The Right and the Real

by Joëlle Anthony

  I got out and made sure all my doors were locked and set the alarm. I didn’t want the two guys in greasy jean jackets who were huddled together against the wind, smoking cigarettes, to get any ideas. I had to pass them, but they stared without comment.

  Inside, stale smoke had permeated the peeling wallpaper, leaving it yellow-stained. And when I walked by a dead palm tree near the door, it reeked of urine. I prayed the rooms wouldn’t be as gross as the lobby. A sign said to ring the bell, so I tapped it quickly and then wiped my hand on my jeans. A thick tree trunk of a man lumbered out from the back.

  “What can I do for you?” he asked.

  I glanced around, looking for the owner of the voice because it sounded exactly like Marilyn Monroe, but we were alone. It had to be him. He wore two gold hoops in his ears, and a silky pirate blouse, but he was no woman. The handlebar mustache was a dead giveaway.

  “Ummm…,” I said, studying the MOTEL RULES AND REGULATIONS sign on the counter so I didn’t stare at him. “I’d like to see a room.”

  “See one or rent one?” he cooed.

  “Rent?” I said.

  “I have a strict no-runaway policy, darlin’. You eighteen?”

  “Yes,” I lied. “But I don’t have a credit card.”

  “I only accept cash up front. You got it?”

  “I can get some from the ATM.”

  “Follow me.” He sashayed down a threadbare carpeted hallway. His round, bald head balanced on his shoulders like a golf ball on a tee. “Name’s Stub, by the way.”

  “Oh. Okay. Uh…Jamie.”

  One lightbulb lit up the middle of the hallway, and an exit sign glowed over a doorway at the far end. “We recently installed security bars on the ground-floor windows,” he said, like it was a selling point. He led me into what amounted to an eight-by-ten-foot box. The walls were a dirty gray-white, and there was a metal-framed cot under the window with a filthy-looking, stained bedspread. There was also a dilapidated dresser, a table that leaned to one side, a rickety-looking chair, and a lamp.

  Stub opened the bathroom door, and the odor of rotten eggs wafted into the room. “Smells a bit,” he said, “but I cleaned it myself. That’s about it. It’s two-sixty-five a week, utilities are included, but if you bring a TV, it’s an extra six bucks tacked on. So, you want it?”

  I couldn’t believe my choices had come down to this room or my car. The scary thing was the motel was giving me flashbacks to second grade and places my mother and I used to live in. She’d ramble on about the elusive man that would change her life forever, while we ate Cheerios with water for dinner. As far as I knew, the closest she’d come to finding her handsome prince was my dad, and she’d screwed that up royally.

  I hadn’t seen my mother since she and that slimeball ran off to Hollywood, but there was one thing I knew for sure. I was not her, and I would never become her. Even if I did have to live here for a while.

  “I know it’s not the luxury you were expecting,” Stub said, “but will it do, sweetheart?”

  “Ummm…can I think about it?” I asked.

  “Sure. But these rooms go fast.”

  I didn’t believe him, but I should have. “Okay.” I tried to smile. “Thanks.”

  He pointed at a door under the flickering exit sign. “You can go out that way,” he said.

  I pushed through it out onto the pavement, gasping for fresh air.

  After hogging the pay phone for four hours, calling every ad for a roommate on Craigslist and striking out, I was back to say I wanted the room, but Stub had rented it out already.

  “You don’t have anything?” I asked. At this point I’d have been willing to take a supply closet if the door locked and I had access to a bathroom.

  “Well…,” he said. He smoothed the ends of his mustache with his fingertips and thumbs like a villain in an English pantomime. “A room on the third floor just opened up, but I haven’t cleaned it yet.”

  “I’ll take it,” I said, afraid some other homeless person would come in and snap it up before I could.

  I didn’t think I’d ever fall asleep in the smelly, damp room, but I must’ve because a sharp rap like gunfire made me bolt upright in bed, confused about where I was.

  “Yo! John, open up,” said a man in the hallway.

  Was he knocking on my door or the one across the hall?

  “Dude, it’s me.” He lowered his voice a little. “I got your money, and I need a hit, man.”

