Ivory White : A House of Misfits Standalone

by Cambria Hebert

  “May I have this dance?” I inquired, offering a quick smile.

  It was over before she could react, but her giggles floated behind as I continued to run.

  “Thief!” my pursuer roared. “Stop him!”

  Just my luck, a uniformed officer heard the man’s pleas, and soon I was being trailed by more than one.

  Another crush of people tried to slow me down, but I used the side of the building as a personal sidewalk before dropping onto the other side of the people and slipping into an alleyway.

  “That way!” someone yelled, and I briefly glanced over my shoulder.

  Big mistake. Looking back always slows you down.

  The meaty hand of the man I’d robbed slammed down onto my shoulder, his fingers much nimbler than the ones of the cold wind trying to claim me back at the park.

  Twisting away, I pushed ahead, but I could practically feel him breathing down my neck. A black Mercedes pulled out of a parking garage but stopped partway on the street. The footsteps chasing me slowed a bit.

  I sped up, leaping into the air and sliding across the hood of the car like it was a Slip ‘N Slide in the middle of summer. My leg buckled when I hit the ground, so I rolled with it, bounced up, and kept on running. The Mercedes honked, then drove off, another, much larger SUV pulling out after it.

  The moment of distraction was all I needed. Dipping unnoticed into the parking garage, I dove behind a large cement pillar, my ass hitting the pavement and my lungs heaving for breath.

  My beanie seemed to stick against the concrete when I leaned my head back, stretching my neck to allow in more air.

  “He went that way!” the man yelled nearby, and I stiffened but didn’t move.

  “He’s gone, sir.” Another voice spoke, this one out of breath.

  “He just robbed me blind in broad daylight!” the angry guy roared. “Do something!”

  “Unfortunately, there isn’t much we can do. This stuff happens a lot in the city. Next time, I would suggest not carrying cash, but if you do, put it in a pouch or something against your body so they can’t access it so easily.”

  “You implying this is my fault?”

  I grinned.

  “Of course not, sir.”

  “Hey, fuck off!”

  The slight scuffle of feet made me perk up and itch to glance around the pillar.

  “That’s enough, sir!” The officer’s voice became much more official. Fig never sounded like this.

  Fig was a moron.

  “If you don’t calm down, we will have to bring you in.”

  “I’m the victim!”

  I grinned again.

  A few minutes later, the party of pursuers broke up, and I was left with nothing but the sound of my own heavy breathing and the occasional car exiting the garage.

  When I shifted, a scrape of metal clashing lightly against metal made me look down. I’d forgotten about the black bag strapped against my back.

  Pulling it around and unzipping the top, I wrapped my hands around the cold cylinder of a spray can. The nozzle had a splattering of paint all over it already, and the weight of the can in my palm felt right.

  Glancing around, I made sure no one was there. Once certain I was in fact alone, I raised the can.

  Whoosh, whoosh. The light, familiar sound of spraying paint was somehow cathartic and exactly what I needed.

  I lost myself for an unknown amount of time, switching between the few cans I’d packed, and just letting my hands and emotions work together. It was almost as if I were painting blind, guided by my innermost thoughts and sometimes my innermost demons.

  I didn’t always paint this way. It used to scare me how I would essentially check out and then come back to a piece of art I couldn’t even recall creating. The time it first happened, I didn’t even believe I’d been the one to paint, but the splatters on my fingers and jeans were undeniable proof.

  Now I let my mind dump whatever it needed to, knowing that all the emotion locked inside me had to come out and this was the least painful way.

  Sometime later, my arm dropped, the dull exhaustion in my shoulder a familiar ache. The world came back in a haze at first, as though I were leaving one place and arriving at another. My brain was fuzzy and my mind sluggish, but soon I was firmly back in the parking garage, fully present and staring at the empty cans littering the ground at my feet.

  Shit. Being careless was a rookie move. I knew better than this. Especially here in an unfamiliar place.

  What the hell is wrong with me today?

