Flawed

by Francette Phal

  “Haven’t made any.” Of course not. Why fuck for money when you can fuck for drugs? That’s so much better than having a roof over your head and food in your stomach.

  The sudden banging on the door causes me to jump. Dante? No, he has his own set of keys. I stare warily at the blue door, suddenly very grateful that I locked it. “Who’s that?”

  She giggles, her green eyes shuttered as she tries to focus on me. “Red wanted to come over.”

  “Damn it!” Red is my mother’s pimp and boyfriend. But I’m using the latter term rather loosely. He’s also bad news and I have no intention of sticking around to find out which one of his dark moods he’s going to share tonight. “Mom, we need to go…”

  Her head lolls back against the wall. “I need Red.”

  I wrap a hand around her bony arm and drag her to her feet. “That man doesn’t want you, Mom. He’s going to kill us both if we don’t get out of here.”

  I’m taken off guard as she wrenches her arm out of my hold and shoves at my chest hard enough to have me stumbling back a few feet. “You don’t know anything, you stupid bitch. Red…Red loves me, and he takes care of me, unlike your fucking ungrateful ass. He told me you tried to fuck him. Trying to come between me and him, just like always.” She stares at me like I’m her enemy, with such unmitigated hatred that I flinch. “You’re always parading your ass around him so he can leave me. But he don’t want you!” Her words are slurred but the venom behind them is enough. It would be easy to blame it on the drugs. But I stopped deluding myself a long time ago.

  Trying to understand my mother’s hatred, trying to figure out why she constantly chooses a man who physically and emotionally abuses her over me, the one person who has done everything to keep a goddamn roof over our heads, while she rolls around in her powdered stupor, is an exercise in futility. I could’ve left. Should have by now considering the fact that she doesn’t care one way or the other whether I stayed or left. But I can’t. It’s always been like this. As few as they might have been, I had memories of happier times with my mother.

  Carla has always been into drugs, so I can’t say that those memories weren’t tainted by her drug use. But it hadn’t been as bad as it is now. Back then, Carla had attempted at being a mother. There had been mornings when breakfast had been made and our dinners prepared when she’d been attempting to work to fight off the addiction and earn a decent living. I remember trips to the park in Grover Square where Dante and I had raced for the swings. I remember my mother seated at the park bench, alone and lonely, arms crossed over a reedy frame as though to protect herself against the sandpaper harshness of the world.

  She’d watched us, though, and she’d smiled despite the demons that haunted her. She smiled for us, at us. I remember living for those rare smiles. But my fondest memory was of the night she’d tucked me in just before heading out for her night shift at the hotel downtown. She had brushed my hair and placed the softest, sweetest kiss across my forehead and told me just how much she loved me. She’d whispered of her hopes for me, for me to become more than she was.

  My mother’s words echoed that night, and it echoes still despite everything that has occurred. And so maybe that is what’s keeping me here, unknowingly tethered to a memory, to the fleeing hope that the mother from that memory would return again.

  The banging at the door grows louder, insistent. Red’s booming voice jolts me out of my reverie. And it’s the demand in that voice that prompts my actions.

  “I’ll pay the rent. Just…just get him to pay for the light bill. And there’s no more food, you need grocery money for food.” I slip out of my right shoe easily enough because I never bother to tie the laces. I take out the rolled up wad of cash. There’s at least two grand in my hand. All my earnings for the last two months. Why carry all this cash with me? Well, because I have learned countless times before never to hide money in the apartment. My mother is like a bloodhound, regardless of how well I hid the money, she will find it and spend it on drugs, or worse, give it to Red.

  I count five crinkled twenties and set them on the table. It’s not going to go to the right place and a part of me knows I am contributing to the problem, enabling her habits. But this is my mother, if I didn’t take care of her, no one else would.

  “Don’t let him…” Hit you? Use you? Abuse you? “Take care of yourself, Mom,” I murmur, settling for that because it seems far more appropriate. But she’s already gone, stumbling toward the front entrance, ever so eager to embrace her abuser.

