires. Mrs. Perez is manning the register of the empanada stand, while her nieces and nephews scurry around filling orders.

“Got back last night,” I say, my eyes darting to hers for a quick smile and then continuing to scan the market.

“Two chicken empanadas?” she asks, starting to reach into the case with a napkin.

“Just one,” I correct gently.

She pouts and I hurry to add, “I’m coming from breakfast.”

“Forge food,” she grumbles and I can’t escape a warm feeling, a throwback to my days in Baltimore with my mom. I don’t complain about Mrs. Perez trying to feed me well. She’s a bright spot in an existence that doesn’t have too many.

“Okay, one,” she agrees and hands it over the register. I reach for cash to pay her but she refuses, pushing my hand back. “Welcome home.”

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