Free Beneath a Meth Moon by Jacqueline Woodson Page A

thing in the world.
Then somebody’s gonna tell your daddy about the queer kid over in Donnersville who can paint a memory on a wall—just pay him for the painting, and the county will find him a wall. The county’s happy to fill up empty walls with meth angels. Part of their antidrug thing.
    They see me,
I said.
I’m not invisible.
    They see a meth head. And some of them maybe see a little bit of a girl who used to be you in there. But most of them see a meth head and keep on walking because they got their own problems. That’s what my sister said to do—keep on walking. And wait for your daddy to come looking for you with a picture of you.
    Then how come some of them give me money if I’m so invisible?
    Because they’re hoping they’ll give you enough to make you disappear. They hope they can walk by here one day and not see you. And when you’re gone—even though they know in their hearts it’s because you died on that crap, they can make believe you got clean and their little coins helped it happen. That’s why.
    He got up and brushed off the back of his jacket.
    The strangest part of it is I’m already seeing you as a memory. Already seeing you fading on a wall . . . and I don’t even know your name yet. Makes me sad for you.
    You don’t even know me. Just ’cuz you give me this money doesn’t—
    I do know you. You’re disappeared just like a lot of us. Invisible. Just like a lot of us! Hated. Just like a lot of us! Don’t tell me I don’t know you. Your pain is SO not new.
    He got up, put his bag on his shoulder. There were some paintbrushes sticking out of it. I could hear cans rattling inside.
    What’s your name, anyway?
    He looked at me. He had a way of looking that made him seem old. I could almost see what he’d be like in fifty years—gray haired, wrinkled, with those same intense eyes.
    I didn’t say anything.
    You still have one?
    Laurel.
    Moses nodded.
Pretty name. Laurel Donald—
    Daneau!
    Laurel Daneau. Your people must have loved you lots to give you a name like that. You even know what Laurel is?
    I’m not stupid.
    Stays green forever,
he said, like he hadn’t heard me.
Even when there’s winter all around it. Sits there like some kind of promise of spring.
He looked at me.
I bet there’s still some spring in you, Ms. Daneau.
    He started walking away again. I watched him. He walked real slow, his head down, his whole body bending against the night and late spring Donnersville wind. I shivered thinking about what he’d said, thinking about summer and wondering if I’d live to see it.

daneau’s girl
    RAIN CAME HARD that first time I went into rehab, and by late afternoon, small rivers were moving along the sides of the building, puddling all around me. I sat up against the hardware store, shivering in my coat, my hat pulled down, my sign HOMELESS AND HUNGRY perched and sogging against my knees. The street was empty. The sky near black with clouds. I listened to the voices inside my head, the story of a girl skipping home through a big field—sunflowers all around her. I’d never seen a sunflower in real life. The story faded in and out of my brain. I shivered hard, trying to hold on to it—hold on to the sun coming down in that girl’s field, the warmth all around her. Moses’s eyes came to mind, the warm brown of them, and I tried to hold that thought too, him sitting next to me, us just talking.
I bet there’s still some spring in you . . .
But soon, the warm brown and the soft words faded out of my brain and the rain was back, gray and cold.
    A police officer stopped in front of me, dark shades hiding his eyes, a dollar bill hanging from his hand. Felt like I had to look up forever to finally see the top of his head, and when I did, I noticed how he’d tipped his hat forward. Clear plastic was covering the hat, and I thought