Read Crux for Free Online Page B

big, though, and elongated, like a cat’s. So even though I think they’re the color of mud, the shape is kinda cool.
    My jeans are cold against my legs as I slip them on. Still shivering, I push my head and arms through the holes of my cream, turtleneck sweater—another addition to my pitiful wardrobe.
    I pad to the refrigerator, reach past Ziploc bags of cheese and bologna, and grab a bottle of water. Although most of my money is hidden in a hole in the drywall of my closet, I drag my backpack around, still compelled to carry essentials with me.
    At my front door, I stoop to grab the morning paper. My head tilts up as the super walks past in a navy bathrobe. “Hey, Johnny.”
    “Morning,” he answers.
    I straighten. “Dude, if I want to, like, get a dog, is that cool?”
    “How big?” He’s barefoot and scratches one foot with the other as he stands there. The dry, scraping sound makes my skin crawl.
    “I don’t know. I haven’t found one yet. But I’m pretty sure I’m not the purse dog type.”
    Johnny’s blue hair sticks up in ten different directions, and he rubs it. His distant expression suggests he’s considering my request.
    Sheez buddy, do you need delousing?
    “A month’s rent as a nonrefundable pet deposit then we won’t quibble with a weight limit. Googledepuke.”
    Googlede … wha? His chin comes up like he’s done me a favor. I want to complain his price is an affront to dog lovers everywhere, or he should let me have a dog for free just to listen to his uber weirdness. Instead, I say, “Cool, thanks. I’ll check out the pound and let you know when I decide.”
    Johnny grunts and shuffles down the hall.
    • • •
    I sit in the same coffee house I sat in last night with Jeff. Atta girl, Birdie, return to the scene of the crime.
    Maybe I hoped to see him here, I don’t know. The pages of half a dozen sketches I made of the snowy scene from the bank crackle under my hands along with the used auto section of the Atlanta Journal Constitution. A few car and pet ads are circled in red, but I wonder if I’d do better searching online.
    The guy at the next table slaps a ruler against his chair.
    I jump as I glare at him. “Knock it off.”
    “What’s your problem?”
    Chill out, Bird. “Sorry. You startled me.”
    He lifts a brow and shifts back to his friends.
    Truth is, that sound freaks me out and always will. It reminds me of my fourth foster home with the Dixons. Mrs. Norma Dixon lived under the delusion she was manners guru, Emily Post. She also believed I, and the five other street urchins in her care, were going to be invited to eat at the White House with the President—any day. She considered it her personal mission to prepare us for the eventuality. Therefore, I had ramrod straight posture, a huge vocabulary, and understood the difference between an oyster and dessert fork. I could challenge Ms. Post to an etiquette duel. Bring it, Emily. Gag. As if I’d really ever need to know that crap.
    Mr. Bernie Dixon had a different agenda. His plan was to fill our minds with as much useless trivia as possible. This happened every Thursday night during dinner. He called it the ‘Fun Family Facts Game’.
    Yea.
    I thought of it like musical chairs, except instead of chairs, there were questions. If you missed nabbing a seat in musical chairs, you were out of the game, but nothing so fortunate befell the participants at the Dixon’s. If I missed a question, I had to lift my hand, palm up, so Mr. Dixon could smack it repeatedly with a ruler until he raised a welt.
    One night, Mr. Dixon asked Blane Campbell, fellow foster-prisoner, what year Napoleon married Josephine. Blane almost always knew the answers, but the sight of Mr. Dixon’s ruler drove them from his mind. I watched as the blood drained from Blane’s face. Beads of sweat broke out on his forehead, and he licked his lips. “Seventeen ninety six?” Blane answered.
    “What month?”
    Seriously? I’d thought.
    “I … uh,