  I refuse to contemplate it any further as I race for the second bedroom to the right of the bathroom. Unlike the rest of the house where there is insistent chaos, this room is clean, everything in its place. I close the door behind me, pushing in the small lock of the doorknob to lock it. I find my schoolbag quickly enough. My books take up far too much space, but leaving them behind is not an option, so I shove whatever clothes will fit in the little space that’s left until it’s overstuffed. The zipper barely makes it and I know one wrong move and it’ll snap. But that’s the least of my worries as my heart jerks in my chest at the sound of Red’s voice that’s clearer now that my mother has opened the door. I can’t leave out of the front door now, so my next logical option is the window. It’s big enough for me to fit through. I work the latch, struggle to lift it and barely manage it minutes later as it finally cracks open and allows a chilling blast of cold air inside. I reach back to grab my bag and throw it out of the window without much thought. I follow it soon after, landing in a crouch on the fire escape.

  Embracing numbness like a dear friend, I slip the straps of my bag over my shoulders and make a dash for the building’s parking lot. I stare down at the extra set of car keys I swiped from the coffee table and find my mother’s beat-up, green Corolla that’s older than I am. I have a place to crash for the night. Sleeping in the car is not anything new. It’s better than staying in that apartment and being subjected to Red’s come-ons. He’s been hounding me since I was sixteen to be my pimp. A mother-daughter combo he called it. I made it clear to him that I wasn’t interested. But not clear enough since he never stopped asking.

  A week ago, he stopped asking and instead decided to let his hands do the talking. My mother had been out on one of her binges and I came home to find him there. He wanted me to suck him off and I told him to go fuck himself. He hadn’t liked that very much. He hit me. A backhanded smack across the face that had left me only seconds to react before he lunged on me. So I grabbed the closest thing I could find, a fork left out on the kitchen counter, and I stabbed him with it. I didn’t stick around after that, but his howling screams and threats had chased me all the way out of the apartment, down the three flights of stairs, and out of the front entrance of the building. That was the last time I saw Red. I know he’s out for blood. Mine specifically. But I’m not going to make it easy. I throw my bag on the passenger seat, put the key in the ignition and twist it, and to the surprise of absolutely no one, the engine remains quiet, refusing to turn over.

  “Come on…” I’m not going to breakdown now after holding it together this long. “You piece of shit, come on...” I blink rapidly to clear my blurry vision and blame the cold for the oncoming sniffles. I take a minute to draw in a breath and then another soon after that, the air in the car slices through my nasal passages like razor blades. Rubbing my cold hands together, I sweep them over my face, wiping away the tears in the process. “Get it together, Lacey. You’re stronger than this.” My pep talk lacks pep, but it works in getting me to turn the key again, slower this time, like the speed will somehow make a difference. But it appears it does work as I am rewarded with the congested wheezing of the engine sparking to life. “God, thank you!” I could not have gotten out of there fast enough.

  It’s a good forty-five minutes later before I feel it safe enough to drive into the faculty parking lot at Riverdale High School. I managed to dodge the security guard while he made his final rounds of the school campus and it’s not unti
l I see the disappearing taillights of the security car that I finally pull in behind the shadow of the blue dumpster. I don’t dare take a minute to think about my current predicament. I can’t do pity parties. I pull out my cell to check if Dante called. He hasn’t. No texts either. It’s not odd that he’ll go a day without talking to me, but it always worried me when I didn’t hear from him.

  Where are you? Call or text me. I’m not home.

  I press send and look at the phone a second longer after to see if he’ll reply. Nothing. I put it away. There’s plenty of homework to be done. I push back the driver’s seat, making as much room for myself as I can. I take out the first of my assignments from my bloated backpack and cross my legs beneath me, using my thighs as a table for the heavy calculus book. I lose myself in derivatives and by the time I’m done my fingers are icicles and my nose is a chill away from being frostbitten. I sniff, close my notebook in with my book and set it on the passenger seat. Needles attack my legs when I finally unfold them from their previous position and I stomp a few times to get rid of the painful sensation.

