Текст книги "Lovely Vicious"
Автор книги: Sara Wolf
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Текущая страница: 12 (всего у книги 13 страниц)
“Just like the good old days, hm?” Jack smiles predatorily at Avery. “Although the one I used was metal, wasn’t it?”
Avery’s fury drains so fast she looks like a punctured balloon. Terror claws at her expression as she scrabbles backwards, jumps to her feet, and runs back into the house, slamming the door shut and locking it.
Jack doesn’t say anything more until I’ve dropped off Kayla. Wren drove behind us, and got out to help Kayla to her front door. She thanked him, quietly, and he watched her go inside. Wren and I nodded at each other in a farewell, and he even nodded at Jack. When we’re on the highway and I’m driving towards Jack’s house, I spare a glance at him. I’d given him back his shirt, and he has his chin in his hand, fingers over his lips thoughtfully, watching the world flicker by outside his window.
He speaks first.
“I broke up with Kayla.”
“Shocking. I thought you two were going to last forever.”
He shoots me a sardonic smirk. “Haven’t you heard? Good things never last.”
I switch lanes. Jack turns on the heater. It smells like skunk. He shuts it off quickly.
“What happened last night?” I ask.
“You don’t remember?”
“I remember being…I remember being scared. Shaking.”
“That’s all?”
I nod. Jack goes still. His eyes are unreadable chips of ice as they always are, but for a split second I swear I see them crack on the inside with pain.
***
She was scared. She didn’t enjoy any part of it. If she did, she would’ve remembered. But her fear overwrote her memories.
The wound is far deeper than I’d imagined.
I watch her face as she drives, hands white on the steering wheel. She’s waiting, confused, trying to piece the blanks together in her mind. She blocked it out. Last night was too much like the time that caused the wound. I want to tell her I was trying to make her feel better, or tell her that I was trying to help (liar, you were taking advantage, just like he did).
In the sober light of morning, what I’ve done hits me with petrifying acidity. I forced a kiss on a drunk girl who’d been forced upon before. I’d touched a girl terrified of being touched at all. I lost control. I, Jack Hunter, the one person who keeps calm and cool and collected at all times, lost all control. And it hurt Isis so bad she blocked it from her memory.
It’s better if she doesn’t remember.
***
But the cracks fill in, icing over again, and Jack shrugs lightly.
“You were pretty drunk. Some guy with a disturbing mask jumped out at you from a corner. You were shaking fairly hard for the rest of the night.”
“And why was I wearing your shirt?”
“You bumped into someone while dancing and spilled coke on it. It was sticky. So I offered you my shirt, and you washed your suit off and left it to dry on the floor.”
It sounds like something I’d do. I nod.
“Makes sense.”
***
She pulls up to my house, and I get out and hang in the window.
“Take care of Kayla in the next few days,” I say. “She’ll need you.”
“Since when did you start caring about her?”
She’s important to you. So I care.
I don’t say that. I shrug and lie, instead.
“I know what it’s like. Breaking up. And GHB.”
“Client of yours get too creepy?”
“Just a bit.”
My eyes find her neck, and my breath hitches. There, just below her jaw, is a soft red hickey.
“Something wrong?” She asks.
If she doesn’t look up and use a mirror to see under her chin, she won’t see it. I shake my head.
“Nothing. Thanks for the ride.”
“Thanks for helping. With Avery. And for lending me your shirt. And…for dating Kayla. It made her really happy.”
It made you happy.
I smirk. “Anytime you want to give me another 200 dollars to go out with one of your friends, let me know.”
She snorts, and I step back and watch her pull away from the curb with something like regret festering in my chest. I tuck last night somewhere deep in my mind – lock it away for good. I’ll revisit it, when the longing gets too bad. But it doesn’t exist, any longer. It never happened. And that’s for the best.
I’m the only one who remembers.
And that’s for the best.
***
Northplains, Ohio, is a town full of secrets.