  Kneeling, I packed up the empty cans, the metal balls inside clinking around as I stuffed them away. My finger ached from pressing on the nozzle, and dots of red, white, blue, and black were splattered all over my stiff hand.

  Why these colors? What had I suddenly become possessed to paint—and practically in the middle of me being chased by police?

  Zipping the bag, I flung it across my back and straightened, lifting my gaze. Every single emotion I’d been running from earlier rushed back tenfold. My vision blurred a little, then refocused on the art my hands and mind had created.

  Skin so fair. Hair as black as night. Lips the color of a blood-red rose. The blue of her eyes identical to the blue ribbon tied in her hair.

  “Snow White,” I whispered, my voice startling. Shaking my head, I corrected myself. “Ivory White.”

  Indeed.

  A storybook princess but in real flesh and blood.

  I could steal and steal again. I could nearly get arrested, start fights, and walk through a world I didn’t belong.

  I knew we didn’t fit.

  I painted her anyway.

  No.

  I didn’t paint her.

  My hands had been mere tools for my heart. For my soul.

  I stared at the artwork done in poor lighting on a crude cement wall. Even like this, she was beautiful. Even like this, you could tell she was practically royalty among men.

  Exhaustion wrapped around me like a dark cloak, enclosing me in black and white. But no matter how tight that cloak squeezed, I still saw her in color.

  21

  Ivory

  * * *

  I have discovered that cleaning is not for me. In fact, cleaning is hard. And gross. And time-consuming.

  I would ask how so much grime could accumulate, but one only had to remember the men sitting around the breakfast table this morning and glance at the dog’s chewed toothbrush sitting with the humans, and well… the question was no longer a question.

  I decided I would give my cleaning staff a raise.

  While I was always grateful for them, I’d never been this grateful.

  In the midst of spraying and scrubbing and sneezing—my word, cleaning supplies were horribly pungent, and they filled the air with an unhealthy chemical mist—I’d made a decision.

  The only decision I really could at this point.

  I was going home. Back to the Upper East Side where I’d always lived and the place where I belonged. What other choice did I have really?

  If I ceased to exist, then how would I live?

  The hunter said to leave and never come back. Where would I go? What would I do? No money. No clothes. No home or friends. No food.

  And let’s be honest here. Should I really trust the word of a man who cut off my hair, ripped off my nail, and almost killed me?

  Not exactly trust-inspiring.

  But he didn’t kill you, and he could have.

  I scrubbed a little harder with that thought. Pain shot through my hand, making me wince, so I sat back onto my heels and gazed down at my throbbing finger. It was still bandaged, though the covering was half falling off and damp from my work. My wrist was still tender from my fall even if there was no visible bruising or swelling.

  All my exposed fingers were red and felt raw from the scrubbing, my knees ached because I’d kneeled on them half the day, and my lower back burned from the strain.

  A heavy sigh moved through me. With palms resting on
my knees, I gazed around the tiny bathroom. There was a definite improvement. This place was almost usable.

  Tossing the sponge down into the small bowl, I climbed to my feet. Everything was still old. The tiles were still tiny and cracked with some missing. There was no storage at all, and the window seemed awfully fragile.

  But everything was clean and sparkling now. Well, as much as it could sparkle.

  The pedestal sink was spotless, the window smudge-free. The floor and bathtub glistened. Not bad for a girl with very little domestic experience.

  “Just one thing left to do…” I remembered, reaching into the bag hanging on the door handle. “Beau,” I called from the doorway. “Beau, could you please help me?”

  A few seconds ticked by, and I worried that maybe he had his headset on and wouldn’t be able to hear, but then he appeared, red hair ruffled and green eyes wide. “What happened? Did you hurt yourself?”

  “Me? You act like I’m clumsy,” I mused, laughing a little.

  He didn’t laugh with me. It was kind of rude.

  Thrusting the shower curtain I’d picked up at him, I pointed. “Could you help me hang this. I’m not tall enough.”

