These Things About Us

by Laura Beege

  “You don’t have a visa, do you?”

  I shook my head, pulling another sigh from Alex’s chest.

  “How old are you?”

  “Eighteen.”

  “Well, at least we can work with that. Let me figure out the rest. Wesley, get her bags up to the top floor.” He motioned for a waiting customer to hold on another moment.

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Wesley hissed, barely loud enough for me to hear.

  “You wanted it like this, you take care of it.”

  Was it me? Wes grabbed my bags, and I felt like an obedient little dog, trailing behind him down a narrow hallway, past the restrooms and up a steep, old staircase.

  “Why is the top floor a bad idea?” I asked.

  “Trace and I have our rooms up there.”

  “Oh.”

  I wouldn’t have been too happy about sharing the floor with the illegal waitress/broke American/teenage girl that made my brother sick either.

  Wes led me to a door, unlocked it and opened his arm for me to walk in first. It was a simple bedroom. There was a double wide bed with white bedspreads in the middle, a dark chest of drawers against the wall and a small table with two worn chairs under the window.

  It was more than I’d expected. Harry Potter under the staircase and all that.

  Wesley walked in behind me, making the room infinitely smaller. He arranged my suitcase on the drawer and pushed his hands into his pockets, sent me an unsure look with his shoulders drawn up high.

  I raked my brain for something to say. “Do you regularly invite complete strangers to stay down the hall from you?”

  “There are two more floors filled with strangers right beneath our feet. I’m long over the fear of being stabbed during the night.”

  “I just…” I didn’t want to look like a complete idiot. “You seemed pretty insistent.”

  “Don’t wreck your brain. We really do need a waitress, unless I am supposed to blow off school so I can help out.”

  “Okay.” Selfish reasons. Those, I could understand. They didn’t seem as crazy as helper syndrome. “Thanks anyway.”

  Two

  Wes hadn’t told me where the bathroom was. I tiptoed out of my room and plucked at the shorts, so they wouldn’t be swallowed by the oversized shirt. I didn’t need anyone thinking I was a slut, running around half-naked in semi-public. Not that I hadn’t specifically chosen a time unlikely for any run-ins. It was late. Or more accurately: really early.

  Gripping my toothbrush like a mighty sword, I tried the first door – locked. Light spilled out from the second door, so I tried the last one. It lead to the room right next to mine and easily swung open into complete darkness. My naked feet hit the plush carpet. Carpet. Definitely not a bathroom. Damn it. Oh god, what if Wesley was sleeping just a few feet away. This could get really embarrassing.

  “Looking for something?”

  I shrieked and jumped around at the voice, coming face to face with a very naked, very wet and tattoo-covered chest. I blinked at the naked skin for a moment, then dragged my eyes up to meet Trace’s green stare. Those eyes were hard and cold. They sent an icy shiver down my spine.

  “I’m sorry,” I whimpered. I was pressed into the doorway. “I didn’t know this was your room.”

  Unfortunately my gaze fell and fell down to the grey towel that was loosely wrapped around his hips. A filigree tattoo trailed down his side and disappeared beneath the fabric.

  Oh holy… He was almost naked. “Sorry,” I repeated, “I didn’t want to.” This was bad. No more sexcapades was part of the whole fresh start thing. Leave it to Antonia to stare at naked men first chance she gets.

  I was here to leave Antonia behind. Here, I was going to be Tony. I screwed my lids shut and twirled to the side, pressing my forehead into the wall.

  “What the fuck are you doing here?”

  “I, my room…” I wanted to explain, but I couldn’t look at him. Not with this little fabric covering him up. So I smacked my hand over my eyes like a kid playing hide and seek, although I just wanted to hide and never be sought. “My room is over there.” I blindly pointed at my door.

  For a second, when he didn’t respond, I thought I might have stabbed him with my index finger, but then I heard the hammering. I opened my fingers to peek at Trace crashing his fist into the locked door.

  “Wesley!” he boomed.

