by W. H. Vega
~~~
Paul and Nancy grunt their greetings as the four of us kids pile into the ramshackle dump they call a home. Most guys my age would head straight for the pantry or fridge to rustle up some grub after a long day in the salt mines, but this isn’t an after school snack kind of joint.
I can’t remember the last time that we had something other than Chinese or pizza delivery for dinner, and only because I or one of the other kids go fetch it. Paul and Nancy prefer to drink their meals, so it falls on us to provide for ourselves.
I ditch my backpack in the basement and head back out to forage among the fast food joints this neighborhood has to offer.
“I’ll be back in a minute,” I say to no one in particular. Garrick and Conway have already disappeared into the depths of the house to occupy themselves however they like.
“Can I come?” says a voice from over my shoulder.
I turn to find Nadia lingering a few paces behind me in the dingy foyer. Like an idiot, I let my mouth fall open before any words have occurred to me. Slack-jawed and dimwitted: qualities I’m sure a girl like her would appreciate.
“Uh, sure,” I say, “I mean, if you really want to.”
“Beats sitting around here,” she says, following me out onto the porch.
“Don’t you have homework and shit to do?” I ask her, “Whatever you studious types get up to?”
“I finished it all while we were waiting for you,” she says with a smile.
I let out an appreciative whistle. “Damn, girl...that’s some freaky super genius shit.”
“I think it’s just called algebra,” she replies, “But thanks...I guess?”
As we approach the car, I have the ridiculous, out-of-nowhere urge to open passenger’s side door for my companion. Where in the hell and idea like that could have come from, I have no idea. I didn’t exactly grow up with any sort of gentlemanly, chivalrous types.
I hurry around to the driver’s side, knowing that a gesture like that would be all kinds of nonsense. This girl does strange things to me.
We drive along in silence for a long moment. My knuckles are white on the steering wheel as I try and play it cool. This is one of first chances Nadia and I have had to be totally alone, and I’m tweaking out just a little bit. And I don’t think my panic is going unnoticed, either.
From the passenger’s seat, Nadia steals short glances at me before turning her eyes back to the view from the window. I can tell she wants to talk, but I seem to have suddenly lost the ability. I’m plenty good at spitting game, but with Nadia...that’s the last thing I would ever think of.
Even though she’s stuck in the same trenches I am, she seems to be from a completely different world. Around her, I feel like I’ve never even talked to a girl before. Maybe, in some ways, I haven’t...at least, not a girl I was actually interested in knowing as a person.
“If I was harsh this morning...I’m sorry,” Nadia finally says, breaking the silence.
“What?” I say, surprised out of wordlessness. “Harsh is not the word I’d use.”
“I mean...I forgot to say thank you for dealing with that jerk,” she clarifies, “I’m used to taking care of myself, you know. I don’t quite know what to do with someone who’s trying to help me.”
“Yeah...I know the feeling,” I mumble.
“It’s weird, isn’t it?” she says, her voice full of wonder, “Having each others’ backs? I mean, I don’t think I can threaten to beat anyone down for you. But...I hope you know that I’m here for you, all the same.”
“Yeah. No. I get that,” I say, fumbling my words, “I mean, seriously, don’t try and fight any bitches on my behalf. But I know that if the time comes when I need you, you’ll be there.”
“Damn straight,” she says.
Both of us burst into laughter at her trying-to-sound-tough thing. This girl is far more Sesame Street than street, at least on the surface. Underneath, though, I can tell that she’s tougher than she looks. I don’t think I’d like her as much as I do if she wasn’t.
We fall back into silence as we drive along, but it’s changed somehow. It’s more comfortable, more familiar. I don’t feel like I need to impress her, or say the right thing. And good thing, too, because I don’t think I could if I tried.
I swing the car into some big name pizza place’s parking lot and cut the engine. We step out into the yellow street light together, and I take a minute to marvel at the fact that Nadia can still be so beautiful, even in the grimiest settings. Nothing can touch her—not Paul and Nancy, not our horrible school, not even whatever scars she must be sporting, having lost her parents. She’s practically untouchable.
“So this is your kingdom,” she says with a grin.
“Oh yeah,” I reply, “Only the best for me and mine. Sometimes, I even go in for extra cheese. But only when I’m feeling fancy.”
“Sure,” she says, “Can’t roll hard every day, right?”
Nadia sidles in close to me as we cross the parking lot. Night is gathering overhead, casting a shadow over our shabby neighborhood. But rather than mask the unpleasantness, nighttime has a way of intensifying it. After all, everything scary and wrong seems more possible at night than during the day.
Instinctively, I lay a protective hand on Nadia’s back. To my surprise, she doesn’t shrug me away. Instead, I feel her relax at my touch—like she trusts me, or something. I don’t think anyone’s trust has ever meant more to me than hers.
Out of the corner of my eye, I spot a shadow shift, just a hair. My adrenaline spikes, and I shift to place myself between Nadia and whatever’s out there, creeping through the darkness. Nadia looks up at me, concerned and alarmed.
