Chapter 20
His name is Giovanni.
He’s tall, dark, and handsome, I’ll give Ayla that. And he’s been glued to her side ever since she called him to meet us for lunch that day. I was against the idea at first, but Ayla looked so discouraged after another morning of fruitless job searching that I caved.
Mistake Number One.
Despite his name, I doubt there’s an ounce of authentic Italian blood in Giovanni. That accent? As fake as his tan. His hair? Dyed black. And that first day, as we sat in the booth at Happy’s, he remarked that his favorite pizza came from a little café in Venice. I almost choked on my cheese when he said he went there after touring the Pantheon.
“But, the Pantheon is in Rome,” I blurted.
“Roma, Venezia…I get mixed up sometime,” Giovanni covered. Flustered, he buried his cute, stubbled chin in his pizza.
My eyes narrowed.
“I’m sure Giovanni knows Italy better than you do,” Ayla snapped, kicking me under the table.
Apparently I’d forgotten one of her rules: Always let your man think he is smarter than you. Rolling my eyes, I let it go.
A few days later, Giovanni moves us out of the motel room and into his sunny condo. The place screams “bachelor pad,” all leather and steel. There’s only one bedroom, but his couch is pretty plush so I’ll take it. Besides, Giovanni has been paying for all our meals. I figure staying with him will allow us to save our money.
Mistake Number Two.
With Giovanni lavishing attention on Ayla, her eyes shine brighter. It doesn’t take a genius to realize she actually likes the guy. One night, I find the lovebirds on the couch with their legs entwined, feeding each other noodles from red and white cartons. Could this be a good thing?
But then, between bites, Ayla slides a little white pill into her mouth. It’s the first time I’ve seen her use since we left Haydon and my senses go on high alert.
Ayla offers a pill to Giovanni, but he declines.
I watch them closely after that. Even though Giovanni doesn’t participate, Ayla doing drugs doesn’t seem to faze him. He is the epitome of laid back. That trait feels authentically Italian, at least. But there is still one thing that bothers him—me.
The condo is small and Giovanni’s resentment toward me sticks to every surface. Once, in the middle of the night, I flush the toilet, then cringe. Through the paper-thin wall, I hear Giovanni groan and say, “Why you have to have a kid, Ayla? It could be so perfect with us.”
It is ludicrous that this hurts my feelings.
“I’ll tell her to get out of the condo more,” Ayla responds.
I’m not surprised by either comment, but still. How dare he waltz in here with his dimples and flattery and mess everything up! Things had been going well between me and Ayla. Now, once again, she thinks of me as a nuisance, a stick figure on a chalkboard that can be wiped away at will. The game has turned and there’s nothing I can do. Giovanni is in. Andrea is out.
June melts into July, and I mean literally. Morgantown is hot, and I spend long sticky days in the park since I’m no longer welcome at the condo until dinnertime. I console myself by thinking, it’s better than Judd’s shed. But Judd still haunts me. Sometimes when I climb to the top of Royce Hill and stare out at the rolling hills, I feel like I can see clear to Ohio. And that’s when I hear his voice in my ear, whispering, Did you forget who owns you, girl?
Despite Giovanni’s generosity, the money in Ayla’s purse dwindles. She doesn’t confide in me anymore, but I know exactly when she cashes the next inheritance check because the purse is full again. The relief that money brings is indescribable. I start making plans for our next move. Unfortunately, Giovanni makes one first.
It happens on July fourth—Independence Day—and the irony is not lost on me. Sunlight floods the condo and nudges me out of a dream filled with ocean waves and palm trees. Something nice for once. Sitting up on the leather couch, I realize I’ve slept half the morning away. Ayla is still curled onto her side of the master bed when I peek in. Giovanni is nowhere in sight.
“G must’ve run out to get breakfast,” Ayla murmurs a little while later, shuffling into the kitchen wearing a silky bathrobe. I don’t reply, just suck on a strip of beef jerky, the last of my stash. I know G won’t bring me breakfast.
