Free Can't Get There from Here by Todd Strasser Page A

caterpillars you sometimes saw on roads.
    “I can get you clothes, too,” said 2Moro.
    Everyone except OG went. He was too old and crusty. With that beard and hair and missing teeth he could never get into the club no matter who 2Moro knew. It was dark when we left the building. Outside the snow and slush had turned hard and icy. I kept slipping on the sidewalk. Jewel had such a hard time walking in his platform shoes that he needed 2Moro and me to hold his arms so he didn’t fall.
    2Moro led us to a building on Avenue A. It was five stories tall and made of brick. A rusty fire escape zigzagged down the front. The front door was unlocked and the mailboxes in the hallway were dented and broken. Light came from a bare lightbulb hanging by a wire from the ceiling.
    “My, how luxurious,” Jewel joked.
    2Moro led us up the stairs. On the second flight a group of Goths were coming down. They had dyed black hair and black eye makeup and lipstick and nail polish and were wearing black leather coats and high lace-up black boots.
    “Looks like the cold forced the street scum inside,” the lead Goth snickered when he saw us. He was tall and wore black makeup. A wooden cross hung from his left ear.
    “If it isn’t the bridge and tunnel crowd,” Maggot shot back. “How’s life in the suburbs, kids? Where’d you stash your regular clothes? In a locker at the train station?”
    “Drop dead,” the lead Goth snarled. “Anybody can be a bum. It don’t prove nothing.”
    “Proves that I’m not pretending to be something I’m not,” Maggot said.
    I thought there might be a fight, but we passed each other without another word. From the floor above came voices and thumping music. The air started to smell sweet and smoky.
    “Is this the club?” Tears asked.
    “Oh, no, my dear,” Jewel answered. “This is just the warm up.”
    2Moro led us into the apartment. It was filled with smoke and kids. Most of them dressed in fashionable clean clothes. In the living room people were draped over the couches and chairs, or sitting on the floorwatching a DVD of one of the
Lord of the Rings
movies. The air was so smoky it was hard to breathe.
    Shimmying to the music, 2Moro took Tears and me by the hand. “Come on, let’s see what we can find for you to wear.” She led us down a narrow hallway. It seemed like every room was filled with people.
    “What are they all doing here?” Tears asked.
    “Waiting,” 2Moro said. “It’s not cool to get to the club before midnight.”
    She led us into a bedroom where some kids were sitting around, drinking beer and smoking. Someone was in the bed, sleeping with earplugs and a black mask over his eyes. One of the smoking kids raised a finger to his lips, warning us to be quiet.
    “Over here,” 2Moro whispered, pulling open a closet door. The closet was stuffed with silk shirts and blouses and black slacks. The floor was covered with shoes.
    “Whose clothes are these?” I whispered to 2Moro.
    “That bartender I told you about,” she answered. “His girlfriend works in a clothing store.”
    “He has a girlfriend?” Tears asked. “I thought he liked you.”
    2Moro shrugged. “Come on, we’ll get you dressed.”
    It didn’t take long for Tears and me to find clothes that fit. Some of them still had sales tags attached. The bathroom was crowded with kids, but we managed to squeeze in and wash our hands and faces. Then 2Moro started to make us up.
    “Ow!” I yelped in pain when she tried to pull aplastic brush through my hair. “Stop! It hurts,”
    “You can’t go to the club like this,” 2Moro said. “YOur hair’s disgusting. We have to do something with it.”
    “Well, not that,” I said.
    “Okay, let me try this,” she said. Working more gently, she managed to free enough hair to cover the hopelessly matted, tangled parts. Then she used mousse to make it stiff so it would stay in place. “You can fake it for tonight, but you ever want to do something with this mess, all