by Stasia Black
More crying.
“If only you hadn’t turned evil and chased your father away. You ruined everything.”
I curled into an even tighter ball, my stomach growling with hunger. I looked over at the package of beef jerky I’d been saving for dinner. It was the end of the month. I’d used up all the checks. The food currently in my room was all we’d have left all week. I had two granola bars (good for fiber), a third of a box of cereal and half a quart of milk (good for protein and calcium), two candy bars (one could last me for at least half a day if I drank enough water), one package of jerky pieces, four slices of bread, and a quarter stick of butter (toast was a staple for me) all neatly stacked at the back of my closet.
Mom had gotten too big to fit through my bedroom door. It had been a twisted blessing when she hit that point. She was forced to stay in the living room. We had to widen the bathroom door and moved the couch so close it was only a few steps to the toilet, which was about all Mom could walk.
“I’m so hungry, baby. Just bring me a little something. How about a candy bar? Or some jerky? I just need something? Come on, show me that my sweet little boy still lives in there somewhere. I need to see him tonight. I need it so bad. Come on, be the little boy that Mama loves. Things can be different. Come out baby.”
I look to the door. Mama. “I want that, too, Mama,” I whisper. I know she can’t hear me. She’s crying again.
I’m so tired. Her crying’s kept me up all night. I just want her to not be sad.
Sometimes her crying makes me mad and then I feel bad for it because she’s so sad. She’s sick. She has to take shots every day. I hate shots. Seeing those needles makes my stomach hurt.
I wrap my arms around my tummy and look over at the jerky again. It’s a bigger package. Maybe I could take it out there and Mama and I could share. That’d be nice. She said she wanted it to be like it used to.
I still have a few memories from before Daddy left. I was happy once, I think.
Maybe there’s still a chance for Mama and me. She sounded different tonight, right? Like maybe we can change how things are?
My stomach growls and I look toward the door.
I know if I don’t go out with something, Mama won’t even talk to me. So I’ll share the jerky. Like, what was that thing I just learned about in school? Oh yeah. A peace offering. That’s what I’ll do. I’ll take her half my jerky as a peace offering.
Then we can talk about how we want to change things. Like grownups.
That part makes me smile. I’m only ten and a half, but I’m pretty grown up already. This is a good plan. A good grown-up plan.
Carefully, I peel open the package of jerky. I separate out the pieces. It smells soooooo good, but I don’t even take the smallest nibble. There’s an uneven number, so I give Mom the extra piece.
Then I take a deep breath and push my door open, carefully balancing both portions, one on each side of the plastic jerky package.
Mom’s breath hitches as soon as she sees me.
“Hey Mama,” I say tentatively as I walk toward her. “I brought you something.”
“Give it here.” She lifts her large arm toward me.
I don’t hesitate. I hurry to her side and set her half of the jerky in her hand, then I back away. She’s snatched food from me before. She shoves all her pieces of jerky in her mouth at once. She chews a few times and swallows, chews, then swallows. For a moment, her eyelids flutter and she looks to the ceiling.
But then her eyes come back to me. Or rather to my hand. “Give me that.” She gestures at the rest of the jerky.
“I wanted to talk to you about that.” My voice trembles as I say it. I’ve always just hidden the food away. I never tried talking to Mom about it directly. Maybe that was always our problem. The school counselor comes into the classroom sometimes and talks about how important communication is. She says you should start with ‘I feel’ statements and make sure not to accuse the other person so they don’t feel attacked.
I swallow and try again. “I feel like it would be good if we split the food half and half. Like, that would be fair.”
Mama sputters disbelievingly, mouth full of jerky. “That makes no fucking sense. Look at you. You’re a little nothing compared to me. I need way more food to survive than you. You’re a little kid. A few hundred calories and you’re fine for the day. Now give me that fucking jerky. Right now.”
