Swimming in Sparkles Read online

  Table of Contents

  Swimming In Sparkles

  Blurb

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  About The Author

  Other Titles By Debra Anastasia

  My name is Ruffian. To remember my mom, I want to change the world.

  I’m going to do things wrong to make things right.

  That’s okay, because I’m going to jail.

  I know it.

  I’ve planned for it. I was always going to end up there.

  For now, I need a cover story.

  A cover family.

  A way to hide from the suspicion that always finds me.

  Teddi Burathon is the perfect shield.

  Popular, friendly, sassy. Good.

  She’s everything I’m not.

  And I’ll use her as a pretty distraction so no one sees me coming.

  My heart is dead and I’m a bomb waiting to detonate.

  Most people want to build a future.

  Me?

  I’m going to rob a bank.

  Copyright © 2021 by Debra Anastasia

  All rights reserved

  Published by Debra Anastasia

  Swimming in Sparkles is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are

  all products of the author’s ridiculous imagination and are used fictitiously.

  Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is

  entirely coincidental.

  Except as permitted under the US Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this

  publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form by

  any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior

  written permission of the author.

  Cover Design: TJ Designs

  Content Edits: Paige Smith

  Interior Design: CP Smith

  Website: DebraAnastasia.com

  T, J and D it’s always all for you.

  Prologue

  MY MUGSHOT WOULD be the only gravestone she ever got.

  My beautiful boy. My Ruffian.

  If you are reading this letter, our adventure has ended for me. I hope and pray you are well on your way to adulthood. I wish I had more security to offer you. All I can do is rely on what we’ve been through to guide you. This world can be a harsh place. But we both know that there are little crevices in that harsh place where true beauty can be found. The smiles of the grateful. The tight, too long hugs of the lonely. The way to shepherd all of the humans, animals, and nature around us to a slightly easier path. Take them to the crevices, my sweet boy. I’ve never met a person with a soul as pure as yours. So brave. So imaginative. So forgiving. I’m angry writing this letter—just a little bit, because it means we will be physically separated. But love rises. Love pierces through that harsh armor, I can promise you that. You can always find me in the woods when you need me. The rustling leaves will embrace you, the dome of stars in the blackest sky encourage you, and the very air you breathe will love you. A mother never truly leaves, not until she can wrap her arms around her children. So I will set up a waiting space, where I get a great view, and I will wait for you. Be my greatest gift to this place.

  I love you, Ruff.

  This letter was written on the previously plain side of some inserts that came with junk mail. Blank paper made my mom huff and her mouth smush up. She hated that a tree gave its whole life and someone wasted the backside of paper.

  “Fill it up! I mean, seriously, Ruff. If you are going to kill a tree, at least grace both sides of the paper with usefulness.”

  As I got older, I understood that the business was saving money by leaving the page blank. Less wages to pay workers creating content, less expense on ink to print. But first, I would think that blank paper was just an invitation for ideas. A place to draw something. Make a plan. Make a pirate map. Make an origami star. My mother shaped me with her ridiculous ideas. The kicker was, she was usually right. It was a waste of paper, but it also became an encouragement to express myself.

  So, if that doesn’t mess a kid up, I don’t know what to tell you. It made me super different. I had no trouble going into the vestibule of the post office with Mom—after hours, of course—and plucking through the recycling bin and trash to “save” the blank sides of the advertisements.

  We were homeless, technically. But she was my home, so I was secure.

  As I read her letter, I held her cold hand, waiting for it to twitch, waiting for it to squeeze my big hand back. The noise around me, outside of this tent was also her worst nightmare. The cops were breaking up our little community. The woods people—that’s what others called us. Most said we were dangerous, but we were just trying to live.

  My woods neighbors were fighting back, at least some of them. Most were resigned to the fate of packing up what they could carry and moving on. It’s what we all knew how to do. Move on.

  I tried it. I took a deep breath. All I felt was the razor-sharp pain in my chest from crying all night. Letting go of her hand was letting go of my childhood. My dreams. My home.

  In times like these, moving on times, the community would look to Mom. They would wait for her cues. She looked after all of them in her own way. I could at least use her death to buy them some more time to collect themselves.

  I leaned down and kissed my mother’s forehead. “You did great, Mom. Best mom ever.”

  Tears again. How I could still be crying I didn’t know. My whole body had to be dehydrated by now.

  I turned my back on her. She would have her pillow and a blanket. I took the rest of our stuff and filled the big backpack that Mom used to carry. The dented tin decorated with pictures of cookies held important papers, and I added back the letter that had been there for God knows how long. The pile of her license and my birth certificate and random drawings from when I was a child and a few newer ones all went into the tin. The tin was first in and last out. Always. Actually, the tin only came out of the bag when we had somewhere with actual walls to live in, somewhere we could keep things dry.