  I bring my hands to my mouth and breathe on them, hoping to chase away the cold.

  It’s nearing 2 a.m. and still no word from Dante. Tomorrow, I think, placing a hand over my mouth as I yawn. Tomorrow he’ll call and tell me he’s fine and that I should stop fussing like I always do. Dante isn’t much of an older brother, but he always has the best intentions, even when those intentions lead him to places he shouldn’t be. But we’ve both been scarred by the mistakes of our absentee mother. So I can’t blame him for wanting to crawl out of the mire and forget our upbringing. I am trying to do the same thing.

  The need for sleep is like sand in my eyes and stones on my eyelids, so I reach once again for my backpack and pull out the extra clothes I packed. The temperature has dropped considerably lower than when I arrived two hours ago and I’m sure it’s only going to continue dropping. I began layering my clothes, slipping on a sweater over a long-sleeved shirt, followed by another larger hooded sweater. I shimmy out of the skirt and fishnets and pull on a pair of sweatpants. They were Dante’s hand-me-downs. As much as I want to turn on the engine and blast the heat, I refrain. I only have a quarter tank of gas left and who knows how long it’s going to last me.

  Layered and somewhat warmer than I was a few minutes ago, I maneuver to the back of the car, readjust the driver’s seat so that the backrest slopes toward the steering wheel and pull on the hoodie on top of my sweater over my head. Using my jacket as my pillow, I curl into a fetal position, pulling my knees as tightly to my chest as I can. I try not to move. And thankfully, sleep falls on me like a thick down comforter and I drift into unconsciousness.

  Chapter Three

  Lacey

  When I open my eyes again, the sun is just breaking through the gray morning sky. My bones protest as I sit up. God, I ache. I stretch, crack my neck and back while staring groggily at the dashboard that reads 6:20. The janitor and kitchen staff are probably in by now. That means the back door will be open. I know this because I use that precise entrance to sneak in and out of school when I need to. Like now, for instance. I need to get inside and clean up before the first bell rings. I grab my backpack from the front seat and yank out the rest of the clothes inside, leaving them on the rear seat until later tonight.

  The weight is considerably lighter now and I’m able to easily slip it over my shoulder before exiting the car. I try to remain as unnoticeable as I can, running quickly from one side of the blue dumpster to the other where the school’s back entrance is located. I’ve done this enough times to know that the morning janitorial staff take out the trash around this time and always leave the door unlocked. I take a cautionary glance around before tugging the heavy, metal door open and disappearing inside. I don’t wait for anyone to find me as I race down the silent corridor and hook a right at the end toward another corridor that eventually leads me to a set of double doors and a flight of stairs.

  My locker is on the second floor in the science department, and luckily there still isn’t anyone around to question my early appearance. It takes me a minute to dial in the correct combination, not because I forgot it, but because my locker is temperamental that way. It usually takes at least five tries before I can open it, but today I do it in four. Yay me. I pull out the dark blue makeup bag that contains a toothbrush, one washcloth, a small bottle of body wash, and an even smaller tube of toothpaste and my deodorant. This little emergency bag is a lifesaver.

  With lit and drama class being on the other side of the building down on the first floor, I stuff the reading material for lit class in my bag along with my class journal before closing my locker shut.

  The lights in the girls’ locker room flicker for a few seconds after I flip the switch and they stabilize after a few minutes, the droning of the florescent bulbs harmonizing with the clangs and bangs of the radiator working to heat up the room. The heat feels amazing, and I can feel the chill thawing from my skin. I enter one of the ten stalls and pee, something I’ve been waiting to do since last night. When I’m done I double-check to make sure the main entrance to the locker room is locked before I start undressing. Shoes come off first, the rolled wad of cash is still safely situated under the toe cap. I gather the pair and place them beneath the long wooden bench that runs along the center of the tiled floor locker room. OCD has me folding each item of clothing, except my underwear, in a neat stacked pile on top of that same bench, with my bra being the last to join the pile. I stoop down to grab the makeup bag with all my toiletries and head on naked feet to the communal shower area in the back room. Blessed hot water cascades down on my body as I slip out of my panties and set them on the peach-colored wall that separates one shower stall from the next. I’ll wash them soon enough.