Half an hour later, I’m sprawled on the couch reading Watership Down. Even though I’m not returning to Essex, I still feel compelled to complete their summer reading list.
Ayla stares out the window with a creased brow, waiting. Personally, I think it’s kind of nice being in the condo with Giovanni out of it. But when noon comes and goes, Ayla starts pacing like a restless panther, and I can’t take it.
“Give me twenty bucks and I’ll get us lunch,” I say, exasperated. “I’ll look for Giovanni while I’m out.”
She shoots me a grateful glance. “Good idea.” She scurries into the bedroom.
While I wait for her to return, I toss my novel onto the leather couch and stretch out long like a cat. I hear things being shuffled around in the bedroom, and then Ayla shrieks. “Oh no… oh shit. Bones!”
The panic in her voice makes me jump. I rush to the bedroom door, where Ayla stands in shock, her empty purse dangling in her pale white hand.
The realization of what has happened hits me fast, like a punch to the gut. I reflexively cover my mouth, lurch, and proceed to vomit jerky all over Giovanni’s fake wood floors.
Chapter 21
“H-how could this h-happen?” Her words come out in hysterical hiccups.
We’re back in the Buick, parked at the motel on the seedy side of town, and Ayla is a mess—swollen eyes and long lines of mascara painting zebra stripes down her face. Curse words explode from her lips as she hisses about killing Giovanni one minute, then collapses into heartbroken sobs the next.
I sit in the driver’s seat, stunned. How could this happen? How could I have been so blind? Ayla was too enamored by Giovanni’s charm to see the warning signs, but I should have. Now every dollar that was supposed to last us through the next six months is gone. The only thing Giovanni left was an eviction notice taped to his front door.
Ayla wept while I packed her bags. Mine, of course, were ready to go.
Anger boils inside me when I think about how we’ve ended up right back where we started all those months ago—dead broke and living in the Buick.
I unstick my thighs from the hot leather upholstery and try to convince Ayla to come look for jobs with me at the gift shops. She’s so distraught over Giovanni’s betrayal, however, that she just sits there and swallows Judd’s pills, one after another.
When she finally leans her head against the seat, eyes closed, I count silently to one hundred, slip the baggie out of her limp hand, and leave.
Every shop in Old Morgantown town is awash in red, white, and blue for the holiday weekend. Streamers and balloons adorn our land of opportunity. But there are no jobs to be had. All the store owners say I should check back in September when the college kids return and business picks up. Great idea, folks. By September, I’ll have starved to death.
I spy a phone booth—the old fashioned kind that looks like it came from London—and slip inside. I dial Delaney’s number, hoping she’ll accept a collect call. I’m ready to tell her…some truths. And ask for help. But after seven rings, a recording tells me this phone number is no longer in service. I stand still for a whole minute, suckerpunched again. Could Delaney have changed her number to avoid me? I shake my head. Her parents probably got a better deal at a different cell phone company. Or something. I try the number again, to no avail. Sunlight pours through the glass, causing sweat to pool behind my knees and at the nape of my neck. The moist, thick air makes it hard to breathe. At least, I think it’s the air.
I exit the booth, walk a few blocks, then lean dejectedly against a stone wall in a small
alley. I’m hot and hungry, which is only one step up from being cold and hungry. I hate the way I feel—ready to give up—and what’s worse is that I don’t even know what “giving up” would entail at this point. In a cool square of shade, I take a steadying breath. A door jingles a little ways down and I notice the sign above it, and the tall steeple above that. My feet are moving before my mind has a chance to catch up.
“Do you have information on homeless shelters?” I ask the puffy-faced lady sitting in the church office as the AC blasts my sunburned skin.
She leads me to a shelf where dozens of pamphlets are stacked. They offer tips on everything from Family Planning to Midlife Crisis to Death and Grieving. A person could live her whole life in these pamphlets, I think. It would probably be a better life than mine.
“Here you go.” The lady hands me the brochure, then takes in my appearance. I realize how I must look—messy hair, hard eyes, my whole life stuffed into the two bags on my back like a turtle.
