Flawed

by Francette Phal

  I find myself shaking my head and parroting the same words from earlier this morning, “Of course, Mr. Baker. It won’t happen again.”

  He nods, “You’ll have your results on Wednesday.”

  “Okay, thank you. Bye.”

  The halls are emptier now that the majority of the students have gone home for the day. I make a pit stop at my locker to drop off my books before heading down to the first floor rec room where the prom committee is hosting the meeting. There are a total of seventeen students on the committee and one sponsor, Mrs. Grady, the art teacher. She, however, relinquishes temporary leadership of the committee to Sara Aldridge, a fellow High Honors Society member. Sarah is an autocratic, no-nonsense kind of leader, but no one seems to mind because she has good ideas and a set plan of action for prom. Everyone is split into groups and each group assigned with a task. My group of four is asked to find ways we can generate more money for expenses. Ideas are thrown around but the bake sale during the winter play in December is the one everyone decides to go with. Satisfied with everyone’s progress, Sarah ends the current meeting and calls for another one next Wednesday, same time.

  Roughly two hours later, I walk out of my SAT prep course held in our school’s library, feeling slightly more confident than when I initially entered it. I did fairly well on our practice exams. There were some math questions that managed to stump me but I’m sure I’ll get the hang of in the duration of the two weeks I have in this course. I hope.

  The snow has stopped but now I’m forced to walk through slippery mounds of sludge that cake the sidewalk. There are just about as many people on my home commute as there was this morning heading to school. Fantastic. This time however, I manage to grab a window seat at the center of the bus, the guy who sits beside me on the aisle side has breath strong enough to bring the dead back to life. He wants to have a conversation. Digging out my headphones and inserting them in my ears swiftly kills any possibility of that happening. Massive Attack makes the ride tolerable. I jam to their music as I check my phone to find several dozen messages in my in-box. I email back a few of them to set up appointments before answering Tyler’s texts. My stop comes before I know it and I jump off onto the sidewalk, avoiding almost face-planting in a dirty snowbank. It’s not late, only quarter to six but winter makes it seem later. It’s also very cold now, after this morning’s snowstorm the temperature was probably in the single digits.

  Tyler knows I’m not coming over. Not because I don’t want to, but because I’m worried about my mother. I want to be there when she finally comes home. I need to know that she’s okay. There are piles of snow everywhere, rendering the sidewalks virtually useless and forcing pedestrians to walk alongside the slushy streets. The potential dangers of getting splashed by muck or even getting struck by a car are not incentive enough for South Riverdale’s officials. As I near my apartment, a horrible chill that has nothing to do with the weather explodes across my skin, leaving behind goose bumps. Dread settles in my pores, leaking into my veins like a shot of icy water.

  A crowd of spectators are watching something unfold just a few feet ahead of where I’m standing. My feet are like lead in their steady progress to get me closer. The commotion is happening right in front of my apartment building, but I still can’t see what’s going on. I’m still on the street, walking against traffic, and it’s when I come across my mother’s green Corolla, with its newly cracked rear window and broken taillights that I know Dante is somehow involved. The building manager has cleared the front entrance of the building, but one can still make out the tracks of a struggle. The driver-side door to the Corolla has been left wide open, the windows shattered. There’s a noticeable trail leading to the group of large men circling someone. Dante. I can’t possibly move fast enough.

  I toss away my backpack because I can’t run with it strapped to my back. I barely notice its contents spilling out. Anger is the fuel that ignites the adrenaline blazing through my veins as I wedge my body through a small opening between two of the five men. And sure enough, as I break through to the other side, I find my brother’s battered body crumpled on the cold, icy ground. I don’t dare take time to assess the extent of his injuries as I place myself between him and his attackers. I reach behind my back pocket and brandish my knife, it’s the one fluid motion that seems to take them completely off guard. They’re all staring, a little confused and surprised that someone would even attempt to interfere with what they’re doing. But the surprise quickly turns into amusement.