  A dumbfounded look crossed his face. Dividing his eyes between the curtain and me, he echoed, “A shower curtain?”

  “I mean, don’t you think it’s silly you guys have the bar thingy to hang it on but no curtain? Water gets everywhere when you shower! Do you know how hard it was to scrub all the water splatters and soap off everything?”

  Beau blinked. Once. Twice. The third time, he glanced around as if noticing the bathroom for the first time. “Woah,” he whispered, staring. “You cleaned.”

  Resting my still-tired hands on my hips, I asked, “Well, what did you think I was doing most of the day?”

  He shrugged.

  “Well!” I demanded. “What do you think? Looks nice, right?”

  He nodded, gaze fixing on the small window ledge, which was now lined with five different-colored cups. Each cup had a color-coordinated toothbrush sticking out of the top.

  “Which one is mine?” he asked.

  “Red.” I confirmed, pointing down the line. “Green for Fletcher, yellow for Neo, and blue for Earth and Snort.”

  Beau’s brows furrowed. “Earth and Snort are sharing a cup?”

  “Well, he keeps saying Snort is his,” I refuted. Served him right to share with a slobbery dog.

  Beau pointed to a pink cup and toothbrush. “Whose is that one, then?”

  “Mine,” I said.

  That surprised him, and I suddenly felt embarrassed. “It’s not like I’m staying. But dental hygiene is important. I’ll take it with me when I leave later.”

  When he said nothing, I pointed to the shower curtain still in his hands. “Can you hang it?”

  “Uh, Earth might not like—”

  “Hang the curtain, Beau,” I ordered, my voice calm and austere. It was the same voice I used to conduct major meetings for Reflections.

  I always got what I wanted.

  Today was no different.

  Minutes later, the yellow and white striped curtain hung straight, all the way down to the inside of the clawfoot tub.

  Clapping, I beamed. “Thank you, Beau. It looks wonderful!”

  “Can I go now?”

  I nodded.

  When he was gone, I picked up all my cleaning supplies, including the ones I used to dust and sweep the floor out in the main room and put them into a bag to sit neatly in the corner.

  Neo still wasn’t back, and now that I didn’t have cleaning or thinking to distract myself, my mind drifted to him continuously.

  It was time for me to go.

  I really wouldn’t get to see him again.

  Glancing down, I took in Neo’s shorts and my own T-shirt. I’d taken off his flannel before I’d started scrubbing. I couldn’t possibly go home like this. It would be shocking enough when I walked into my building looking like I’d slept on the street!

  I had time for a quick shower. It would be better to rinse off the grime and cleaning supplies anyway. They could give me a rash.

  This time, I turned on the spray before I stepped into the tub. The water pressure was dismal, the heat of the water barely passable, but still, it felt wonderful to wash off. Since I’d stocked the shower with body wash, shampoo, and conditioner, I made good use of it all, deciding to wash my hair.

  Frankly, at this point, it couldn’t look any worse.

  When my skin was pink from a good scrub and my hair was dripping, I turned off the water and used a too-small, scratchy towel to dry off.

  There was no hair dryer (these men were savages), so I toweled it off as much as possible, then wrapped up the chopped strands, piling the towel on my head.

  Without any choice, I pulled my running leggings back on, my sneakers without socks, and picked up my T-shirt, wrinkling my nose. How could I put it back on? It was smelly and sweaty and… ew.

  Making a split-second decision, I tossed it into the trash and pulled on the flannel, buttoning it up over my body. Since I was going home, it didn’t matter if I tossed that shirt.

  And if Neo didn’t want me to borrow this permanently, then he should have come home and told me himself!

  Indignant, I reapplied a bandage on my finger but couldn’t reach my neck, so I left it bare. Taking the towel off my head, I finger-combed the damp strands as best I could, which really wasn’t good at all, and moved to gather up my things.

  I didn’t have any things.

  Guess this was it, then. Time to go.

