While Julie fills my cup, I look at her face, knowing that will lessen the likelihood of her looking at mine. She seems about my age, slightly plump, with feathered strawberry-blond hair and long bangs.
After she’s gone, I realize I’ve probably been sitting here too long. I glance around and see that all the other booths and tables are taken. I guiltily gulp the coffee as quickly as I can and then head for the exit, located by the crowded order counter.
I have to say, “Excuse me,” several times in order to squeeze past people in line. When they glance at me, I’m newly conscious of my never-before-plucked eyebrows, which all of a sudden feel like enormous hairy caterpillars plastered on my forehead, screaming, It’s me! Venus Black, that girl you saw in the paper!
I’m so worried about being recognized, I almost miss the small sign on the door as I close it behind me: HELP WANTED.
Hilarious. I think my career just took a positive turn. And maybe Leo is somewhere getting rich.
Turns out Julie put up the HELP WANTED sign just this morning when another employee failed to show and called in fake sick for the umpteenth time. When I tell her I’m looking for work, she immediately says, “You’re hired!” Next thing I know I’m wearing a turquoise Big Dipper apron.
The next four hours pass in a blur. I simply do whatever Julie tells me to, learning to use the till during breaks in the action.
Later, Julie asks me to fill out an application. “Not that you’re not hired,” she says. “But my mom, June, is the one who owns the shop, and she’ll want that.”
I put down my new address and name—hoping they won’t recognize that the address is actually a hotel. I put the Crab Pot down as a reference, even though it doesn’t appear I need one. But who knows what Julie’s mom will think of her daughter hiring me on the spot like this. When it comes to my Social Security number, I go ahead and make one up. My guess is it won’t get noticed until Julie’s mom does her taxes next spring. I can only hope that by the time the IRS finally catches it, I’ll have saved enough to move to California.
After a few days, I have learned the ropes and been assigned a schedule. I’ll work Tuesday through Saturday from 5:30 A.M. to 2:00 P.M. Inwardly, I gasp at the early start time. But it’s a full-time job—with a tip jar we split. Maybe once I get a real apartment or room somewhere, my life will start to feel like a life.
After a couple weeks at the Big Dipper, I already know at least ten regulars by name. The place is a constant swirl of activity. A whole world unto itself—and I feel grateful to work there. But I still feel like I’m on the outside somehow, perhaps because I am so reluctant to be friendly or talk to folks. I feel like a marble rolling around a Chinese checker game that can’t find an empty hole to slip into.
Eventually, Julie invites me to hang out with her and her friends. But after giving it a couple of tries, I just can’t get comfortable and I resist further invitations. It’s hard to have fun when you constantly have to lie. Plus, even though Julie is twenty and most of her friends are probably older than me, they seem so immature.
It’s like I came out of Echo Glen knowing both too much and too little to come off as anything but weird. I feel like a tall, scary person people don’t want to get to know. But inside I feel as insecure as a ten-year-old who lost track of her mother in the big city.
I quickly fall into the habit of being alone a lot. I’m desperate for books, so even though it feels risky, I get myself a Seattle Public Library card for “Annette.” As usual, I stick to old-time comforting novels like Gone with the Wind and A Girl of the Limberlost. Or else interesting biographies of amazing women of science like Marie Curie. When I’m not reading, I go walking. It turns out that Seattle is good for that, and it’s fascinating to me. I learn to navigate buses and go all over—even visiting the park at the Space Needle.
By early October, I’ve settled in at the St. James quite nicely. I am loath to leave. But I also know my money is going to run out if I don’t find a cheaper room. On the second Saturday in October, I vow to look for and find a place.
After work, I take the P-I and a map of Seattle over to Volunteer Park, where I can sit on a bench while I look at the rental listings. After ruling out a bunch of apartments and rooms that I either can’t afford or are too far away from the Dipper…I end up with only two options—both single rooms inside other people’s houses.
Things are so expensive! Both of the rooms list for one hundred fifty dollars a month. I consult my map and decide to check out the closest house first. As I walk away from the hubbub of the city, things get more residential and there are some really nice houses. But when I get into the right neighborhood, things get junkier. Up ahead, I notice a ghastly lavender house with pink trim. Let it not be that one, I plead.
But of course it is. As I walk by, I try not to be obvious about glancing into the windows through the thin curtains. It’s dark inside, and I can’t see anything. I notice the cement driveway is crumbled and uneven. It appears no one is home, but a pink bicycle has been tossed against the small front porch.
I pass similar but less ugly houses before reaching the end of the block, where I cross the street and turn around so I can pass the lavender house again on the way back. This time, a little girl appears on the front steps of the porch. She looks to be maybe nine or ten. “Take a picture, it’ll last longer!” she shouts at me.
I’m so surprised, it takes me a second to realize her mean remark is aimed at me. Inexplicably, it hurts my feelings. I ignore her, stare straight ahead, and walk faster. I’ve put the incident behind me when, a block or so later, I hear a noise at my back and turn to find the girl on her bike. I stop and step aside, giving her plenty of room to pass on the sidewalk.