  But right now I want to enjoy the scorching hot water that helps in cleansing the grime from my skin. I apply a liberal amount of body wash on my washcloth and go to work, scrubbing all the necessary areas on my body until I finally feel it’s clean enough. I shampoo my hair with the same body wash that smells a little bit like jasmine. I subject my panties to the same vigorous cleaning I just put my body through and wring them out when I’m done. It takes another ten minutes before I shut off the tap. My towel is one of the long-sleeved undershirts I was wearing. It’s not ideal, but it’s effective in drying my skin and catching most of the water from my hair.

  With no other choice but to go commando, I slip back into my sweatpants. They hang from my narrow hips even after being rolled up twice and pool at my bare feet. The bra is next and I forgo the sweaters until after I brush my teeth. Finally done with sweaters once again on my body, I gather my thick, tawny curls into a messy ponytail and dare to look at myself in the mirror. A tomboy stares back at me from a honey-hued face with a dusting of freckles across an upturned nose and a furrow between round, green eyes. The prostitute of a few hours ago is nowhere in sight. Just the way it should be. Considerably fresher now but still feeling less than human, I know I need a shot of caffeine if I have any hope of being around people. I’m not the friendliest of people and deprived of caffeine I can be a real bear. Luckily, it’s just about breakfast time when I make my way downstairs to the cafeteria.

  There are students milling around now, mostly the early comers that I recognize from High Honors meetings. I barely speak to any of them outside of the committee, by choice mostly, because it’s easier that way. The less ammo you give people, the harder it is for them to put a target on your back and shoot you. I learned that lesson the hard way.

  The best thing about school food is how cheap it is. My cinnamon raisin bagel, cream cheese, and grape jelly cost me only a buck-fifty. The coffee, a large French vanilla with just a hint of cream and one teaspoon of sugar, is an additional dollar. I find a solitary table by the window and check my phone while eating. The intermittent flashing of the blue light at the top right corner tells me I have a new voicemail message. The number that shows up however, isn’t from t
he person I want to hear from. Still nothing from Dante. I would be lying if I said I wasn’t the tiniest bit worried now, but I tamp down the niggling feeling in the pit of my stomach that feels like stomach acid, but is actually all anxiety, and bring the phone to my ear to listen to the message.

  “Hey, baby, I need to see you this weekend. You have time for me? Let me know.” It’s from Greg, one of my two well-paying johns. He likes to tip on top of his fee. I’ll make time.

  Saturday. At 8 p.m. The same place as last time.

  I shoot the text just in time for first bell.

  First period physics has always been a pain in the ass, but it proves especially challenging today because I didn’t get enough sleep. The harder I try to stay awake, the heavier my lids become and the closer my head gets to my desk. I’m four rows back, seated behind beefy Kyle Olsen, completely hidden from Mrs. Delaney’s view. If I’m careful, I can just close my eyes for a minute and no one will even know. A power nap. Like literally five minutes and I’ll be good…

  “Are we boring you, Ms. Barnes?” Her voice is both nails on a chalkboard and a bucket of ice water. I jolt, sit up straight in my seat and reluctantly trail my eyes upward to meet hers. Brown eyes are narrowed to disdainful slits, and I can tell she wants me charred to a crisp. Mrs. Delaney could be called pretty if her face didn’t look like she’d been sucking lemons her entire life, with those hollowed cheeks and pursed lips. She is tall but not in a good way, and every time I look at her long, spindly arms and even longer legs I’m reminded of a spider, a black widow.

  “Well?”