You’d think the boring Midwest wouldn’t have things like savage popular girls with baseball bats and shady events that happened in the past no one wants to talk about. But it’s got those by the truckload. Deception, revenge, lies. They all merge together like a vortex over the school, hanging heavy in the air on Monday.
Jack walks into the main hall, takes one look at me and Kayla on the bench, and walks right past us. Kayla, of course, bursts into tears. It took a lot of coaxing and chocolate on Sunday to convince her to come to school on Monday. I’m torn between my urge to punt him for making her cry, and knowing the breakup was the best thing for both of them. It was inevitable. A guy like Jack Hunter just doesn’t date girls his own age. That’s the general consensus around school. Of course Kayla only lasted two weeks! He’s Jack Hunter! He runs around town with rich girls in Porsches. He got early acceptance into Harvard, a fact Mr. Evans has taken to reminding every student of when they look like they’re slacking in study hall.
Jack Hunter is just meant for bigger and better things than Northplains, Ohio.
His legion of admirers makes a quick comeback. Poetry girl has piles of paper taped over his locker. The statue in the art room has the sheet taken off its head and it’s moved to the middle of the room again, the artist happily chipping away at the features. Dramaclub wailer primps and preens in front of the bathroom mirrors like a seven-year-old who’s just discovered her mother’s makeup. Jack’s cake plans are bigger and better than ever and going to be entered in a baking contest downtown instead of being thrown at Kayla. The girls have returned with an admirable vengeance.
Avery hasn’t come to school in three days. No one talks about her bat-wielding fury, so I can only assume she threatened them to keep them quiet. But people say she isn’t well. The official rumor is she’s sick, but I know better. She’s licking her wounds, trying to figure out which designer skirt will hide the tail between her legs when she finally does come back. It’s only a matter of time. Sometimes I feel sorry for her. But then I remember what she did, and I just feel sorry for her body parts.
I take deep breaths to calm my rage, and focus on something else. Mrs. Gregory drones on. I doodle her face on my paper and then gracefully draw a banana for a nose. I still can’t remember what happened that night at the party. I was pretty drunk, so it’s understandable, but I’ve been drunk a few times before, and though things were fuzzy I’d always remember bits and pieces. But the other night? Nothing. It’s a massive black blank smeared across my memory. I don’t slip up like that – my mind is a fantastically sexy piece of equipment I keep in tip-top condition. So why can’t I remember even a scrap of that night?
Kayla’s taken over Avery’s position as temporary queen bee. I watch her mope through the lunch line, the girls around her cooing sympathetically and insisting she’ll find someone better even as they shoot sultry glances at Jack from across the cafeteria. Jack eats alone, reading a book as he munches a sandwich. I wonder what the girls would do if they knew I’d worn his shirt? Probably put an apple in my mouth and roast me to suckling browned goodness. I’m ready to die, but I’m not ready to die with a fruit in my mouth. That’s a whole other ballgame.
“What’s a whole other ballgame?” Wren asks, sliding his stray across from me and sitting.
“Ah, nothing.” I wave him off. “So what’s up with you, my majestic prez? Busy making peace treaties with Iran? Scouring the globe for alternative energy sources?”
“Making sure Avery comes back to slightly less power around the school. You’d be surprised how many teachers she has under her sway.”
“No surprise at all. I’ve seen how she works.”
“Hopefully she’ll have the sense not to work for a while,” he sighs. “I really don’t want to go to Evans about the GHB.”
“Or what happened that night in middle school.”
Wren’s eyes flash behind his glasses. “That was a bluff.”
“And you huffed and you puffed, and you bluffed the house down.”
Wren watches me for a moment before lowering his voice to a bare murmur.
“She was our friend.”
I look up from my hot dog. “Who?”
“Sophia,” Wren continues. “Jack, Sophia, and I. We were best friends in elementary school. We lived next to each other. We played on the same street, in each other’s yards. Every summer and winter break we were together, for days on end. It was the happiest time of my life.”
