Erica Spindler - Forbidden Fruit

The third family had taught him to expect nothing from other people, not even basic human decency. He had learned nothing from this, his fourth family, because he had no spot left that was vulnerable to such a lesson. He had no hopes, no illusions, no small, secret wishes of love from them. He had closed himself off from his foster family and everyone else, as well.

Consequently, he had been labeled difficult and uncommunicative by the families who had taken him in and by the social workers, his teachers and the school administrators.

Santos fisted his fingers. In a little over a year, he had suffered through the aftermath of his mother’s murder, he had lived with four different families in four different areas of the city and had attended four different schools. He had lost all his old friends and made no new ones. His whole life had changed. And yet, he was branded as difficult and sullen. It was just as his buddies had always said, the system sucked.

This time they wouldn’t find him.

Santos emptied his drawers and stuffed his meager belongings into his duffel. They wouldn’t find him because now he understood where he had gone wrong, the mistake he had made each time he’d run away.

He hadn’t run far enough.

He had to leave New Orleans. If he stayed, they would find him, they would drag him back, put him in another home. He couldn’t bear another “new” family. He couldn’t bear another school, new surroundings, new faces. Not ones that were forced on him. He was sixteen now, practically a man. He could make it on his own.

He had planned his escape carefully. He had saved—a dollar here, a dollar there—fifty-two dollars. He had studied a Louisiana map and decided on Baton Rouge as his destination. It was big enough to disappear in, it was a university town with a lot of kids and was close to New Orleans. A mere ninety or so miles.

Santos hadn’t forgotten his vow to find his mother’s killer. As soon as he was old enough to be beyond the state’s grasp, he would return to New Orleans and make good on that vow.

His mother.

A catch in his chest, he fished a small jewelry box out of the back of his desk drawer, leaving behind the school supplies he would have no need for now. He opened the box and drew out the earrings, made of colored glass beads.

Carefully, almost reverently, Santos trailed the earrings across his palm. Inexpensive, more than a little gaudy, his mother had loved these earrings. “Austrian crystal,” he could hear her telling him the day she had bought them. He remembered her laughing as she clipped them on. They had almost brushed her shoulders, they were so long. She’d called them shoulder dusters. With his mind’s eye, he could see her wearing them, see how they caught the light when she moved, sparkling like colored diamonds.

The memory was at once sweet and painful, and he laid the earrings back onto their bed of cotton, then tucked the box with the rest of his things into his duffel. He began to zip the bag, then thinking better of it, retrieved the box and slipped it into one of the front pockets of his jeans. The earrings would be safer there.

His mother had had nothing of monetary value, but these earrings meant more to him than a thousand real diamonds. He couldn’t bear to lose them.

He finished zipping his bag, then took one last glance around the room that had never felt like his. He had no regrets, he thought. Not about leaving this family without a goodbye, not about sneaking out in the middle of the night or about the twenty dollars he had borrowed from the coffee can in the pantry. This family would not be sorry he had gone, and as for the money, he would return it when he could.

Santos crossed to the window and carefully slid it open. After checking below, he tossed out his bag, then headed out into the night.

Thirty minutes later, Santos climbed into the front passenger seat of an almost-new Chevy van. “Thanks, man,” he said to the driver who had picked him up. He rubbed his hands together in front of the heater vent. “I was afraid I was going to freeze before I got a lift.”

“Glad to help.” The guy smiled and held out a hand. “I’m Rick.”

Santos shook his hand, though it made him feel strange. “I’m Victor.”

“Good to know you.” Rick slipped the van into gear and eased back into traffic. “Where are you heading, Victor?”

“Baton Rouge. My grandmother’s in the hospital.” Santos leaned toward the vent and rush of warm air again. “She’s in pretty bad shape.”

“Sorry to hear that. But you’re in luck—” he flashed Santos a smile “—I’m heading back to L.S.U. I can take you all the way in.”

He was on his way. Santos smiled. “Great. I really didn’t want to go back out in that cold.”

“I’ve got a thermos of coffee in back, if you want some.”

“No, thanks. I can’t stand the stuff.” Santos glanced around the interior of the car. It looked even newer from the inside than it had from the outside. There wasn’t even a parking or inspection sticker on the windshield. “How long have you been at L.S.U.?”

Rick glanced at him, then back at the road. “I’m graduating this year. In psychology. I’m going to have a ‘doctor’ in front of my name.”

Santos thought of what his mother had said about staying in school, and experienced a pang of regret. And guilt. He hadn’t kept that promise to her. Or any of the others, either.

He pushed the regret away, though not without effort. “What does a doctor of psychology do?”

“Works on people’s heads for a living. You know, help nut cases work out their problems. We studied all sorts of abnormal shit. You wouldn’t believe some of it, Victor. Unfucking-believable.”

He doubted that. Santos pictured his mother’s face, twisted in death. He swallowed hard. He had a feeling he would believe it all.

“I’m kind of tired,” Santos said. “You mind if we don’t talk for a while?”

“No problem.” Rick flashed him a smile. “You look wasted. If you need to crash, have at it. I promise I won’t fall asleep at the wheel.”

Santos glanced at the guy, finding something about him disturbing. Something about the man affected him like fingernails on a chalkboard. “Thanks, but I’m okay.”

Rick shrugged. “Suit yourself. We’ve got a couple-hour trip ahead of us.” He flipped on the radio, playing with the dial until he found a station he liked. Suddenly, the Rolling Stones’ classic “Satisfaction” filled the quiet.

Santos leaned back in his seat and gazed out the window, watching the traffic, scarce though it was this time of night, gazing at the eerily dark buildings they passed.

Seconds became minutes as the van ate up the interstate. Relaxation crept up on him; his limbs and head grew heavy, his head lolled back against the seat. It felt as if his muscles were loosening for the first time in a year. It felt good.

Santos drew in a deep, even breath, lulled by the rhythm of the van and the highway. This time they wouldn’t find him, he thought sleepily. This time they wouldn’t be able to drag him back. And when he was older, he promised silently, when he was safe from their reach, he would come back and find his mother’s killer.

Santos awakened with a start. As he often did, he had been dreaming of his mother. And of Tina. He rubbed a hand across his forehead, and found that he was sweating. In the dream, both women had been crying out for his help. He had tried to reach them in time, but he had been too late. Both had slipped through his fingers, falling into a great, dark chasm he had known was death.

The van hit a rut or pothole and lurched sideways, and Santos came fully awake. He blinked and looked around, disoriented and confused.