  I kept touching her hand until it was really time. The side of our tent was whacked hard, once, twice, and on the third time, I unzipped it. I unfurled myself, eye to eye with the cop that was doing his job.

  “Whoa. You all right?”

  Inside, the sadness and shock had a vise grip on my lungs, my heart. This must be what it felt like to s
top time.

  “My mother has passed away.” It was too quiet in the ruckus of moving on around me.

  The cop tilted his head and his eyebrows rushed to meet each other in the middle of his forehead. “What now?”

  I had to say it louder. Make time stop. “My mother is dead!”

  And then time did stop. The gasps around me. The sudden waves of pain. Disbelief.

  Some of the cops that saw us as woods people ignored it and kept pressing. Moving on.

  But the one in front of me—his emotions were blurred, but they were there. Concern, compassion.

  “Son, how old are you?” A gentle hand on my shoulder.

  “I’m seventeen.” I didn’t have to yell anymore.

  A different cop came to our tent and ducked inside. “Oh yeah. She’s dead as a doornail.”

  The callousness of his words ripped through me like a bullet.

  “We got a body. Call the coroner and take that kid down to the station.”

  As the compassionate cop heard the news, I watched as his face fell, resigned.

  They placed me in handcuffs. Before the plastic zip tie was fully tight, I knew what my next step was.

  I was going to rob something so big, so monumental that it would change the world.

  Ivy Lucy Lawson would be remembered even if my mugshot was the only gravestone she ever got.

  Chapter 1

  TEDDI

  “YOU LOOK AMAZING!”

  “That color on you makes the world turn.”

  “Now give me some sass. No filter on you!”

  My girls were doing what they did best. Gas people up.

  “This is my favorite lip on you. The matte blends with this cheek and highlight.”

  Four of my former co-cheerleaders were giving it their best. We could put makeup on in our sleep. And sometimes it felt like we were doing just that.

  “Okay. We’re ready. Maybe we can make a quick TikTok?”

  They were going to patiently go through the newest dance. The focus of our attention would be straight fire.

  “Are you ready to post? You like it?”

  And with a beautiful smile, our current obsession gave us a demure nod. She was feeling herself. Glowing. Eyes were sparkling. My girls had gently covered deep circles and carefully styled her wig. Being doted on by a pile of high school cheerleaders could be overwhelming, but Fawna was a champion.

  We did the dance with her, taking enough pictures to fill a few entire social media accounts. And most of all, our client for the day was beaming.

  Fawna’s parents stood nearby, having left her in our care for a few hours. They’d gone on a date that was arranged by a different branch of our Me Party SWAT team. The football team and the girls soccer team were at their house doing yard work and minor repairs.

  When Fawna was finally ready to join her parents, my mom and her buddies had something for them as well. They lifted the tablecloth to reveal a custom painted coffee table with a shadow box. Inside was gorgeous, like an Instagram flat lay forever pinned underneath. There was some room left for Fawna to add more memories, but represented were her baby pictures, her favorite colors, and sweet moments with her parents.

  The boys soccer team washed and decorated the parents’ car, and they were packed off to enjoy their night. We didn’t plan an afterward, but there were donated gift cards in the glovebox that they could use for dinner for Fawna if she was feeling up to it.

  It was a rush. Better than a wedding, game day, and holiday presents all rolled together. Now was the cleanup, and everyone got started.

  The soccer team boys were flirting, trying to squirt some of my girls with a hose. I let it go on for a few, because I wanted to talk to my mom.

  She held out an arm when she saw me approaching, and I tucked myself next to her while she finished up her conversation.

  “The piece could be upcycled for our next event, Ronna.” Jill took her phone back from my mom.

  “It’s got promise. Let’s keep it in mind. Now if you’ll excuse me.” Mom turned and gave me a giant hug. “Pretty girl. How’s it going?”

  “So great. Fawna is literally the most adorable.” I pulled out my phone to show my mom the TikTok that was getting a ton of likes and views. Just then my older brother, Austin, shared the vid and commented.

  “Up. There he is. You know you did good if Austin is willing to put you on his channel.”

  And then Mom was pulled away to talk to someone else. I overheard them start the conversation, praising the whole event.

  I did Me Parties as often as I could. Well, we did this. Me and my whole crew. I loved to organize stuff, and when our neighbor’s preteen was diagnosed with cancer two years ago, I started the Me Party for her. And it just kept getting bigger. Luckily, my cheerleader friends were onboard. Now that our social media had a bunch of attention, I was getting donations much easier and from bigger companies. A merchandising company had even approached me, but Austin was going to handle it for me.