He inhales, and pushes his tray away.
“Avery was on the outskirts. She’d come over sometimes, since she was Sophia’s best friend. She wasn’t anything like who she is now. The old Avery was loud, and bossy, but kind. She’d do anything to make Sophia laugh. She hated Jack – but I always knew that was because she liked him and also didn’t like the way Sophia liked him. She was jealous of him getting Sophia’s attention, and jealous of Sophia getting his. She was caught in the middle and it ate away at her as we got older, I think.”
I try not to move, or breathe too noisily. The last thing I want to do is jolt him out of the story. Wren looks up.
“There’s something I want to show you. After school. Can you drive us there?”
I nod, and he smiles.
“Good. I’ll see you then. I’ve got a Run for Charity to organize, so, I better go.”
“Later,” I try to sound casual. I watch him leave the cafeteria, the curiosity eating me alive.
***
After school, Wren instructs me on where to go. He leads me to the airport, almost all the way in Columbus. After a few more turns, we’re in an airport-adjacent suburb, complete with cracked road, constant overhead noise from the planes as they go rumbling by, and faded yellow grass yard. Chipped paint houses and trash line the streets. A pair of tennis shoes hangs mournfully from a power line above. I park, and follow Wren. He leads me up the stairs of a tiny, two-story house with clean, yet old-looking windows. The porch is weather-beaten and strewn with plastic kid’s toys. A woman answers the door, peering through the screen.
“Wren!” Her face lights up. “Come in, come in!”
“Thanks, Mrs. Hernandez.”
“Is this a friend?”
“Yeah, she’s helping me at the food bank.”
“Oh, how nice.” Mrs. Hernandez wipes her hands on her apron and holds one out to me. “I’m Belina. It’s good to meet you.”
“Isis. Nice to meet you too.”
“Well, come in! Don’t just stand there in the cold!”
She ushers us into the tiny house. It smells like spicy meat and fresh laundry. A porcelain image of Mary hangs from almost every wall, and the couches and chairs and tables are shabby, but clean. Two kids race by, screaming and chasing each other with toilet brushes, using them like swords. Mrs. Hernandez snaps something in Spanish at them and they cower and immediately run into the bathroom.
“Sorry about that.” Mrs. Hernandez smiles. “I’ve been baking tostadas all day and letting them play with whatever.”
“As long as they don’t wave those swords around the food,” Wren jokes. She laughs, and motions for us to come into the kitchen.
“Would you like some juice? I have milk, too.”
“No, it’s alright. We’re just here for a moment. I wanted to know if you could get me your WIC paperwork. I need the pin on it and I was in the neighborhood, so I figured I’d drop by.”
“Of course! One second.”
She shuffles upstairs. Wren turns to me and sweeps his arm around.
“It’s cozy, isn’t it? Four bedrooms. Three baths. Not bad for a single mom with two mouths to feed.”
“It’s nice, but I don’t understand –”
“She works as a maid. Almost minimum wage.”
“So how does she get the mon –”
“Jack.”
I immediately start choking on nothing. “What?”
“He sends the money. Through me. To Belina, I’m a student who works with the food bank’s outreach program to supply funds to single mothers. But in truth it’s only her who gets the money.”
“But why –”
“I don’t know what Jack does exactly to get this money,” Wren interrupts coolly. “But I have an idea. If only someone could confirm it for me, I’d be very grateful.”
I bite my lip. “I can’t. He made me promise, Wren. He has my voice on tape –”
“I understand. That’s more than enough. Thank you for confirming my suspicions.”
“You can’t tell him you know.”
Wren chuckles. “Do I look like I have a death wish?”
“So –” I lower my incredulous voice. “So why Belina? What did she do?”
“It’s not what she did. It’s what Jack did.”
It dawns on me, a slow crawl of illuminating light-thought.
“Whatever he did that time in middle school. That’s linked to Belina?”