  I stared through the darkness at the door and saw shadowy movement in the gap at the bottom where it didn’t quite meet the dirty carpet. I wanted to tell him to go away, but my voice was caught in my throat, stuck there by fright.

  “It’s me, dude. I got something you want,” the man said, louder this time.

  When I didn’t answer, he yelled for me to open up. “What the hell is wrong with you? Come on, Johnny. I need to see you. I got your money.”

  “Go away,” I croaked, but he didn’t hear me because he’d given up being patient and was now thumping hard with heavy fists. My heart raced. The door rattled under the blows. I’d checked the deadbolt at least six times before going to bed. I couldn’t see if the chain was hooked because the streetlight that bled through the single dusty window was so dim, but I was sure I’d fastened it. What should I do? Maybe hide in the bathroom. But then I’d be trapped if he got inside.

  “Man, I know you’re in there! I said I got your money. I’m not lying. Open up.”

  I tried to answer, but by now I was so scared all that came out was a squeak. All the vocal projection tricks we’d learned in acting class had deserted me. I scooted into the corner of the bed, my back against the wall, and pulled the comforter up around me, hiding.

  If he did get inside, he’d know right away I wasn’t this John guy he was looking for, because pink comforters were not standard issue in this dive motel. The first thing I’d done when I moved in was strip the thin, grimy sheets off the bed, throw them into the far corner, and put on my own clean bedding. The pounding increased, his blows sounding like a kid banging on a drum without rhythm or reason, and even in the low light, I could see the door straining. I looked around for a weapon.

  “Goddammit! Open up!” he shouted.

  “Go away,” I finally forced myself to say loud enough for him to hear me. “You’ve got the wrong room.”

  He stopped knocking. “What? What’d you say?”

  “I said go away. You’ve got the wrong room.”

  “Man, don’t tell your bitch to talk for you. Open the door. I need some shit.”

  He began to rattle the knob with one hand and batter with the other. With every thump, my heart pounded like it would burst open. Sweat dripped down inside my sweater. I was glad now I hadn’t changed into pajamas.

  Would my cell still call 911 even though it was disconnected? I grabbed my purse, but then remembered I’d been so angry, I’d thrown the phone into the backseat and left it there. Besides, I doubted the police cared about people who lived in rooms you had to rent by the week.

  The man was kicking at the door now, and I swear I heard wood splinter. I got out of bed and put on my shoes, in case I had to make a run for it. Then I grabbed the lamp to bash against his head if I had to and stood by the door, ready. Why hadn’t Stub come up to see what was going on? You’d think someone would’ve complained by now.

  Other tenants had to have cell phones, didn’t they? Maybe one of them would call the cops. Although the residents I’d seen in the lobby—the filthy woman with long brown hair and the rail-thin man passing her a plastic baggie of pot—didn’t exactly look like the kind of people who would ever call the police voluntarily.

  “If you don’t open up, man,” he threatened, “I’m gonna bust this door down and kick your ass.”

  I didn’t have any doubt he could do it. I held the lamp in one hand, and my purse and keys in the other. I’d have to sleep in the Beast again if he got inside. Assuming I managed to escape. Then I heard a door bang and he
avy footsteps on the creaky floor.

  “What the fuck is goin’ on?” yelled a deep, menacing voice. Clearly not Stub’s.

  “Dude, mind yourself,” the guy outside my door said. “I need John, and his ho is in there sayin’ he ain’t here.”

  “The cops picked him up this afternoon. Now get the hell outta here and don’t come back. I need my beauty rest.”

  “Are you shittin’ me, man?”

  “Do I have to tell you twice?” asked the growly voice.

  “No, dude. Chill. I’m goin’. I’m goin’.”

  He gave the door one last kick and then I heard him moving away, swearing. The door down the hall slammed shut, and I put the lamp down, my hands shaking. What was I doing here? This was crazy. It was only my first night, and a man had already tried to break into my room. I’d end up dead, living in this sleazy motel.