  I watched the door being opened slightly and a sleepy Wesley poking his head out. His hair was all over the place. Trace didn’t give him the chance to find me perched across the hallway; he stormed into Wes’s room and banged the door shut. He started yelling right after but it was incomprehensible from here.

  Poor guests downstairs who had to endure that noise.

  Oh no. Wes was the one to pity. He was the one who got crap for talking his father into letting me stay. Oh no, no, no, no. I should have declined. Now, I couldn't just let him take all the blame. I pushed myself off the wall and charged right after Trace into Wesley’s room.

  Trace’s fist blew into Wes’s jaw. The smack rippled through me, flesh on flesh, bones just underneath. Wesley's head flew back, he lost his footing and bumped into his desk. A couple of pens clattered to the floor and my toothbrush fell from my hand.

  Trace was crazy. If he didn't want me on his floor, fine, he could just say so.

  “Shit,” he grunted and shook his hand, vaguely glancing at me over his shoulder.

  Wes clutched his face, shock still glazing his eyes when they fell on me.

  “Tony, get back to your room.” He uncurled himself from the desk and ripped me from my paralysis.

  I wanted to leave, flop down on my bed and unsee that punch, instead my feet carried me deeper into the dimly lit room. Before it even trickled down to my brain what I was doing, my hands gripped Trace's biceps, and I tore him further away from Wesley.

  He stumbled back a single step before realizing he was much stronger than me and could easily stop my feeble attempt. He yanked his arm free and glared down at me.

  “Tony?” He spit my name out. Great, even that disgusted him.

  “I think you're the one who should go back to their room.” The steadiness of my voice surprised myself, although I knew there was not a drop of fear in my veins.

  “You don't have a bloody say in what I'm supposed to do.” Trace worked his jaw. “You're not welcome here. You're not-”

  “Trace!” Wes cut him off and pulled me back by my shoulders. My back collided with his chest. I wasn't sure if he was trying to protect me or himself.

  “What? You scared I'd hurt her?” Trace threw his arm in my general direction, and I couldn't help flinching. Wes tugged me behind his arm although I doubted that would be much of a protection.

  “Actually, yes.” Wesley seemed calm, but his fingers trembled on my elbow.

  “Fuck!” Trace screamed and ran his hands through his hair as he turned his back on us. “Fuck you, Wes. Fuck you!”

  He bolted, banging the door shut and a moment later banging the door across the hall. We waited for another few seconds, neither of us breathing a word. Trace didn't come back and I didn't hear any signs of him throwing my suitcase out of my room, so he was probably calming down in his own room. Maybe I should teach him the breathing exercises my therapist taught me. They usually helped with the anger.

  “Are you okay?” Wesley searched my face for traces of fear.

  “I'm fine. I've been screamed at before.” I turned out of his hold on me and fell two steps back, putting a safe distance between us. “That punch looked terrible, though.”

  “Nothing to worry about. Brothers fight.”

  I finally had the last blank filled in. The smiliar features had suggested it but I'd seen cousins who looked like twins. Trace didn't just hit a relative, he hit his little brother.

  “I can leave, you know. I don't know why Trace hates me, but I don't want to come between you. Family's important.”

  “Tony, he decided that he gi
ves a damn about family a long time ago. This isn't your fault. These days anything will make him explode.”

  “Oh.”

  “Would you mind? I'd like to get back to bed.”

  “Oh, yes, sorry. Sorry.” I twirled around and awkwardly waved at him before slipping out the door and into my room as quickly as possible.

  I spent most of the night staring at the ceiling, trying to figure out what time it was in Arizona. My phone was still dead – London had weird sockets that didn't work with my charger – and I still sucked at math, which made my watch pretty useless in this regard. Finally, around four, my body decided that it would be okay to fall asleep now. Well, my body didn't take my new neighbor into regard.

  I heard the voices outside my door first, the low murmur that was Trace and a high-pitched, giggling companion. Not too long after that, I decided that earplugs were desperately needed. But I was not going to complain. I was not going to annoy Trace more than I already did. I was not going to be a pain in the ass. If he wanted to hook up with loud girls, he could hook up with loud girls. None. Of. My. Business. None at all. I would just press a pillow over my head and pretend that I didn't still hear them through the earplugs.