Wren nods. I’m about to ask another question when Belina trundles down the stairs. Wren makes a show of checking her papers and making small talk. So the money’s not just for Sophia. He lied. But why? Because he didn’t want me to know? Why the hell would Jack feel he owes Belina money? It’s a nice thing to do, but it has to have a reason. I feel like I’m missing some huge part, the one clockwork gear in the middle that’ll connect all the others and make them move in tandem.
Wren and I take our leave, Belina waving from the porch and my head filled with more questions than ever. Wren won’t answer any more of them, keeping his mouth shut the entire way to his house.
I go home and scribble madly on paper like it will help me unravel the threads.
Two men hired by AveryBaseballbatSophiaWren with cameraJackBelina Belina moneyJackAveryWren fear SophiaJack Jack jack Jack Jack???jack
Sophia
Sophiais important
Jackloves her
My stomach twists.
Jack lovesher
***
There’s a sad finality as Thanksgiving approaches. People start freaking about college application deadlines. Teachers nag us to finish them and turn them in. The weather gets bitter-cold, the last of the trees shedding their golden fall leaves. The piles turn to mulch, and mulch turns to dirt the winter-fall rains wash out of the gutters and streets. Nothing is pretty anymore – gray skies and gray earth and gray, naked trees shivering in the breezes.
After two weeks, Kayla’s conquered the act of looking at Jack without bursting into tears. Wren was there with a box of tissue on her way to mastery, though, and for that she smiles at him more and even sits with him and I at lunch. Something’s brewing between them, and it makes me smile knowingly, because even if they are two hopeless nerd idiots, they are my hopeless nerd idiots, and I only want the best for anything of mine.
Avery’s comeback was a lot more anticlimactic then we all thought it’d be. She just showed up one day for school, dressed in her same clothes and with the same savage smile on. The girls flocking around Kayla instantly swarmed back to her, Kayla not included. A surge of pride ran through me when Kayla turned her back on Avery’s motion for her to come over. Kayla laced her arm in mine and we strutted away like the bad bitches we are.
Jack hasn’t looked at me, much. Which isn’t weird, since I know I’m a maggot on his shoe and all, but it’s a little odd he doesn’t like being in the same room as me, either. World History is the worst – he’ll make excuses to go to the nurses, and most days he’ll just straight up play hooky and never show for class. But I see him walking around campus and going to other classes. It’s only the class we share he never shows up for. I’d confront him about it, but I’m still torn about what really happened that night. His explanation made sense, but it didn’t ring true. It didn’t feel right.
And I’m bored. God, so bored. Now that we aren’t warring, my days are filled with nothing but homework and staring at teacher foreheads, wondering where they got their worst zits when they were my age.
I sit in Evans’ office, serving the last of my detention. One more day and I’m free of grading his easy-peasy papers and watching his balding head shine in the light of his self-inflicted glory.
“So, Isis.” He clears his throat. “The deadline for Yale’s application is next week.”
“I’m not going to an Ivy, Evans. We’ve discussed this previously. To death.”
“There’s no point to life if you don’t go to a good college,” he insists.
“Have you watched the Food Network recently? Eating is a fantastic reason for living.”
“If I may be completely honest with you, Isis, college is mostly for drinking and crying,” he says. I smother a laugh, and he becomes all business again. “But where you decide to go to drink and cry sometimes gets you far. Like, for instance, Harvard. You can get a mediocre grade in a mediocre-earning field and get a degree but it will be a Harvard degree, you see? It’ll speak volumes more than an Ohio State degree about your level of commitment.”
“And snobbery,” I mutter.
“Regardless,” he talks over me. “It’s too late. I’ve already applied you for Harvard, Yale, and Stanford.”
“What?” I bristle. “How –”
“Your father was very accommodating. He only wants the best for you, and provided all your personal information.”
“But, my required essay –”
“I pulled a few spectacularly funny yet poignant and observant essays from your English and World History classes. They fit nicely.”