“What is it?” she asks.
“I don’t know,” I tell her. “Just stay behind me, OK? Just until I can—”
“Trace?” says a rasping voice from the shadows. It’s a voice I know all too well. A voice that I wish to my nonexistent god I could forget. I feel my jaw tighten, my hands ball up into hard fists.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” I growl at the shadows. “You’re not allowed to come near me.”
“I know...but Trace, baby, I just miss you so much...”
My stomach churns as I watch a figure emerge from the heavy dark. A woman unfolds from the pocket of blackness unlit by the grubby streetlights. She looks worse than the last time I saw her, and that’s saying something.
Her frame has grown frighteningly gaunt, and her eyes look like they’ve receded into her skull. She wraps her arms around her painfully thin body, like she’s trying to keep warm even on this mild night. When she cracks a nervous smile, I see that her teeth have grown so yellow that they’re almost brown.
She’s a sickening, unwelcome sight, but for some reason I can’t look away. I draw in a ragged breath, trying to keep myself from being sick.
“Mom,” I begin, “You know we can’t talk. You’re gonna get in trouble if you—”
“I can’t help it, Trace,” she moans, swaying on her skinny ankles. “How am I supposed to stay away from my baby? You know I’ve never been able to.”
“No shit,” I mutter.
“I just wanted to see your face,” she says, her voice scraping through her throat. “You get more handsome every time I see you, you know.”
“Well, you’ve seen me,” I say bluntly, “Now get out of here, would you?”
“Don’t talk to me like that,” she says, “I gave birth to you, boy. You wouldn’t be here on this planet without me. You owe me a little respect.”
“I don’t owe you anything,” I spit. “Maybe, if you’d managed not to snort coke while you were pregnant with me, I’d owe you something. Maybe, if you’d found a real job instead of dealing whatever-the-fuck with Dad, I’d owe you something. If you hadn’t tossed me to the dogs when I was fucking ten years old—”
“I never wanted to give you up!” she screams, rabid. “They took you away from me, Trace! I never had a say!”
“Bul
lshit,” I shout right back, “If you’d actually given a shit, you would have pulled yourself together. Look at you. You were never fit to be a mother. My life has been total shit, going from one foster home to another, but it’s still better than it would have been if I’d been forced to stay with your pathetic ass.”
“Don’t say that...” she moans, “Don’t say that, baby...”
“I’m not your baby,” I tell her, “I’m practically a grown ass man, and no thanks to you. So next time you feel like you want to tell me how much I owe you, curb it, you bitch. I don’t want to hear it.”
“I’m sorry,” she wails, thick tears streaming down her dirty cheeks, “I’m so sorry, Trace. I know I’m not worth shit. I know I never deserved a sweet little son like you. I just wish you could forgive me. I can’t sleep at night, knowing you’re stuck in some stranger’s house without me. It kills me, baby, it really does.”
“Good,” I tell her, drawing myself up. Seeing her like this fucking kills me, but I don’t want her to know it. She can’t know how much I still care about her and Dad, even if they are miserable fucking junkies.
I dig the money for our dinner out of my pocket and stuff it into her claw-like hand. She blinks up at me in the dim street light, satisfied. I know that this is what she really came for. She’s been doing it for years. When I was little, I handed her my milk money. Now, she’ll take whatever I’ve got.
Why I still fork anything over to her, I can’t say. Especially when I know that all her bullshit about caring for me is just that—shit. I wish I was strong enough to tell her to go fuck herself and leave it at that. But even after all these years, I still want to be a good son.
“Stay the fuck away this time,” I tell her, “I mean it.”
“Whatever you say, baby,” she coos, clutching the money to her chest. “I love you so much, Trace. I’ll do whatever you say.”
“Until you need more smack money,” I reply. “You’ll never change, will you? Not until you OD or wander out into traffic or fucking kill yourself some other way.”
“Probably not,” she says, blankly. It’s the first honest thing that’s come out of her mouth all night.
I turn away from my mom to find Nadia standing there, silently. Her eyes are full of compassion, and understanding, and something that looks a lot like love. I can’t even look at her full in the face. I know that if I do, I’ll crack in a heartbeat. I grab onto her hand and bring her back to the car, climbing silently into the driver’s seat and peeling away from the pizza shop.
As we make our way home once again, I feel Nadia’s hand on my arm. Without speaking, I loose one hand from the wheel and let her take it in hers. We drive on without words—the simple act of holding hands says more than enough for the both of us.
Six
Nadia
A New Home
The first month passes slowly.
I’ve heard it said that settling into a new home is a process, but I wouldn’t know for sure. Truth is, I’ve never felt truly settled in any of the homes I’ve been shipped off to. The last place in the world where I felt secure and cared for was my parents’ home. Since my mom and dad passed away, I’ve all but given up trying to wrestle my heart into caring about any of the people or places around me. That is...until now.
Lord knows, the life that Paul and Nancy have to offer is no spring picnic. But even in this dingy row house, in this half-mad city, the insane thought keeps occurring to me that I could get comfortable here.