  Alex wanted me back by three, so we could fill out some paperwork. I still hoped that I might be out of here by then. Living under a roof with a crazy man wasn’t exactly my idea of fun, but I’d have to come to terms with that if I couldn’t find Mom today.

  I had called the last remaining number from the phone book about five times already but still nobody answered. Which meant I had no further clue, which meant I was most likely homeless for another night unless I worked for my accomodation.

  The subway was a puzzle I wasn't keen on taking on, so I rode the bus again, going back to the last specific address I had. The one on my list just above where it says 'Moved to Clapham with Aaron'.

  I liked the old houses, and on any other occasion I would've taken the time to appreciate the ornate carvings on some of them and the way the stone crumbled off others, but I couldn't spend too long on the beautiful doors and tall windows. I had a tight deadline.

  Yesterday, I'd only been able to talk to the neighbors. Maybe I could get a hold of the new residents. Maybe they had the new address for forwarding mail. I crossed the street and almost got run over by a black car. Stupid traffic rules. Couldn’t everybody just drive on the right side of the road? I ran my fingers through my curls and jogged up to the right house.

  You had to knock on the door, using a big iron handle because they didn't have a door bell installed. I had to remind myself that there was no time to marvel at the antiquated way of life. I took a deep breath and brought the door knocker down hard. Once, twice, three times.

  “Please, be home,” I whispered, kneading my fingers behind my back.

  The door swung open and a girl with the biggest grey eyes and dreadlocks in all colors of the rainbow grinned at me. “You're not the mailman girl, are you?” She knotted her arms in front of her chest and poked her tongue into her cheek.

  “Uhm, no. Is this your place?”

  “Oh lord, please do not tell me, you're here about the noise? I swear to Mother Nature that it's not us. It's those bastards from the house on the street out back.”

  “I'm not here about the noise either. My mom used to live here...”

  “Oh, you're here to grab the last box? Come in.”

  I could tell her the truth, but the image of the box popped into my thoughts and the idea of having something that belonged to my mother clawed itself into my mind. She left something and it could be mine in a matter of minutes.

  I stepped up and the girl closed the door behind me, dozens of bangles jingling on her arm.

  “I'm Sabrina.”

  “Tony,” I replied and outstretched my hand.

  Sabrina swapped it away and pulled me in for a short, but very tight hug. I couldn't help checking if my purse was still in my pocket afterwards. There had been a time when I knew exactly when somebody wanted to steal from me, but my little tricks were fading from me. They left along with the other things that made Antonia an unbearable person to be.

  “Come on up.” She waved me to the stairwell and jogged up in front of me, “Jon just made vegetable lasagna. It's delish. You have to try it. I'll be right there with your stuff. Get comfy. We love having people over.”

  Something was terribly wrong with all these people here. I didn't mind being treated uber-friendly, but this was just taking a spin towards crazy.

  She pushed me into a high-ceilinged kitchen that smelled of herbs and something similarly earthy. I tried to ignore that smell, tried not to notice the penetrating odor of Jon as he pulled me into a hug, too. He looked like Jesus in a wide white linen shirt, his dark hair falling to his shoulders and a beard framing his jaw. I doubted Jesus was stoned, though.

  “I'm Jonathan,” he whispered, “You can call me Jon. Or Moon Shadow.”

  That guy oozed weed. Calm down, calm down, I reminded myself. I wouldn't get upset because a stranger was on drugs. This was okay. Nobody expected me to share a joint with Jon. I just had to wait for Sabrina.

  “Tony.”

  “Cool. Do you want lasagna, Tony?”

  I looked at the cheesy goodness on the table. Most likely there were some special, secret ingredients in that, and they were not legal in this country.

  “I'd love to, but I just had a burger on my way here,” I lied.

  “Tony, did you know the romans just ate until they threw up and when their stomach was empty again, they continued eating. You can eat as much as you want to, here. The toilet is on the third floor.”