  “What the hell are you gonna do with that, little girl?” the one standing directly in front of me asks. He’s a big, burly guy with lots of muscles and lots of tattoos. He doesn’t have a pretty mug and the thick ugly scar running down his cheek doesn’t help either.

  “Whatever I have to.”

  “Ce…Cece…don’t,” I hear Dante whisper down below. His hand on my ankle has me looking down at him and I’m ready to lower myself to the floor when I hear the mocking laughter.

  “Get your punk ass up, D. Man the fuck up and stop hiding behind your bitch.”

  “I’m his younger sister, asshole.”

  Scar face looks at me, “Then be a good little sister and get the fuck out of here. This shit doesn’t involve you.”

  “Whatever problem you have with him, you’ve already made your point. You kicked his ass. You can leave now.”

  He snorts. “Sweetheart, we haven’t even started making our point. Now why don’t you give me that knife before you hurt yourself?”

  “I’m not giving you shit,” I spit out, but he moves forward anyway, attempting to grab the knife but I’m quick in letting it slash through the air and it makes contact, slicing down his outstretched hand.

  “Goddamn bitch!” he howls, and I don’t see the backhanded slap until it cracks against the side of my face and sends me to the ground. My ear is ringing, the right side of my face feels like I’ve been kissed by a volcano, but I stagger to my feet. I search for my knife and realize too late that the one who just smacked me has it.

  “Do yourself a favor, sweetheart, and get the fuck out of here before you really piss us off.” The warning comes from the guy standing next to the woman beater.

  “How about you do me a favor and go fuck yourselves?” I retort unflinchingly, talking completely out of my ass right now. And I guess they know it. A scrawny girl vs a pack of Hulkamania’s finest. I don’t stand a fucking chance. Scar face grabs me by the front of my sweater, drags me toward him and lifts me off the ground like I’m a free weight at his favorite gym. I flail, trying to fight back. I’m all kicking legs and swinging arms when suddenly he shakes me hard. Everything in my body rattles around like loose change in a kid’s piggy bank.

  “Enough, Vigo.” It’s a quiet command that resonates and Vigo, my assailant, seems to heed as I am instantly returned to my feet. My legs are jelly beneath me and I barely notice as the four circling men part to make way for the one who just gave the order.

  I notice his height first. He’s extremely tall, maybe even taller than the thugs who made way for him. My gaze runs over the length of his lean, athletic build encased in a black leather jacket and black slim-fit jeans that stop just about where his black boots start. The jacket isn’t closed and I’m allowed to see hints of a black shirt and the skinny tie that runs vertical to the zipper. There seems to be no variation of color in his outfit because the tie is also black. Black on black, on black. Finally, I look up and my eyes, like magnets, are instantly drawn to the exquisiteness of his face. And I know I’m staring. Like rudely, stupidly staring. But I can’t seem to look away. His bone structure seems almost sculpted. From razor-sharp cheekbones to the strong angular shape of his jawline that’s dusted by a trimmed shadow of beard, the cleft in his chin leads to a full mouth that is set in a grim, unsmiling line.

  His dark brown hair is trimmed low on the sides and the top is slightly longer and slicked back from his face, projecting a model instead of an extortionist. He has a wide for
ehead and low, hooded brows set over mesmeric arctic blue eyes. My heart thuds painfully against my rib cage as I’m helplessly ensnared by the intensity of his eyes. It’s hard to look away, but nearly impossible to hold the stare. There’s something a little off about that gaze, about him in general. It’s hard to put a name to it, to tag exactly what it is that sets him apart from the others. But it’s almost sinister, menacing, and so palpable, that it seems to reach across the short distance between us and pierce through me like there is no barrier of skin or flesh.

  “Cece.” I’ve never been so happy to hear Dante’s voice and it’s the pain in his strained voice that makes it possible for me to look away. He tries to get on his feet, using the side of my leg to prop himself up. I help him out as best as I can and he leans heavily on me. He’s in bad shape and I’m pissed off all over again because of it.

  “Look, I don’t know who you are and frankly, I don’t care. Whatever he’s done to you, your friends have already made him pay for it. So just get lost.” I’m all bravado that he knows is fabricated when his eyes narrow slightly, but his face remains impassive.

