And that’s the only reason I see the van.
I tackle Deo with my right shoulder at full speed and knock him sideways. He lands facedown in the grass, about four feet from the sidewalk. I wind up mostly on top of him, except for my right leg, which connects with a large tree branch that’s fallen from the oak a few yards behind us. A sharp stabbing pain runs through my calf.
The van clips the bus stop sign and rips the wastebasket from its pole. Fast-food containers and other assorted crap flies into the air, then rains down around us as the van squeals back onto the road. I squint and get a quick glimpse of the license plate.
Deo lets loose with an impressive stream of cursing as he pushes himself up to his elbows. “What was that?”
“Gray van. Dodge, maybe? Maryland tag, last three digits 27J,” I say.
He brushes the dirt out of his hair as he gets to his feet. “Did you get a look at the driver?”
“Not really. A guy. Tall. I think he was bald.” I grit my teeth and yank a piece of wood nearly as thick as my pinky out of my leg. It’s bleeding like crazy. The jeans were too worn to offer much protection, and the branch ripped straight through.
Deo winces and pulls a couple of napkins out of his pocket. I fold them into a compress and hold it against the wound. Joe buys cheap napkins, so they don’t soak up much, but they’re better than nothing.
“You think he’d at least stop!” Deo fumes. “Make sure we’re not hurt?”
“You’d think. Are you okay?”
“Yeah. But you’re not. Freakin’ jerk.”
“Maybe he’s an illegal or something. Still, he needs to watch where he’s driving. If I hadn’t turned back at just that moment . . .” I shudder and shake my head. “You think we should call the tag number in when we get home?”
“Hell, yeah,” Deo says, then pauses as he catches my expression. “Maybe. I don’t know. How much of a hassle do you think it will be?”
I shrug. “We only have a partial number,” I say as he gives me a hand up. I hobble over and lean against the oak tree, pressing the napkins tight against my leg. “No witnesses, so even if they do find the driver, it all depends on who they believe. And do you really think it will be us?”
He waves his hand at the mess around us. “There’d have to be marks on the van, right? Busted trash can, bent signpost? Come on, even the MoCoPopo aren’t that blind.”
Given that we’re in Montgomery County, it’s generally been the county police that have dragged Deo back to the various foster homes he skipped out on, so I’m quite familiar with the nickname for his least favorite police force.
“I don’t know, D. He collided with a trash can when a couple of dumbass kids jumped out into the street and he had to swerve to avoid hitting them. You know that’s what he’ll say. We could end up in trouble if we call it in. But I can’t think of a downside to keeping our mouths shut.”
Deo kicks a Dr Pepper can hard into the bent signpost and then sighs, picking up his backpack. “You’re right. What’s the point?”
Dinner at Bartholomew House doesn’t happen around a table. Something is on the stove, cooked and more or less hot, at six. It disappears at seven on the dot, and I’ve yet to see any leftovers in the fridge, so I’m not sure where it goes. If you come in after seven, you know where the bread, peanut butter, and jelly can be found, and you might be able to score some fresh fruit or cookies if Deo or one of the other bottomless pits didn’t beat you to it. I’m rarely in by dinnertime when I work, but I’d rather eat at the deli anyway.
We slide in the door with about ten minutes to spare. Tonight, it’s stew of some sort. Deo offers to grab a bowl for me while I limp upstairs to plug in my phone and patch the hole in my leg. When I finish, he’s in the living room with most of the other eight kids who live here, eating as they watch Celebrity Family Feud. Not my first choice, but I know I’ll be voted down, so I just squeeze in next to Deo.
I pick the chunks of meat from my stew and toss them into Deo’s bowl, snagging his mushrooms—one of the few foods he doesn’t like—in exchange. I’m not exactly a vegetarian, but whatever meat is featured in this concoction is gray and unappealing, and he needs the extra protein more than I do anyway. Pauline is the nicest of the four house parents, but she is by far the worst cook. She should really stick to Hamburger Helper, grilled cheese, and other stuff she can’t screw up.
“You okay?” Deo asks between bites.
I shrug, tugging up the leg of my sweatpants to show him the gauze bandage. “Too big for just a Band-Aid, but Pauline said it doesn’t need stitches. Shouldn’t get infected—she poured about half a bottle of hydrogen peroxide on it. My jeans are shot, though.”
He drops his voice a bit. “What did you tell her?”