I back away. No. That’s not how this is supposed to go. The counselor lady said that when you talk this way, the other person will listen and—
“Get over here with my food, you little shit! I swear if you take one more fucking step, I’ll get up off this chair and fucking chase you. You want me to break my other hip? I have diabetes so bad I can barely walk and the last time I went to the doctor he was threatening to amputate my leg. That’s what you want, isn’t it? You won’t be satisfied until I’m dead. I knew it. You hateful little fucking bastard. Spitting image of your cunt of a father. I could never love you. No one will ever love you, you—”
“Stop it!” I hate it when she talks ugly. I just want to get away. Away from the ugly. Away from her.
I throw the beef jerky at her and run back to my room. Even before I get there, I see in my periphery that she’s finally shifted slightly on the couch. She’s rooting around all over the floor for the jerky on the ground.
She fucking disgusts me. I run to my bedroom and slam the door shut behind me. The ugly is in me now. It’s always been in me—
I jolt upright in my bed. It’s morning and I’m in my condo. Shit, it was just a dream. Well, it was a memory, but Christ, it felt real, reliving it so vividly like that. I rub my palms against my eyes. Goddammit, my guts are still churning. I look around me.
I don’t think it’s just from the dream either.
Something feels off.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed and pull on some sweatpants. Then I jog over to Scarlet’s bedroom. It’s so early, morning light is just barely trickling in through the blinds throughout the apartment.
I grab the doorknob of Scarlet’s door, expecting it to be locked. Instead, it gives easily. I don’t give a shit if I’m rude with barging in like this, I’m not ignoring the bad feeling I’ve got.
I shove the door open. “Scarlet?”
No reply. I’m at her bedside in the next second. And fuck, I couldn’t tell because her curtains and blinds were shut tight and it’s so dark in here, but her bed is made.
“Scarlet?” I call again, turning toward her bathroom.
Don’t freak the fuck out yet. Maybe she just got up really early. She was anxious last night about her brother. She might not have been able to sleep well.
But a quick glance shows the bathroom’s empty.
Maybe she’s grabbing breakfast?
I hold onto that hope with everything I’ve fucking got until I make it to the kitchen and see the note by the coffeemaker. It’s her writing—that same looping script I saw so often on snatches of notes she’d write as little reminders to herself.
I grab the small piece of paper and read it quickly, then run it between my thumb and forefinger.
No. I squeeze my eyes shut like I can pretend I never saw it. But then I force myself to read it again.
I wish you well in your life, Kennedy. Some part of me will probably always love you. But there was too much stacked against us from the start. I have an idea of where Enzo might have gone. I’ll go get him and then we’ll leave San Francisco. I’m sorry for not saying this in person. I’m a coward and this is easier. I wish only good things for you. I hope, if you ever think of me, you can wish me well, too. Goodbye. —Scarlet
I crumple the note in my hand and walk for a little bit, dazed. I make it to the living room before the full impact of everything she wrote hits me.
I grab a stupid vase my interior decorator put on an end table and smash it against the wall. Then I upturn the table itself. And I yell from the bottom of my guts. Because Scarlet’s j
ust ripped them out.
Chapter 23
SCARLET
As I head back into the 12th Streeters’ territory while weak morning light strains through the San Francisco fog, I’m struck by a sense of déjà vu. Was it really only two months ago that I first approached the gang with my plan to ruin Kennedy?
Kennedy. Even thinking his name brings a slice of pain. I did the right thing leaving. I did. We would only keep destroying each other. It could never work.
So why does the thought of never seeing him again hurt so bad?
I glance around at the dirty streets. Yeah, it definitely feels like another lifetime since I first came here actually looking for gang members. Like I was another woman. A really, really stupid woman.
The desperation feels the same, though. I’m not desperate for money or revenge this time. I just want my brother back. I suspected Enzo came here all along, but I spent all night checking out our other old haunts just in case. I prayed he wasn’t this stupid. But God, maybe it runs in the family.
Still, doesn’t he realize how much money I gave up to get him out of here yesterday? Doesn’t he realize how dangerous these people are?