  “I'm not really into bulimia.”

  Jon spread his arms in a 'suit yourself' gesture and plopped down in a chair just when Sabrina came carrying a small box. My stomach sank to my feet. It was a tiny shoe box. What if all there was in it was a pair of pumps? What if all there was in it was Christmas tree decoration? You couldn't put much in a freaking shoe box. It wasn't even big enough to hold documents.

  “Here you go.” Sabrina pushed the box into my arms. It was fairly light. It definitely didn't contain much.

  I plastered on a fake smile. “Thanks.”

  I had ruined my chance to ask for the address for a pair of old shoes or yellowed postcards. If I asked for an address now, they would go stoner-paranoid on me. The dutiful daughter picking up her mom's stuff is supposed to know the address. I couldn't use the police getting involved in this. In the end, I’d be shipped back to the United States.

  “Are you staying for the lasagna?” Sabrina smiled, flashing a piercing under her upper lip.

  I shook my head.

  “Too bad. Listen, we're organizing this really cool party for next weekend. Basically everyone is invited. Here's my number. Text me if you're interested and I'll tell you when and where to show up.”

  That was so not going to happen, but I smiled and took the scrap of paper from her. She sported a marijuana leaf tattoo on her middle finger.

  I had to get out of this hellhole, get away from the heavy smell and Jon and the memories that I still had under control, wrapped up and stashed away. Far away.

  “Thanks,” I breathed, “I'll see you around. It was so nice meeting you.” I scurried for the door.

  Sabrina followed me to the stairs, called after me, “Say hi to your mum, she's such a nice lady.”

  I couldn't let her keep me. I had my mother's things. I had something. She probably had no idea where my mother was or how I could reach her. Otherwise she would have sent the box, right? Nothing was keeping me here for one more second.

  On the bus ride back to The Dirty Dungeon, my fingers cramped around the box, while I spent half an hour inhaling and exhaling on the count of four. If I hadn’t been in public, I could have done some more breathing exercises, but these were enough to steady my legs until I reached my room and set the box down on my bed. My composure didn't even crumble the least bit when I changed from my cardigan into a
plaid button down and tight black jeans, one of the last pieces of clothing I still had from then. The pants had studded pockets front and back and were ripped over my knees. I hoped they were convincing enough in terms of being able to deal with pissed prats. God knew my beige flats weren't intimidating.

  Finger-combing the mess that was my hair into a low ponytail helped a little, too. Now, I looked more like sixteen instead of fifteen. I’d take what I got.

  Alex didn’t hide his surprise at my somewhat edgier appearance, then gave me a wide grin and two thumbs up, before showing me around. It was a very basic bar with an old cash register and zero computer input, and I didn’t even have to do much besides waiting tables and heating food. Someone would always be behind the bar, taking care of the drinks.

  I filled in a form and we made the arrangement that I could keep the tips, and my payment for the work itself was the room upstairs. It was the best deal I’d made in a long time.

  “Are you good to go, then? We’re opening in ten minutes.”

  “I’m okay.” I unfolded the black apron and tied it around my waist, following Alex out of the office.

  “Wow, last night, I thought the whole shirt and no trousers thing was hot but clearly I have never seen you as a working girl. Tie that bow one more time. Please.”

  Wesley’s grin was crooked thanks to the swollen lip with a purple bruise spreading over his jawbone. You saw worse on TV every day, and he didn’t seem to hurt a lot, but the sole certainty that this wound was my doing – indirectly – made nausea explode in my stomach.

  I swallowed back the bile. “Very funny.”

  Alex crumpled his forehead at us, and I guessed he wouldn’t stop staring unless this situation – mostly his son’s state and words – was explained.

  “And I wore pants,” I added quickly.

  “I didn’t see any,” he chuckled.

  Oh, God. Hadn’t he sold me as the waitress who Trace would not sleep with? Did he really want me kicked out for his amusement now? My face was burning. His father had to think I was a total tramp, losing pants on my first night here.