  Odd how since all of this happened, I’d done nothing but long for home, for comfort and safety. Now that I’d made the decision to go back there, I was suddenly stalling.

  What is wrong with you, Ivory White?

  Shaking myself, I left the bathroom, carrying the wet towel.

  “Beau, where is the laundry basket?” I asked, popping into the living room.

  He didn’t even look up from the computer monitor, but he pointed. Wandering off in the direction he pointed, I found the basket in the far corner of the room.

  Their laundry looked like a mountain of unwashed fabric.

  My nose wrinkled. Why are they like this?

  After everything they’d done for me, I couldn’t leave them with all this soiled laundry. Nearby was a large empty bag, so I shoved all of the clothes and towels into it, grimacing and trying to touch as little of it as possible the entire time.

  The bag was half the size of me when I was done, but I tied it closed and appreciated my handiwork.

  “Where’s the washing machine?” I asked Beau.

  His head still didn’t tilt up. “Down the block.”

  “You mean you don’t have a washing machine?” I was horrified.

  “Down the block,” he repeated.

  I thought back to the laundromat I passed on the way from the corner store. Is that what he meant? Did they take their laundry down the street to wash it in a… communal washing machine?

  The giant jar of quarters sitting near the now-empty basket was basically a giant unspoken yes.

  I’d never been to a laundromat before. I’d never actually used a washing machine before. Or a dryer. I sent my clothes out for dry-cleaning, and my housekeepers did the other wash.

  The only reason I knew the quarters were for the laundromat was because I saw it in a movie once. I’d thought it was just for the film. I didn’t realize it was like for real.

  Glancing at the bag beside me, I thought, Maybe I could just send them some cash as a thank-you and they could send all this out for cleaning.

  Almost immediately, I dismissed the idea. Neo would be insulted. Handing someone money seemed awfully ingenuine. Funny how I never thought that until now.

  “I’m going to the laundromat,” I called, dragging the giant bag of stuff along with me. I didn’t realize dirty clothes weighed so much!

  Beau merely grunted, and I grabbed the cap I’d borrowed from him ear
lier and pulled it over my still-damp hair.

  Halfway down the block, my muscles gave out, and I ended up dragging the bag the rest of the way. No one even offered assistance. What a strange world this was. There were people everywhere, but it seemed everyone was alone. No one smiled or offered a hand. The only interaction I’d had with anyone here had been when they were snapping or snarling at me.

  Earth fit right in.

  But not Neo… Neo isn’t like this.

  Stop. Thinking. About. Him.

  The laundromat smelled of soap and was filled with the sound of running machines. There were so many of them. They were lined against the walls and much bigger than I expected. I stared for long minutes, suddenly overwhelmed and unsure of what to do.

  A woman in a huge puffy coat, hat, and fingerless gloves shoved inside, brushed right past, and took up position at a nearby machine. I watched curiously as she dumped her laundry in, tossed in a pod-looking thing, and shut the door. Then she inserted some coins and pushed a couple buttons. The machine started going almost instantly.

  Oh, well, that didn’t look too hard.

  “Got a staring problem?” she snapped, glaring at me.

  I jolted and turned away, choosing a machine at the opposite end of the place. I didn’t have any detergent, but there was a little vending machine that had some. I put in some money and then a little more to make sure I had enough.

  The laundry was gross, so I dumped the bag into the large machine, pleased when it all fit. It was a bigger load than the woman I’d watched put in earlier, so I put in a few extra pods of the soap to make sure it all got super clean.

  Once it was all in and closed up, I put in the money it asked for and followed the instructions on the machine for which button to hit.

  When the machine started up, I clapped for myself. A job well done always deserved some praise.

  “What do you think this is, The Price is Right?” the grumpy woman yelled.

  Maybe if she wore something less black and a little more flattering, she would be in a better mood.

  There was a big sign on the door that said Not Responsible for Stolen Laundry that made me pause. Did people really steal other people’s clothes? There was also a sign that read Do Not Leave Clothes Unattended.