  “We have business with your brother.” There’s no change to the tone of his voice. It’s quiet and low, so different than his large, ominous frame would suggest. There’s a slight rasp to it, like he doesn’t use it too often.

  “What sort of business? Who are you?”

  “Who I am is not important. It’s very brave of you to stand up for him. But I think you should leave now.”

  “If you think that I’m going to leave him then you’re even stupider than your friends look.”

  “Cece…don’t,” Dante interjects warningly, but I ignore him.

  “What’s he done? Sleep with your girlfriend, your wife? Borrowed money? What?”

  “I don’t a have a girlfriend or a wife. And yes, your brother has borrowed a very large sum of money. Money he promised to pay and still hasn’t done so. We’re simply here to collect.”

  I blink. I didn’t expect him to answer one question, let alone all three so thoroughly. “How much?”

  “Fifteen thousand dollars. Plus interest.”

  Fuck and fuck again. I can feel the blood draining from my face and horror sets in like a cold mist. I think I stop breathing for a second, too. I’m not sure. But what astounds me more is that I’m still standing even though it feels like my legs have been knocked out from under me. I’m weak. And I feel sick. Like acid burning bile, slithering up my throat and coating my tongue with the sour taste of doom, sick.

  I open my mouth to speak but nothing comes out. My nostrils flare in an effort to drag air into my lungs, a fortifying breath that helps me find my voice again. “I…I’ll need a few days. I can get you the money. Saturday afternoon. I’ll have it then.” Everything stops, even the air becomes still. Or maybe I’m just holding my breath and not blinking as I wait for him to say something. It’s a countdown to an unknown infinity before his gaze flicks down to the paper he holds in his left hand.

  “You’re Lacey.” His change of subject gives me whiplash. It’s not a question, and hearing my name on his lips causes a strange reaction in me that I do not dare contemplate. “Here,” he offers, extending the piece of paper to me. I don’t know why I snatch it from him, but when I look down, it’s my report card. I frown, confused as to how he’s gotten his hands on it, when I remember that I had dropped my backpack earlier.

  “Saturday, 5pm,” he utters, and I look up. “You have until then.”

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea…” scar face, also known as Vito, intervenes, “they’ll run.”

  “They’ll try,” he continues, his eyes boring into me like a sharp blade at my throat, “but hiding will prove very difficult.” He speaks so softly, but the impact of the threat is deafening. “Your brother has the address. Try not to be a minute late.”

  He shifts, turning to leave, but scar face opens his mouth again. “Knox, man, this isn’t how we operate.”

  “Today, it is,” he simply states, before walking away.

  It takes Vito half a minute longer afterwards before he follows but not before taking a parting shot, “If you even try to run, I swear we’ll find you and I’ll put your pretty little knife into your brother’s neck.”

  It’s not until they’re all gone—the four thugs hopping into the huge unmarked, heavily tinted Cadillac Escalade, while the other guy—Knox, slides into the interior of a four-door, black Charger by himself—that I finally turn to Dante. They’ve done a number on him. His left eye is practically swollen shut. He sports a fat, bloody lip, heavily bruised cheeks, and more blood from a long gash on the right side of his face. He has one arm curled around his midsection like he’s nursing a broken rib or two, maybe even three. And the more I look at him, the more torn I become on whether to add to his horrible injuries or cry for him and myself. But I give in to neither. I settle instead into numbness, like a man would into his well-worn, beloved recliner that has taken years to indent.

  “Can you walk?” I ask. I need to grab my backpack and the stuff that spilled out of it, but I don’t want him to collapse the second I leave.

  “Yeah…yeah…I’m good.” He wheezes, and when he coughs, it’s blood that splatters against the air.

  “Dante…”

  “I’m all right!” he yells, and pushes away from me. He doesn’t look back as he staggers toward the entrance of the building. I race for my backpack. My books and papers are soaked in dirty, slushy snow, but I shove everything inside my bag with its broken zipper and rush after Dante. It takes us forever to get upstairs, and it doesn’t fucking help that he’s bitching at me every single second.