  The empty dresser was made of thin, cracked plywood and probably wouldn’t stop anyone, but I tried to shove it in front of the door anyway. It wouldn’t move, though, because it was nailed to the floor. Then I got a better idea. With shaking hands, I shifted all of the cardboard boxes, containing everything I owned, in front of the door, making a five-foot-high barricade. If the place burned down in the night, I’d go up with it, unable to get out, but at this point, I wasn’t sure I cared anymore.

  chapter 10

  KRISTA HAD STAYED SUNDAY NIGHT AT HER DAD’S, and he was driving her to school, so she didn’t need me to pick her up, but I still timed my arrival to match the late bell so I wouldn’t have to explain to my friends why my hair was so gross. I’d been way too scared to take a shower.

  In our locker, I’d found three of my favorite dark chocolate bars and a love note from Josh. I couldn’t wait to see him at lunch, but it was only third period English, so I had to content myself with doodling his name on my notebook while Mr. Lazby grumbled about the standardized testing coming up.

  I tried not to think about Krista’s reaction to the candy bars. “What?” she’d said. “Chocolate is supposed to make up for him humiliating you in the caf?”

  “You know it was an accident,” I said.

  “Yeah, well, this whole undercover relationship blows,” she said. “You’re better than that, chickie.”

  She just didn’t understand because I hadn’t told her everything. If she knew how much Josh was trying to balance—the church, his dad, our relationship, school—she’d be more sympathetic. But I couldn’t explain everything to her or she’d freak out about the motel and get her mom to call my mother. I was going to have to live with her disapproval.

  I wrote Josh’s name on my English folder again, making the o into a heart, and continued to ignore Mr. Lazby’s lecture. It was no secret how much he hated teaching his two English classes. He used to hold them in the drama room until the vice principal found out he was just assigning everyone time to read to themselves and disappearing into the costume shop like he did during drama class. After that, he had to teach English in a regular classroom so the department head could check in on him. I think the only thing that kept him from getting fired was he’d taught here for twenty-two years, and they knew he’d retire eventually. Plus all the drama kids loved him because the shows he produced were so good, it made them feel like they were almost professionals.

  For about a millisecond, I considered telling Mr. Lazby what had happened with my dad, but then I dismissed it as stupid. He pretended not to notice us hooking up in dark corners, but he was still a teacher. Besides, if there was an issue in the theater, Mr. Lazby could handle it like a pro. But real life? He’d hand off my problems to the school counselor so fast I wouldn’t know what happened. And she would definitely turn me over to social services, who would find my mom.

  The bad night I’d had, coupled with Mr. Lazby’s droning voice, must’ve put me to sleep because the next thing I knew, he was standing over my desk, nudging me with his big hand.

  “Would you care to join us, Jamie?” he asked.

  I snapped to attention. “Sorry.…” The class snickered.

  “Late night?”

  “Something like that.”

  Mr. Lazby had once been tall, dark, and handsome (I’d seen his acting headshot), and he still had broad shoulders and looked pretty okay for his age, but not great. His crushed Hollywood dreams had completely soured him on the acting profession, though. I wouldn’t call him bitter, exactly, but he was definitely jaded, and mostly he tried to discourage us from studying theater in college. I was the exception, which is how I knew I actually had talent.

  I managed to stay awake for the rest of class, but when the bell rang, Mr. Lazby called after me. “Walk with me, Jamie,” he said.

  As usual, it wasn’t a question. I think all his years of giving orders directing high school students in plays had made it impossible for him to actually ask someone to do something.

  “But I have—” I stopped talking because Mr. Lazby was already out the door.

  When I caught up to him, he glanced down at me and said, “Oh, there you are.”

  I had to take three steps for every one of his strides, but he plowed through the hallway, and everyone gave him plenty of room, so at least I didn’t get swallowed up by the crush. We’d reached the top of the stairs that led to the drama room before I could tell him I needed to get going and change for dance class.

  “Mr. Lazby, I—”

  He’d stopped walking to look through a file folder of typewritten pages.

  “Can you believe they’ve got me teaching Applied Language Arts again?” His sigh echoed down the stairwell. “You wouldn’t want to skip your next class and correct these atrocious essays for me, would you?”