“My SAT scores –”
He holds up a paper. “Your father informed me you took the ACT before you left Florida, at his behest. You never got the scores because you moved, but your aunt sent them along. Take a look.”
Four massive, black numbers glare back at me; 32, 35, 33, and 9
“Exemplary scores across the board! Marvelous. You must have been in a much better state of mind for that test.”
“I can’t –” I’m speechless. “Where do you get off deciding where I should go to college?”
“Your father also told me you’re a particularly dutiful daughter, and that your mother is going through a rough patch in life. Trust me when I say I understand –”
“Do you?” I snarl. “I doubt that, baldy.”
He smiles patiently. “I had a father who was ill. Cancer. I stayed behind for three years while my friends went off to college to take care of him. He kept telling me to leave, but I couldn’t bring myself to. When he died the guilt that I couldn’t save him crushed me. But the way he told me he was proud of me – me, the boy who worked gas station night shifts – that he was proud of me, that made me feel even guiltier.”
I go quiet, my rage simmering instead of bubbling. I had no idea Evans had a life like that.
“So what, you tell me your whole sobby life story and I feel sorry for you and decide to go Stanford, is that it?” I ask quietly.
“No. I just wanted to tell you that I understand. I know what it’s like, to be kept against your will, even if your heart wants to stay. You’ve written the idea of going out of state completely. You’re willing to settle for a school that wouldn’t challenge you, just to take care of someone you love.”
I clench my fist around the armchair. Evans smiles.
“Sometimes, we can’t do the things we want to do for ourselves. Sometimes we wait for someone else to do them. You can’t always wait like that. You have to seek out change on your own. But in the meantime, I had to step in.”
I snort. He presses on.
“Even if you get accepted, you don’t have to go. Choose whatever path you like. But I can rest easy now, knowing at least you can see the open paths before you.”
The bell rings. I put my pen down and gather my stuff. I can feel Evans staring at me like a massive, balding elephant who smells. Like a poop-covered busybody.
I stop at the door and look over my shoulder.
“Thanks. I guess.”
“Consider it an apology for the pictures.”
“It doesn’t make up for it. You’d need like, a million cakes and a dozen clones of Johnny Depp to even begin to make up for that.”
“There’s a very good cloning program at Duke –”
I politely scream UGH and slam the door shut behind me.
-14-
3 Years
22 Weeks
4 Days
Knife-kid comes up to me nearly four weeks after Avery’s party – right before Thanksgiving break. We’re watching a movie in English, bags of chips and trays of cupcakes littering the counter from the last-day-before-break party Mr. Teller let us have. It’s dark, and people are whispering and laughing and making plans for break and not paying attention to the movie at all.
Knife-kid slides into the seat beside me.
“Hello, Your Pointy Highness,” I say. “What brings you to the neck of my new girl woods?”
“You aren’t new girl anymore.”
“Oh? So what am I?”
“Weird girl.”
I laugh. “Better than fat girl.”
“They call you that, too. But weird is the most used.”
I smirk. We watch the TV for a few seconds before he starts talking again.
“You and Jack like each other.”
I hunch my shoulders and squeeze my face together. “Are you high?”
“I saw you at the Halloween party. You danced together, and then you pulled him into that room.”
I feel my mouth drop open.
“I did not!”
“I saw,” He insists. “I’m only bringing it up because Jack’s cool. He’s the only one who’s never been a shithead to me in this place. And he seems kind of down. Lately. Ever since that party.”
“Down?” I sputter. “Jack? His face muscles have atrophied – he doesn’t know how to make expressions, let alone look ‘down’.”
Knife-kid shrugs. “He just seems bummed. You and him are the only two I don’t fantasize about stabbing. So. I thought you should know.”
“Oookay, nice talking to you. I gotta go. To India.”