  “Shut the fuck up and let me fucking help you!” My voice echoes in the cold, concrete stairwell. We glare at each other halfway up, and I swear to God, if he says one more thing, I’m going to shove him down the stairs. I’m thinking he sees that silent threat in my gaze because he looks away quickly and I take it as his defeat.

  “Shit,” I mutter, out of breath as I struggle to find my keys. “Hold on.” I prop him up against the wall and stoop down to rummage inside my damp backpack for my missing keys. Never finding the damn things when I need them the most.

  “Here…my jacket,” he offers. I stand and dig inside both pockets of his bomber jacket before pulling out the one solitary silver key.

  I help him down on the couch as best as I can before hurrying to the front door to lock it. I’m like a chicken with its head cut off, running around the apartment gathering supplies. We lack a lot of fundamental things, but I always make sure the first aid kit is fully stocked. With my family, you never know when it’s really going to come in handy. Tonight is evidence of that. I shut off my brain and work to wash away the blood from his face and press a cold cloth to his eye. I take a sick, silent joy in hearing him hiss in pain when I dab the hydrogen peroxide on his cuts. I apply ointment to the gash on his cheek and slap on a bandage. I head into my room to grab the bottle of extra strength Aspirin and hand him two with a glass of water.

  “Do we need to go to the hospital?” I ask a short while later. I’ve tended to the bruises on his ribs, and that’s why I’m asking. I’m afraid of internal bleeding.

  “Unless you’ve got health insurance in that magic bag of yours, I’m afraid we’re shit out of luck,” he answers, deridingly, and I have half a mind to smack him. But I’m sure he’s experienced his share of violence for one day. “I fucked up real bad this time, Lace.” No fucking shit, Sherlock, is right on the tip of my tongue. “These guys…they work for the Khitrova family. Jesus, Lace, I swear I didn’t fucking know. At first I thought they were some no-name payday loan company out in Little Russia. I swear, Lacey, if I’d known who they were working for, I wouldn’t have fucking done it.”

  It’s almost too easy to see that he’s been played. A ruse more than likely connived by Junior and the Khitrova loan sharks. Find a desperate, painfully naïve sucker, convince him to invest in some bullshit business idea,
and find him the ‘right’ bank who would loan him the money. Junior probably got a cut of the deal for bringing in the targeted fools. Everyone profited except for my idiot brother.

  “Junior told me they were good and that they gave their customers time to come up with the money…” Of course he did.

  “The fact that you would even trust anything that comes out of that man’s mouth proves what an absolute moron you are, Dante.” I can’t even fucking sugarcoat this bullshit. Pissed doesn’t begin to cover how furious I am right now. But more than anything, it’s the disappointment that’s more crippling. “How much money did you borrow?”

  “Twenty thousand…the interest is another five...”

  It’s a good thing I’m sitting. Twenty-five thousand dollars. I can’t even wrap my head around that. Dante owes twenty-five thousand dollars to one of the most infamous crime families in Boston and he’s still breathing? I don’t even know how to process that. But royally fucked comes pretty close. How do I even begin to get us out of this new pile of shit Dante has us buried under? And I know I’m the one who’s going to have to bail him out again. There isn’t anyone else. Even if I am tempted to leave him in this alone, I know he won’t survive what they have in store for him. And it’s that thought that always makes me intervene on my family’s behalf. The possibility of something horrible happening to Dante or my mother is a reality I can’t possibly imagine myself in. This is why I always try to do something to help, to at least fix their problems to the best of my ability. I’ve never sat down to really think on the reasons why I need them, why they need me, why I don’t simply allow the frayed strings that keep us together from unraveling and snapping away.

  I know I am the one constant in this never ending cycle of fuckery. I don’t know who I killed in my past life, but it seems I’m paying for it in this one. Every time I take a step forward, every time I fool myself into thinking there’s light at the end of this tunnel, Dante and my mother are quick in reminding me that there will never be anything for me but this endless merry-go-round of problems.