  I’d done that for him before, and believe me, I didn’t want to read those papers any more than he did. The only good essays were the ones kids bought off the Internet.

  “I have dance class,” I said, “right now.”

  Mr. Lazby finally gave me his attention. “Dance? With Ms. Fitzpatrick? I don’t know why you bother with that woman.” And then he ran down the stairs so I had to follow him.

  “Mr. Lazby,” I said, “did you want me for something, or was it just to correct the essays?”

  “Oh, right,” he said. “Any word?”

  “About what?”

  “Your audition.”

  Finally he was making sense. “Oh. No. Nothing yet.”

  “Well, no news is good news,” he said. He pulled an orange out of the top drawer and peeled it. The sharp citrus smell filled the room, and my mouth watered.

  It had been less than a week since Krista got into Beaumont Design, and she’d asked me each and every day if I’d heard anything from drama school, but I was still waiting. Last fall, before the church had really gotten ahold of my dad, the two of us had flown to New York for the weekend so I could audition for the Redgrave Actors Conservatory and see some shows. I’d called my dad and left three messages asking him to drop my mail off at the school office, but so far he hadn’t.

  “I thought maybe you didn’t make the cut,” Mr. Lazby said, handing me a section of orange. “You’ve looked depressed lately.”

  I knew he really wanted me to succeed, despite being a frustrated actor himself. “The website says two to four months,” I said, “so I should find out by next week at the latest.”

  “Great. Well, let me know.” He popped the last piece of orange in his mouth. “Sure you don’t want to take a crack at those papers?”

  “Definitely not,” I said. “But thanks for asking.”

  He laughed. “Can’t blame a guy for trying.”

  On my way to lunch, it occurred to me maybe Dad had simply thrown out my mail. I was so busy imagining what I’d say to him if I found out he had that I didn’t see Josh until I ran right into him.

  “Sorry,” he mumbled.

  I grabbed his sweatshirt before he could get away. “Josh, wait. I need to talk to you.”

  “I can’t, Jamie. Derrick’s meeting me.”

&nb
sp; I pulled at his arm, leading him into the stairwell. In spite of the chocolate, I was kind of mad that Josh hadn’t tried to find me before. I had so much to tell him, but he looked so yummy with his blond hair, and bright eyes, and wide shoulders that I got distracted and tried to kiss him instead of talking.

  “Not here, J,” he said, prying my arms off of his neck.

  “What? Embarrassed by PDA now?” I asked, laughing. It felt good to laugh after the weekend I’d endured. “I miss you.”

  “I miss you too, but if Derrick sees us…”

  I crossed my arms. “He never uses these stairs.”

  He nodded at the stream of kids going up and down around us. “Someone else might tell him.”

  “We’re keeping this a secret from everyone?” I asked. Somehow I’d missed that part of the deal, and I didn’t like it.

  “We have to,” he said. “Please?”

  I sighed. “Whatever. But I have to talk to you. I have a lot going on, and I need your advice.”

  “Later,” Josh said. “I’ll find you.” He ducked through the door, leaving me standing there feeling like an idiot for counting on him.

  This whole secrecy thing was crazy, and it was pissing me off too. I had to get Josh alone, and there was only one place I knew for sure I could do that, but I’d have to check the wrestling schedule to find out which day would work.

  Josh was still mostly avoiding me for Derrick’s sake, but we did get a few stolen minutes behind the bleachers on Tuesday, and on Wednesday, we actually spoke for more than ten seconds. I tried to tell him how horrible the motel was, but once he’d heard I had found a room, that seemed to be all he cared about, and he’d distracted me with more kisses. He also slipped me another twenty bucks and a DVD of Love Me Twice, a romantic movie we’d seen together last fall, which was kind of useless to me since I didn’t have a television. I wondered if I could return it for cash.

  On Thursday, Derrick had a wrestling meet across town, so Josh and I made a date to meet in the weight room after school. During drama, I changed into my workout clothes, and when class was over, I headed for the gym. The weight room was long and low ceilinged, with mirrors covering one wall, and it smelled like feet. I made my way through the exercise equipment to the far end, where there was a pile of red mats, and I sat down to stretch next to them.