Eyes watch me as I walk down the sidewalk. None of them are friendly. I clutch my backpack straps tight. It wasn’t smart to have brought it into this neighborhood. None of them know it only has clothes in it. People see a backpack and they think: laptop. I’m a white woman walking all alone in a bad part of town carrying a backpack. God, I’m just asking to be jacked with.
I didn’t even think to put on my old disguise. I’m wearing one of my new dresses. A freaking dress of all things. And my hair might be in a ponytail, but it’s still visible. I’m a blonde white chick in a somewhat frilly dress. Just walking straight into the bad part of the Tenderloin District.
God, I internally shake my head at myself. This right here is exactly the problem of any time spent out in that fake world. One month off the streets and it’s like I’ve forgotten every lesson I ever learned. Who knows what Enzo’s been through in that same time. He’s been in the bosom of the 12th Streeters. God knows he’s at an impressionable age. Just look what happened when he started hanging out with the other street kids. Spend enough time with a group of people and you can normalize anything.
I was off getting a taste of the pretend outside world. Meanwhile, I left my brother in the worst underbelly that the streets have to offer. What the hell did I think would happen?
And now because I screwed everything up, we’re even worse off than when we started. No money, no more bargaining chips, me with a broken heart, and Enzo mixed up with a gang. Bravo, big sister Scarlet.
Sometimes I think he would have been better off growing up in foster care. Yeah, you hear stories, but at least he would have had a warm bed and food in his belly.
And he’d live to see his eighteenth birthday.
But if he stays mixed up with the 12th Streeters?
My footsteps quicken. There’s a Mexican food restaurant that’s famously an 12th Streeter’s hangout on the next corner.
When I approach, though, two guys step out in front of my path, causing me to stop so abruptly, I teeter forward a little into the street.
One of the guys grabs my arm. He’s a big brick wall of a man, with a round face and shaved head. At first I think he’s reached out to steady me. But then he starts dragging me forward. He’s not gentle about it.
And damn, he’s just a giant. I’m tall for a woman, five-ten, but this guy towers over me, big and beefy like a linebacker. I try to pull away.
“Look, I just need to talk to Francisco about something. You can search me and my bag. I’m totally unarmed. I just want to talk.”
The guy holding my arm looks past me to the other guy and they both do this laugh-scoffing thing like they know something I don’t.
“What?” I ask, trying to dig my heels into the pavement as we cross the street. I need to slow them down until they answer my questions. “I just need two minutes with Francisco, then me and my brother will be on our way. You’ll never have to see me again.”
They say something to each other in Spanish. I don’t catch much of it other than that they are talking about their cock, balls, and the size of my mouth.
My heart starts beating really fast and really loud—I can hear the blood rushing in my ears. Crap, crap, crap, I think I might have made a really big mistake coming here. But I’m already in too deep. Maybe I can still assert myself and take control of the situation. I twist away from them and walk into the restaurant on my own power.
It’s warm inside and the restaurant seems nicer than a neighborhood like this deserves. Then again, I’ve noticed that about the Tenderloin. Much to the consternation of the residents like the 12th Streeters, the neighborhood is going the way of gentrification. I can only imagine how much this space costs to rent each month.
It smells good inside. What can I say? When I’m stressed the hell out, focusing on any distraction helps me calm down. The scent of fresh cilantro is heavy in the air and I really, really wish I was just here for some authentic Mexican food than for…whatever the hell you’d call what I’m doing.
Hopefully not a suicide mission.
“I’ll just talk to Francisco for a few—”
“Shut up, bitch,” says the second guy and then the giant grabs my upper arm again and starts dragging me through the restaurant.
Damn it. There goes my short-lived bid for equal footing. I look over at the second guy who seems to be calling the shots. Everything’s been happening so fast I haven’t had much chance to look him over, but now I do. Tattoos cover his body, even up over his neck. Large metal gauges pierce his ears. He must feel me looking because he glances back at me over his shoulder and I’m forced to look away under that hard, soulless glare.
