The King of Mulberry Street by Donna Jo Napoli

up the next alley. It was slow going because of all the garbage. And it wasn't just garbage. The carcass of a big dog lay to one side. The smell was awful. I remembered the body in the grotto back home and cleansing myself of that stench in the lake on Vesuvio. Nowhere to wash here.
    Then I saw the boy up ahead. I walked more quickly. So did a man in uniform. He blew a whistle. The boy ran and the policeman ran after him.
    Nothing was going right. I had no new plans—me, the boy full of plans. I went back to the alley with the dead dog. I threw pieces of a crushed wooden box into a half-empty barrel to make a clean layer on top of whatever was inside. Then I climbed in. I looked up to say good night to the stars, but I couldn't see any. At home, no stars meant rain was on the way.
    I checked to make sure the documents were safe in my pocket. Then I recited every one of Nonna's charms I could remember—charms to keep evil at bay.
    That was where I spent my first night in America, grateful for the exhaustion that let me sleep. If there was one lesson I'd learned since I left Mamma, it was to sleep: sleep puts aside cares.

CHAPTER TWELVE
Sharks and Mooks
    I woke to the noise of horses on cobblestone streets.
    My neck hurt from being bent over my knees for hours. I stood and picked a chicken bone off my pants. It had jabbed my thigh all night, but I'd been too afraid of what it might be to touch it.
    Rain started, turning the gray alley stones to black. It was just a drizzle and it felt good. I climbed out onto a log that rolled out from under me. I fell onto my bottom with a smack.
    I brushed off everywhere and rubbed my shoes with the underside of the front of my shirt. Then I raised my face to the rain, mouth open. The fat, slow drops soothed my cheeks and throat. A high-pitched tinkling came, so delicate I thought I was still dreaming. I followed it.
    A bony boy walked down the sidewalk beating ametal triangle with a rod. Other people were out on the sidewalk already, too, heads bowed under kerchiefs and hats. Some carried umbrellas. Whenever the boy passed someone, he beat the triangle louder, then put out his hand. A man gave him a coin.
    He was nothing but a beggar.
    The beggar boy went slowly, so I had a chance to look around. Windows were open everywhere. People lived crowded together as in Napoli—filling basements and garrets, as well as all the floors between. A man came out of an outhouse, and the way he stretched, I knew he'd spent the night there.
    I gritted my teeth. I wouldn't sleep in a barrel again. I wasn't a
scugnizzo
.
    By the time the beggar boy finally stopped on a corner, the rain had let up. Early sun glinted off the wet stones. Too bad I hadn't stood in one spot and drunk the rain while it was still coming down. My throat was dry.
    The beggar boy took a tin cup out of his pocket, put it on the ground, and played his triangle. Then he whistled a tune. Men dressed in fancy suits dropped in coins.
    “Hey,” I said to him.
    He turned his back to me. He was pretty tall, but I bet he was only a year older than me.
    “Hey, can you tell me which way to the boats to Napoli?”
    “
Bolivia
,” said the beggar boy. He pointed.
    Soon I was out on the wharves again, where a huge passenger ship was docked. Officials on the steerage deck processed the first- and second-class passengers.
    I walked around until I found two men talking Napole-tano while they laid bricks in a sidewalk.
    “Excuse me. Do you know about the Bolivia?”
    The younger man jerked his chin toward the dock. “That ship?”
    “Is it going to Napoli?”
    “It just came from there,” said the other man. “No one cares where it's going next.”
    “I do,” the younger man said. “In Italy the air is
bell' e fresca
—clear and cool. I'm going back as soon as I make enough money.”
    “Yeah?” said the other man. “You'll take one whiff and you'll be on the next boat back to America, like every other fool who forgot what Italy's