I make a bathroom excuse and escape, running down the hall. Jack is in P.E. right now – I know because Kayla’s been chanting his schedule in her sleep like some weird ex-boyfriend purging ritual. I’m fueled by rage and at least seven cupcakes made by someone’s talented mother. How dare Jack lie to me! I mean, I know lying was standard issue back in the day when we were still warring, and maybe it’s also standard issue for everyday high school life, but c’mon! I trusted him! Bad move, but I still did it! I’m definitely not panicking about what actually went on in that room, I’m just concerned. Somewhat. And also making high-pitched eeeeee sounds.
I burst out of the front doors. Cold air nips at me as I run to the field, where the P.E. class is playing a lazy game of dodge ball. People stand still to purposely get hit so they can be out and sit in the grass and text and talk. Jack is lying on his back in the grass, looking up at the clouds. I march over and graciously kick his ribs.
“Ow! Shit –” He hisses and sits up. His glare stops short when he realizes it’s me.
“What happened in that room?”
“Isis –”
“What happened. In that. Room!” I shout. The P.E. teacher is too busy talking with the football coach to notice, but everyone else looks at me warily.
Jack runs a hand through his hair and breathes out, slowly. Now that we’re close I can see the dark circles under his eyes. When did he get those? And why does he look skinnier? His cheekbones and jaw stick out unhealthily.
“It was nothing,” Jack whispers. “Okay? Nothing. You just fell asleep.”
“Knife-kid said he saw me dragging you to that room. I was drunk. I can’t remember. So you better tell me the truth, or I swear to you, it’ll be a war all over again –”
“What do you want me to say, Isis?” He growls. “Do you want me to be the bad guy? Do you think I took advantage of you?”
I slap him, but he recovers quickly. The entire class goes silent, the dodge ball game ceasing at the sound of the slap to watch.
“Tell me what you did –”
“I didn’t do anything!” He shouts. “I didn’t do anything, I swear on my life!”
His constant unfeeling, low-voiced mask is broken. Nothing about him is calm or contained. He’s not the Ice Prince, anymore. He’s furious; his eyebrows tight and his mouth drawn in a cruel frown.
“I can’t trust what you say anymore,” I say.
“Then don’t! Don’t trust me. Don’t trust anyone! That’s the way you like it, right? That’s the way you’ve been moving through life for the past three years, right? It’s obviously working for you! So keep doing it. Have fucking fun trusting nobody for the rest of your life!” He roars.
His words sear like cold fire across my heart, leaving behind instant, dark scars. I run. I turn on my heel in one fluid motion and run. Everything is numb. I can only barely hear Jack calling after me. I’m underwater, deep, deep beneath the ocean of the past. Jack’s voice turns to Nameless’.
Ugly.
Did you think that’s what this was? Love?
I slam the driver’s side of my car shut and start the engine. I blast past the security booth and barrel home. Stoplights are mercifully green, and the ones that aren’t, I run through.
Ugly.
I don’t remember parking. I don’t remember getting out or running upstairs or locking my door.
I don’t remember what happened that night.
That’s what you get for trusting someone.
***
Mom is understanding. She knows this is my breakdown. The last one was just a warm-up. She understands breakdowns better than my aunt does, and much better than Dad does. She knows there are tiny breakdowns leading up to the big one. This is my Big One. I sleep for days. I don’t shower. My hair is a knotted mess. Mom brings me up food sometimes, but I pick at it and leave the rest. She’s so happy to help me like I’ve helped her. Sometimes I cry. Sometimes I don’t cry and the don’t-cry times are somehow worse than the crying ones. Sometimes Mom holds me, sometimes I lock her out. Kayla visits me, bringing snacks and homework and talking happily about nothing at all and it helps. Her mindless chatter helps more than sleeping, more than crying. It reminds me I’m not the only one with problems, that Kayla’s life is fraught with problems that, to her, are just as big – a missing blush color at Sephora, how she forgot there was a sale at Macy’s she’d been waiting for a year on, how her little brother constantly gets into her bras and stretches them out by putting them on his head. She mentions Jack, and I snap at her to never mention him again.
“Geez, I know you hate him, but saying his name isn’t a crime, okay?”