But she stops instead. “Where you going?” she asks. She is missing a front tooth and chewing a large wad of blue gum.
“I’m just walking,” I tell her. I wave my hand again for her to pass, but she doesn’t budge. In the bike basket is a blond baby doll whose hair has been dyed purple.
“No, you go ahead,” she says. I can smell her gum in the air and it reminds me of Jackie, who often chewed Bubblicious. I was a Bazooka girl all the way—partly because each piece came with a comic.
I take the girl at her word and start walking again, way faster than I was before. I can hear her pedaling right behind me. If I were to stop or slow down, she’d ride right up my ankles. Once again, I step aside and motion for her to pass. When she stops, too, I ask, “Do you mind?”
“You don’t own this sidewalk, lady,” she says.
“And neither do you. How about if you leave me alone? Maybe you should go home.”
“You’re not the boss of me,” she says.
What a brat! “You’re right,” I tell her. “So go home to whoever is the boss of you and quit following me.” I decide to cross to the other side of the street, but the girl sticks to me like gum.
“It’s rude to ignore people, you know.”
I can’t believe it. Is this how little kids who aren’t locked up act these days? I suddenly whirl around, hoping to scare her. “What is your name!” I practically shout.
She stops her bike just shy of my knee. She’s startled, for sure. The chewing stops. “Why do you want to know?” she asks in a noticeably smaller voice.
“Because maybe your mother should know what you’re doing. Following a stranger down the road.”
“I don’t have a mother,” she says, her attitude back. “So you can’t tell her because she doesn’t exist.” I notice her hair is a little greasy, her brown bangs unevenly cut.
“How old are you?”
“I’m nine,” she says proudly.
“Do you want to quit following me?”
“No,” she says, looking into my face. “I don’t have anything else to do. I’m bored.”
Her honest answer softens me despite myself, because I
relate to bored and alone. “What’s your doll’s name?”
“Smelly Shelly,” she says. “I don’t really like her, though. I’m way too big for dolls.” She picks up the doll by its purple hair and smacks it in the belly.
“Really?” I ask. “You like to hit your dolls?” I can see Echo Glen in her future.
She shrugs and looks away.
“I’m done talking now,” I announce. “Do. Not. Follow. Me.”
I walk on, and I can feel that she’s finally stopped following. After a half block or so, I glance back to make sure. She’s sitting on her bike where I left her. “You looked!” she screams, laughing. “Lookers are hookers!”
I turn around quickly to hide my smile and keep walking. At least I know where I’m not renting a room.
* * *
—
INSTEAD OF RETURNING to the hotel, I go straight to the nearest phone booth to call about the other room. I’m worried I’ve missed my chance while wasting time on the lavender house with the horrible girl.
I reach a woman named Josie, who tells me the room is still available and I should come right over. When I find the house, it’s a really nice Victorian painted a soft yellow—and no bratty kids in sight. Josie greets me at the door before I can even knock. She looks maybe forty and is wearing a cool bohemian dress—elegant, not hippie-ish.
The house is immaculate and airy. The room I would rent is even better than I had hoped for. It has a dormer with slanted ceilings; the walls and old-fashioned furniture are all painted a bright clean white. The double bed, covered by a quilt of yellow flowers and blue diamonds, makes me want to lie on it and reread Jane Eyre.
I want the room so badly I can hardly breathe.
The interview with Josie seems to go well. I eagerly tell her about my job at the Dipper and that I recently moved here from Portland. I explain that I have the first month’s rent and the fifty-dollar security deposit. I think I sound smart and responsible, and I can tell she does, too.
Then she ruins everything. “Do you have references?” she asks.
“References?” Just to rent a stupid room?
I must have a blank look on my face, because she tries to help me out. “I would just need the phone number of your previous landlord,” she says. “Or were you living at home? I could always talk to your parents.”
“Oh no. There was a landlord,” I say quickly, sounding even to myself like an over-eager liar.
But Josie doesn’t seem to see through my act. I can tell she likes me and wants to give me this room. I imagine she’s thinking how swimmingly we’d get along—and she is exactly the kind of woman who would use that word.
And if I lived here in that room, I feel sure I could become that kind of woman, too.
I beam at her, promising to call her later with my landlord’s number. “I just have to check my address book,” I say.
But of course I don’t have one to check, and I’ll never see Josie or that room again.
* * *
—
ON SUNDAY, I check the paper for new listings, but there’s nothing. Reluctantly, I call the owner of the house with the horrible girl. The guy’s name is Mike, and he confirms the room is still available, which I’d been half-hoping it wouldn’t be.
He asks about my situation, what I’m looking for, and how soon I could move in. He sounds super friendly, like he’s been waiting his whole life for me to call.
I should have known there was a catch. When he asks what hours I usually work, it seems like he is getting too personal. I’m about to object when he finally admits why it matters: He is looking for a renter who could also watch his niece for a couple of hours after school.
“You mean you want me to babysit?”
“Well, I wouldn’t call it that. It’s really just someone to kind of be around until I get home from work. We’re talking a couple hours a day.”
