Nothing to Lose Read Online Free PDF

stepfather was a lawyer too. So what?”
    “No, I mean… I mean maybe she could help you. Angela—that’s her name—she does pro bono stuff sometimes. That means helping people for free, people who need help.”
    “Why would I need a lawyer?” But I know.
    Karpe keeps going. “And she says there’s this thing called attorney-client privilege. If you told her anything, I mean, about your mother, she’d have to keep it secret.”
    He takes something out of his pocket, which turns out to be a business card. I know somehow he came here just to bring it. I also know I won’t call his stepmother.
    He says, “What I mean is, maybe she could tell you if there’s something you could do to help your mother. Do you ever worry about your mother, Mike?”
    “Don’t call me that!” I glance around.
    But he hands me the card. I look at it. “Thanks.”
    “Think about it.”
    He walks away. The sun’s starting to sink, and the fair lights begin to rise—neon pink, yellow, and green, clashing with Karpe’s electric blue and orange sweatshirt. I’m alone again, listening to that old song that always brings the past back, brings Kirstie and my mom too close, too real. Karpe looks back at me, and I wave, showing the business card. When he turns away, I start to crumple it. Then I change my mind and shove it into my pocket instead.
    That night there’s a fight outside my trailer. Normally I wouldn’t notice. There’s always something going on outside, always someone awake so you never have to be alone. But tonight I turned in early. I plan on going to the library again tomorrow. I’ve run through all the K. Andersons I pulled the first time. I need to try some more states.
    And something else. I’m thinking about what Karpe said about helping my mother. I let his words wash over me during the day, but now, lying in bed, not really tired enough to sleep, the thought keeps coming back to me. Help her. Help her. Playing in my head like a CD with a scratch on it, where it just keeps going back and playing the same part over and over.
    Outside, people are bumping against the trailer walls, yelling. Finally I go out in T-shirt and boxers. There are four guys, including this one, Victor, who always reminds me of Walker Monroe.
    I say, “Can you maybe move over there, guys? I have to get up early.”
    The others start to go along. They like me okay. But Victor swaggers to the door, kicking dropped beer bottles. He’s shorter than me, but solid, and he likes to throw his weight around. Usually I avoid him.
    “Need your beauty sleep, huh?” He turns to his friends. “Hey, Birdman here thinks this is the Plaza Hotel.”
    The guys laugh, drunk. Everyone calls me Birdman because the first week after I left home, I found this baby crow at a fairground in North Carolina. It had fallen from a tree, an ugly thing with hardly any feathers. It reminded me of the little bird in the book Are You My Mother? , which Mom used to read me (but when I said that, no one knew what I meant; none of the other carnies had mothers who read to them). I took it back to the trailer and tried to feed it bugs and stuff. Someone heard it chirping and told everyone. They all ragged on me. The bird had died anyway.
    The story and the name stuck—made me sound like a wuss. But new guys thought the name had something to do with the Birdman of Alcatraz, so that made me scary. It was good having an identity anyway. It made me part of things in this place where no one has a past or much of a future.
    Now, I say, “I don’t think it’s the Plaza, Vic. I’m just trying to sleep. Thought maybe you could just take it over there, that’s all. Be decent.”
    Victor gets closer, moving to stand on the trailer steps so he’s in my face. I smell booze—not just beer like the other guys—and that reminds me of Walker too.
    “Make me, Birdman. My mama didn’t teach me no manners, so I guess it’s up to you.”
    “Aw, quit it, Vic,” one of the other guys, my