“I’m doing a school project,” I offer lamely. She doesn’t mention the obvious—that it’s July.
Smiling kindly, she wraps a bunch of cookies up in a paper towel and hands them to me. “Come back anytime.”
A part of me wants to stay, to sit in the cozy little room and tell this woman everything. But of course I bolt. The last thing I need is her calling the authorities while I’m packing Judd’s bag of goodies.
The cookies taste like heaven, but we still need cash, so I scour the sidewalk for loose change. It’s obvious and humiliating, and I envy the people who can play musical instruments for tips. I find a crumpled five-dollar bill under a bus stop bench and feel like I’ve won the lottery.
When I climb into the Buick with our dinner—Taco Bell because it’s the cheapest—Ayla jerks awake and starts slapping me silly, sending our meal flying all over the front seat.
I cover my head. “Stop it! I brought food!”
“I don’t want food. Where the hell is it, you little thief! You’re just like him,” she shouts. “Did you sell it? I swear I’ll wring your neck—”
“No, I didn’t sell it,” I hiss, though I wish I’d thought of that. “I just didn’t want to find you dead!” Shielding myself from her blows, I fumble through my backpack for her precious baggie and hurl it at her. Clutching it to her chest, Ayla sighs deeply. Then she smacks me one more time, extra hard, and warns me never to touch her shit again.
Tears sting my eyes and I glare through them at Ayla’s distorted face, hating her worse than ever. Hating her all the more because I fooled myself into believing she was capable of change. “You’re the thief,” I rumble. “Gram left me that trust money, not you.”
My words have no effect. But I’m fired up now, my nerves jangling. “Nothing belongs to you, Ayla. This car is Gram’s. Those aren’t even your drugs,” I point out. “They’re Judd’s.”
“I earned ’em,” she responds flatly. And I can’t disagree.
While she paws through the bag of pills, I reach down to salvage our dinner. I scarf it all down, even the tacos I meant for Ayla. Maybe we are stuck with each other, but I don’t belong to her. She never did anything to earn me.
By the time I finish eating, Ayla’s head is tilted against the seat, her eyes rolled back in ecstasy. I drop the church pamphlet into her lap, startling her. “What is this?” she slurs.
“A list of shelters. We’re going to have to stay in one.”
Ayla snorts. “Those places won’t let me in. They don’t give you a bed if you’re using. Plus the rules they have, curfews…” Her mouth curls into a disgusted grimace. “So not worth it.”
As I digest this information, a fresh sense of panic engulfs me. I’d always thought of shelters as our last resort. But as long as Ayla’s an addict, she can’t get a job. Or a life. Or even a bed in a homeless shelter.
A dull thudding starts behind my eyes. I look out the window at the bar and the seedy motel and the darkness that pervades our life. I am out of ideas.
But Ayla’s got one. She mutters it, with words that leave me clammy and shaken. “We should go back to Judd.”
“No!” The word shoots out like an arrow. Ayla looks at me funny, like she can’t remember what she said five seconds ago or why I’m reacting so strongly. “We are never going back to Judd’s. Never.” I point my finger at her face. “You are going to fix this. You are going into the bar tonight and picking someone who will help us. Someone who’s not a monster and preferably not a thief!”
“Bones…” she objects, but I’m done listening. I still have a life to salvage. And if I have to start using her as she’s used me, so be it.
“That’s what you’re doing, Ayla. So get ready,” I threaten. “Or I’ll be gone by morning.”
She doesn’t argue, and I know why I still have some pull here. Without me, once her drugs are gone, Ayla really has nothing.
The Buick is parked where I can see the bouncer admire my mother’s body as he stamps her hand. She looks hot after I did her makeup and chose her sexiest outfit. I hate that I’m an active participant in this, but I have to survive.
After she disappears inside, I reach under the driver’s seat for Judd’s stash. Ayla will never be able to pull things together if she’s constantly baked. I saw her slip a handful of pills into her purse earlier, but I have the majority of them right here. I push open the door, climb onto the hood, and launch the pills into the bushes, one by one.