“Oh man. I’m sorry. But I can’t do that,” I say automatically.
“When do you get off work?” he asks. I can’t believe the gall of this guy.
“I work until two. But that doesn’t mean—”
“That will be perfect!” he says. “My niece doesn’t get home from school until around three.”
I don’t respond, and for a second he’s quiet, too. “Okay, Annette. Here’s the deal. If I meet you and think you’re responsible enough, I’d cut the rent in half because of the babysitting.”
In half? That would make a huge difference in how fast I could save up to buy a car and move away.
“Would you need a reference?”
“I guess not,” he says, hesitating only briefly. “I would just need to meet you.”
A few hours later, I’m knocking on the door of the lavender house. When no one answers, I clang the knocker as hard as I can. Someone is home—I can hear cartoons coming from inside.
Finally, the familiar little girl opens the door and sticks her head out.
“Is Mike home?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “Why do you want to know?” She sounds wary, the bravado of yesterday nowhere in sight.
“Didn’t he tell you I was coming? I’m here to see your room for rent.”
“Oh!” she says, clearly relieved. I realize then that she’d actually thought I’d come back to her house to tattle on her. Too funny.
She opens the door all the way. “You can come in. Mike is at the store.”
I hesitate, annoyed that this Mike guy isn’t here. He’d made it sound like he’d be around all afternoon.
“It’s okay,” she encourages. “C’mon! I’ll show you.” She has a spattering of freckles across her face and a spot of dried milk on the corner of her lip.
I step inside and shut the door. “This is the living room,” she says uncertainly, waving her arms like a game-show lady. She is wearing dirty white Keds sneakers, a wrinkled polka-dot T-shirt, and grass-stained jeans.
I gaze around the living room. Wood floors, worn throw rugs, and cheap but usable furniture. A large TV is blaring Tweety Bird, the volume painfully loud.
“Can we turn that down?” I ask.
She stomps dramatically to the TV and shuts it off. “There. Are you happy now?”
I take a deep breath and exhale. What a total brat. I’m tempted to leave, but I know from dealing with younger kids at Echo Glen that you can’t tell how a kid really is until you try to be nice to them at the same time as they’re being mean to you.
“Do you want to tell me your name now?” I ask, my tone friendly.
“Piper Porter.”
“Piper?” I ask, not sure I’m hearing right, since I’ve never heard of such a name.
“Yes,” she says defensively. “Piper. P-I-P-E-R. You got a problem with my name?”
“Of course not,” I tell her. “I think it’s a nice name. It goes well with your last name.” I extend my hand, and she reaches out shyly to shake it. “I’m Annette. Annette Higgman,” I add. “Do you want to show me your bedroom?”
She giggles. “Sounds like Pig Man,” she says.
“Yeah, I got teased a lot in school,” I tell her, realizing that poor Annette probably did get teased.
She abruptly turns away and scrambles up the uncarpeted wooden stairs. “C’mon!” she calls. “The room is up here.” At the landing, we turn in to the first door on the left. “This is my room,” she announces. I watch her gaze around, as if seeing her own bedroom for the first time.
It’s a small plain room. There’re an unmade single bed and a small white dresser with a few scruffy stuffed animals on top. I note a cracked window and a torn screen. The doll with the dyed hair is lying on the bed, and the floor is littered with clothes and toys.
“What a nice room,” I say. “Do you like it?”
“It’s okay,” she says.
I de
cide to risk her wrath and sit on the edge of the bed without asking. “So what do you like to play?”
“I don’t know,” she says, looking around as if the answer might be in view. I pick up Smelly Shelly and absently stroke the doll’s purple hair. “What happened here?”
“Kool-Aid,” she says with a smirk giving way to a giggle.
“Grape?” I ask with a smile, and she nods and smiles back. She has the greenest eyes—like a cat’s. If you fixed the gap in her teeth and cut her crooked bangs, she could be kind of cute.
“Let me show you the rest,” Piper says. I get up from the bed and follow her to the next room, on the right. “This is where Mike and Jackson sleep. I’m not allowed to go in. So you’re probably not, either. But Jackson is leaving, I think. They had a big fight.”
“That’s fine,” I assure her. Uncle Mike must be gay. As far as I’m concerned, this is a good thing, since it means he for sure won’t be hitting on me. The door is cracked open about three inches, and I catch a glimpse of a large unmade water bed with a mirrored headboard. There’s a faint scent of incense or cologne.
Next up is the bathroom. Piper flips on a light, but it would have been better had she not.
I doubt I’ll be luxuriating in bubble baths.
“There’s one other room,” says Piper. “This is the one for sale.”
“You mean for rent.”
“Okay,” she says with a huff. “For rent.” She opens the door to a small room filled with junk. Amid the piles of dusty odds and ends, I notice an ironing board, a skateboard, and box after box of albums. The bed is a single with no headboard, and the mattress looks worn, but at least it’s not pee-stained.
The room doesn’t have a window. Seriously, it’s everything I never wanted in a room.
My Name Is Venus Black Page 11