“It might turn into one,” I mutter.
“Is he…is he why you’re so sad?”
I scoff. “As if. And I’m not sad. I have strep throat.”
“You have a lovely strep voice.”
I glower, and she smiles, handing me another cookie.
“Okay, I gotta go. Mom wants me to watch spitglob tonight while she goes out. Text me, okay?”
My anger fades. “Yeah. Thanks for coming over.”
“It’s the least I can do.” She hugs me, and then wrinkles her nose. “You smell. But I love you.”
“I love you too.” I grin.
I watch her go through the window, half wanting her to come back and half wanting her to never come back. After everything I’ve put her through, through the nasty remarks and my hidden jealousy, she’s still my friend. I’m a less-than-stellar person, but she’s stuck by me.
The days blur. It feels like I’ve been out of school for weeks, but it’s only been a few days. When I’m not sleeping, I research Northplains on Google, looking for any hint of what Jack did. The newspapers archives from back then don’t help. I don’t even know what I’m looking for. Two men. A baseball bat. Something that scared Avery and Wren into silence. Did Jack beat them? But why would that convince him to give Belina money? Was Belina the wife of one of the men?
Belina was the wife. It all falls into place. She was the wife of one of the men Jack took a baseball bat to -
Mom screams, the sound echoing from downstairs and into my room. My blood goes cold, pumps slow through my body.
Mom doesn’t scream like that except in her nightmares.
“GET AWAY FROM ME!”
My feet fly down the stairs, jumping the last few and landing painfully but pain doesn’t matter right now, all that matters is getting to the door, getting to her, fighting off whoever is making her scream like that –
“I’LL CALL THE COPS!”
“C’mon, Georgia. We both know you won’t. Just be sensible about this.”
Mom clutches the door for support, body twisted in terror around it. The man at the door is stocky, in khakis and a gray shirt, with a black beard and the kindest face I’ve ever seen – crevassed with smile lines and crow’s feet. But I know the truth behind it. And it sickens me. The man sees me and his face lights up in a smile.
“Isis! Good to see you –”
I pull Mom away and slam the door in his face and lock it. She trembles, terrified, and clings to me as I lead her to the couch to sit down. I pull the curtains, lock the back door and windows, and grip my cellphone tightly as I approach the door to check if he’s gone. Nope – his fat, bulky ass still looms through the mottled glass of the door.
“Isis, c’mon! Georgia, tell her to open the door! I just want to talk!”
“No!” I shout. “Nobody’s talking, Leo. Leave us alone!”
“You can’t be serious! I drove all the way up here for a friend. I’ve been on the road for a whole week! I’m dusty, sweaty. Just thought I’d stop by, since I was in the neighborhood. Could use a glass of water. How about a little hospitality?”
“How about you clear off my front steps before I call the cops?”
“I’ve done nothing wrong, you little bitch!” Leo’s voice switches from amiable to irritated. “Now open this door and let me talk to your mother!”
“This is your last warning, Leo. Leave, or I’ll call the cops.”
“This is an adult problem, not for snotty kids. So I’m only gonna tell you once – you open this goddamn door, or I’m breaking it.”
I suddenly can’t breathe.
“C’mon, bitch! Open up!”
He knocks on the door, hard, and the knocking turns to pounding, and Mom screams and covers her ears. With every hard pound she flinches and screams louder, burying herself into the couch, convulsing like each second of sound is a physical blow to her. This is not better. This is not healing. He’s hurting her all over again just by being here. The slams get louder, and I grab a heavy porcelain statuette from the table with one hand and start to dial 911 with the other.
“911, what is your emergency?”
“There’s – my name is Isis Blake,” I hate the shake in my voice, the shake in my hands. “1099 Thorton Avenue, Northplains Ohio. There’s a man trying to break into my house.”
“I understand. I need you to lock all doors and windows and get into a room.”
Leo roars, using his shoulder to pound the door down, like a furious bull.