The man holding me might be as big as a bear, but I get the feeling the other is the true brute of the pair. And the leader. Why is that always how it is? The more ruthless you are, the further you get in life. I try to keep my shiver inside and not give away just how scared shitless I’m starting to feel.
Stay cool. Project total calm. I’ve been in crazy situations before. Enzo and I were attacked a couple times and even when there wasn’t violence, we had to deal with a lot of crazy crap. Just keep breathing and stay calm. I’ve survived cancer. Years on the street. I can make it through this.
Probably.
Maybe fifty-fifty, I make it out.
The first time I came here and asked for Francisco, they just had me wait in one of the restaurant booths. If I’m honest, I know that’s what I was hoping for again.
Silly me.
The huge linebacker guard and the creepy tattooed guy drag me through the double doors into the back kitchens. Okay, they’re just taking me into the back. They don’t want to make a scene in front of the patrons. I get that. It makes sense…
They don’t stop at the kitchens. Grouchy Face the Giant just keeps dragging me along by my arm past a dishwasher that’s expelling steam and toward a dark corridor.
Oh crap, oh crap.
Okay, so maybe my chances are more like sixty-forty. With, you know, the forty meaning the chances that I manage to get me and Enzo out of here alive.
And what if I miscalculated and Enzo didn’t even come here? I mean, I spent all night checking out all our other haunts, but still. This is not a good situation. Shit, shit, shit.
When they open a door that leads down a dark stairwell, all the alarm bells sound in my head. I’m feeling those chances for my getting out of here dropping every foot deeper they take me in.
Crap. Shit. Yeah, this is definitely an appropriate time for cuss words. Shit. Fuck. Double fuck.
“You know what, forget about it.” I try to dig my feet into the linoleum flooring to stop the momentum of the giant dragging me. “I think I’ll come another time or maybe I’ll look somewhere else—”
“Too late, bitch.” The tattooed guy shoves me from behind.
I s
cream as I stumble and start to fall down the top few stairs. The huge guy catches me by my backpack and without a word, half-carries, half-drags me the rest of the way down.
Shit! I go limp and clutch the backpack straps instead of fighting. The last thing I want to do is actually get free and fall down the rest of the stairs. A freaking broken neck would just be the fitting end to all this BS, wouldn’t it? But then I squeeze my eyes shut tightly.
No, damn it. I haven’t come this far to let these bastards take me down without a fight. I can talk my way out of this. For God’s sake, I just made Francisco a very rich man. Maybe loyalty to an outsider like me doesn’t mean very much, but God, it can’t have all been for nothing. I refuse to let it end this way.
Then I open my eyes. What the hell, Scarlet? So a bunch of scary pricks are dragging you deeper into their lair, or whatever the hell macho gangsters call their hideouts. Crypts? No, that’s the name of a gang.
Their cribs, that’s what they call them, I think. Or is that just the name for an individual house, not like, a hangout like this?
Damn it, I’m doing that thing where I focus on nonsensical crap instead of, you know, the mortal danger I’m in. I used to do it all the time when I was on the streets. I’d get through the rare winter night that dropped below freezing by replaying old Days of Our Lives episodes in my head. I always DVR’d them when I was a teenager and would replay the especially juicy ones over and over.
That Sami really never had much luck in love, did she?
The huge guy drags me across a dimly lit, smoke-stinking den area with a few couches and a pool table. A couple guys are passed out on the couches. No one looks up as I’m hauled through the room.
“Wait, I just want to see Enzo,” I call loudly. If Enzo’s around, maybe he’ll hear me. “If I could just talk to Enzo?”
“Quiet, cunt,” says tattooed man, “if you don’t want your mouth shut for you.”
I twist in all directions, trying to memorize the halls and doorways as I’m yanked down a dark corridor off the main basement. The mean, tattooed guy opens one of the last doors and flips on the light. It’s empty except for a single folding chair.