As the last pill leaves my fingertips, I hear the random pop-pop-BOOM of fireworks down by the river. The display is miles away, but I can see the lights fan out in glorious techno-color before sinking behind the cityscape. Happy Independence Day, I think wryly.
Pulling my knees up to my chest, I wrap my arms around them. My mind conjures Delaney’s coy smile, Ben’s intense eyes, and proud Doug with his hot dog cart. Then I visualize those two kids I met at the pond near Judd’s house, the girl who wanted to be my friend. Envy snakes through my veins as I imagine the normal teenage things they are doing tonight. I’ll probably never see any of them again, I think miserably, stifling a sob. I did nothing to deserve this life. I did everything right. Look where it got me.
An hour passes.
Random people enter and exit the bar. Dance music pounds against the walls, a caged animal trying to break free. Couples laugh as they stumble through the parking lot.
Two hours.
I crawl back into the Buick and try to read. But there’s too much static in my mind. In addition to a job, I’ll need to find a high school to attend. And for that, we need an address. Camping on the beach really won’t cut it. But I can only tackle one problem at a time.
A third hour passes.
I click off the light and curl up in the passenger seat. I’m almost asleep when I hear a ruckus and then Ayla screeches, “Open the door, Bones!”
Jerking up, I hit the unlock button. Ayla scrambles inside, slams the door, and turns the key. She looks disheveled. And pissed. I see two middle-aged men outside the bar, yelling obscenities.
“What hap—” I start, but Ayla hits the gas pedal so hard we both get thrown back. I fumble for my seatbelt. Ayla swerves onto the curb close to where those men are standing. More cursing ensues, along with some creative hand gestures.
She flips them the bird, guns the engine, and we fly.
We drive straight out of town, into the northern hills that now seem cold and ominous rather than comforting. Ayla’s knuckles are white. I stare ahead at the jagged yellow lines.
We pass the Welcome sign for Pennsylvania and I somehow feel better once we’ve crossed into a different state. “Ayla?” I ask, then stop. I’m not sure I want to know.
“What?” she hisses.
“Weren’t you going to—”
“I tried! A bunch of bastards in there tonight. No one was offering anything but booze. So I slipped that dickhead’s
wallet out of his pocket.”
“Oh, no,” I whisper, rubbing my temples.
“Would have worked, too, if his friend hadn’t seen,” she grumbles.
“They could call the cops!”
“They’re too drunk,” she dismisses me. “Anyway, he grabbed the wallet back so there’s no proof.”
That, at least, makes sense. We don’t speak for a while, but I watch anxiously in my side mirror in case those men decided to chase us down.
“Where are we going?” I ask quietly after a few miles.
“I don’t know.” Her voice is quiet, too.
She really doesn’t know, because she circles back into West Virginia when she sees a sign for Cooper’s Rock State Forest. Worried about gas, I demand that she keep going in one direction until we find a place to stay. She veers off the road so fast that my head clunks against the window. I cradle my skull as she pulls into a small dirt lot near a forested picnic area and slams the gearshift into park.
“Where the hell do you want to go? The Ritz?” she yells. “Do you have any money?”
I shake my head, trying not to cry.
“Well, that’s okay. I’ve got two billion bucks.” Ayla crazy-laughs until it turns into a groan. “Damn that Giovanni.” She shivers violently and rubs her nose with the back of her hand. And that’s when it hits me—Ayla has no more supplies, thanks to me. She’s already starting to crash, and it will get worse.
Right on cue, she reaches under the seat for Judd’s bag of pills. When she finds nothing, she reaches farther back, frantic. Then her eyes turn on me, cold as death.
Sliding against the passenger door, I say, “They’re gone, Ayla. You’ve gotta stop.”
I wait for her to hit me, to go ballistic. But all she does is close her eyes and grip the steering wheel.
All Out of Pretty Page 10