  I bent down and picked up some errant streamers on the ground. I walked over to the soccer team and held up my hands in mock surrender.

  “All right. Let’s get this finished and all head to the diner.” Mentioning food always got the crew moving. The local diner fed us after Me Parties. Half of the kids here worked there when they weren’t at practice. I wanted to get a job there, too, but my parents told me it would be too much.

  But it did look like fun anytime we popped in. Once an hour a special song came over the sound system and the servers all danced. We all knew the words and the moves, so it was tradition for customers to join in, too.

  I had an old school binder with checklists that I went through before I was willing to say we were finished. I sent off a few messages to the crews in different locations, and we all agreed that dinner was at the diner. Taylor was driving us. She had an old Volkswagen, and I jumped in front after checking that my mom was ready to leave, too.

  “Take me to the French fries!” I slid Taylor’s sunglasses onto my face as Selena and Peaches grabbed seats in the back.

  We were on a high. The rush of having done something this good and this big was considerable. I was very interested in laughing and drinking milkshakes with my crew tonight.

  Chapter 2

  RUFFIAN

  THE COP DIDN’T actually take me into custody, and when he realized that my mom had passed from natural causes, he let me stay on the scene. I was allowed back into our tent, where I covered her skinny form again. She was so small under the fabric, and it was surreal how much the center of my chest hurt just looking at her. I had to think quickly, because Mom’s death had bought me some extra time that the other people around me weren’t afforded.

  I made sure I had the backpack and the messenger bag that had my shit in it.

  The cop just outside of the tent was steering people away, but I wasn’t sure how long that would last. I pulled the blanket down again. Mom was farther away even though she hadn’t moved. I pushed her hair off of her forehead, my index finger grazing her skin. It had a chill now. She hated being cold. It was one of the few things she complained about from time to time.

  “Okay, I heard we have another pick up for the cooler?” someone outside the tent said. I heard some hushed, harsh whispers. The cop was trying to buy me some time. My guess was the newcomer was the coroner.

  I couldn’t bring myself to cover Mom’s face again. I looked over my shoulder, once, twice, and a third time as I headed out of the tent. Waiting just outside was a rolling gurney and a body bag waiting. I had no false illusions. People like Mom and me didn’t get funerals or pomp and circumstance. Her obituary—I could find it next week in the free paper if I wanted to—would be in the police blotter.

  Woman found dead of natural causes during a routine encampment relocation of the homeless behind the local Targier Plaza.

  That would be it. Her body would go unclaimed, because I didn’t have any resources to get her out. She wouldn’t have wanted it
anyway. She believed in going forward. And that after you died your spirit floated somewhere lovely. She would wait for me and I wasn’t supposed to rush.

  I knew the cops weren’t sure what the hell to do with me now. I was tall enough to be a man, but young enough to still be in school.

  All around me the community we’d built was in shambles. Locust’s inventive water gathering contraption snapped in two. The makeshift town center with a bonfire that went every night was a smoking pile of dead flames now.

  Tents were slashed cruelly. Because replacing them was hard and repairing them to be waterproof was damn near impossible.

  We’d known the time was coming. Mom and I had researched a few new locations, but the access to the local stream and the dumpsters from the shopping plaza were located so conveniently, it was hard to convince anyone to move. Hell, even we still had the tent up here.

  I worried about the Conner kids. All six of them. We all looked out for them. I’d been tasked with getting the youngest two winter clothes. And I had done pretty well, but before I could deliver the trash bags I had of lightly used coats, mittens, and boots, they were being tossed into the pickup truck that was parked close by.

  Bellina was missing, too. Mom would want to make sure she had shelter for tonight, even if it was just the vestibule at the bank in the plaza. Bellina’s deep cough had Mom worried.

  I staggered farther away because I couldn’t watch it now. Not with Mom still in the tent, not with how they would handle her. If they treated her body like they’d just treated the jackets and boots, I would actually wind up in jail. I wanted my jail time to be worth it. I’d go down for something spectacular. Something worthy of the memory of my mom.

  A knife went through my throat and stabbed my already bleeding heart. The word memory had done it. The blade was sharp.

  I got to walking with two bags over my shoulder while wearing a set of sneakers that had holes in the bottoms. I stuck to the backroads, but not too close to the residential neighborhoods. I didn’t want anyone to call me suspicious.

  I tucked my head down and kept on walking. I would go forward until I dropped of exhaustion. That’s what I had now. Grief and no plan.