It all really comes down to one thing: I actually have friends here—not at school, but at home. Garrick, Conway, and especially Trace, are the closest thing to family I’ve had since my parents died. And it’s taken a little getting used to.
Having at least a handful of people around who actually care about me has been strange. The weirdest thing about it is that my old habits from my “previous life” are resurfacing again. Before my parents died, I was an incredibly early riser. I’d wake up before the sun and spend hours daydreaming and doodling and writing in my journal. Never, in any of my homes since, have I wanted to greet the day before absolutely necessary...but here, under the same roof as my new friends, I find myself waking up before dawn once again.
But perhaps the strangest thing I’m noticing these days is that I’m starting to feel...I don’t know a better word for it than beautiful.
People have been complimenting my looks since I was small, but I’ve never paid them any mind. My features have always just seemed like a random collection, just like everyone else’s. But being around Conway, and Garrick, and Trace is making me start to reconsider my disinterest in my looks.
It takes me the whole first month of living with the Daniels before I bring my newfound fascination to my foster sister. One night, after Paul has forced us to retire upstairs so that he can blast Man Vs. Food on the living room TV, I sheepishly ask Conway for her help.
“This is going to sound dumb,” I begin, sitting on my bed with my hands fidgeting in my lap, “But I was wondering if you could, uh...give me some lessons?”
“What could I possibly teach you?” Conway asks from behind her issue of Cosmo, “You’re the smart one in the house, sweetie. If you need a tutor, you’re barking up the wrong—”
“No. I want to figure out the whole...girly thing.” Conway stares at me in wonder, so I sigh and go on. “You know. Hair. Makeup. That sort of thing.”
“Are you kidding me?” Conway asks, sitting up on her pink comforter.
“Yeah. It’s stupid, I guess. I’m sorry for asking. Forget I—”
“It’s not stupid! I’ve been waiting to style you since you moved in!” she squeals, all but leaping across the room at me. “This thick hair of yours, those exotic features and shit...this is going to be so much fun.”
“I don’t want anything too drastic,” I tell her, “I just...I’d like to look nice. You know?”
“So who’s the guy?” she teases, pulling me over to a beat-up vanity strewn with beauty products.
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“Please,” she laughs, “There’s got to be a guy. Otherwise, why the sudden interest?”
Unbidden, the image of Trace floats up before my mind’s eye. I’ve stopped trying to convince myself that I’m not totally falling into stupid puppy love with him. The more I get to know him, the more I learn about his past, the more I feel like we were meant to end up in this place together. Nothing’s happened between us, of course. But...that doesn’t mean I’d stop it if it did.
Still, I’m not interested in dolling myself up for Trace’s benefit. He’s spent a whole month getting to know me just as I am, and we get along perfectly well. I’m not looking for a love spell, or some way to win his favor.
I’m just curious.
“I just want to try the whole beautification thing out,” I tell Conway. It’s the truth.
“Fine,” she sighs, “I’ll take your word for it. But I know you’re crushing on someone hard, whether or not this is for him.”
“How do you know that?” I ask.
“Nadia,” Conway says, placing her hands on my shoulders. “I’m your sister. I know.”
“I’ve never had a sister before,” I tell her, “I guess I’m still getting used to it.”
“Well, this should help!” she smiles, “Makeovers are, like, Sister 101. So relax. Let me show you the mystical, magical world of mascara, my love.”
Conway goes to work—brushing and plucking and painting. I’m concerned about how much this is going to make me look like a circus clown, but when she finally lets me look in the mirror, I’m floored.
The result of my foster sister’s ministrations is...gorgeous. My eyes look subtly smoky, with smooth cat eye swoops polishing the effect. My cheekbones are defined and rosy. My lips are a lovely shade of cocoa. My hair is arranged in loose waves that spill across my shoulders. The only thing that looks less than totally put-together is my slack jawed expression.
“You don’t hate it, do
you?” Conway asks nervously. “If it’s too much—”
I leap up and wrap my arms around the tiny girl. “It’s perfect,” I tell. “You made me look...beautiful, Conway.”
“You don’t need me to make you look beautiful. Or anything, for that matter,” she smiles, “But it’s fun to mess around, isn’t it?”
“It is,” I grin.
“Now,” Conway says, all business once more. “Let’s teach you how to dress, yeah?”
Our game of dress-up goes on late into the night. Conway is much smaller than I am, so we have to be a little creative with our styling. Slouchy sweaters, vintage tees, and some of my own clothes are strewn around the room by the end of our session.
The favorite look we come up with is a pair of boyfriend jeans I’ve had forever and a charcoal scoop neck top. The top is Conway’s, and fits me nice and snugly. I don’t think I’ve worn anything so tight out in public before, but there’s a first time for everything. Since I started developing as a young woman, I’ve been taught to hide my body away. But I’m tired of buying into that modesty myth. My body is nothing to be ashamed of.
Conway starts to fade, and falls asleep a little past two in the morning. I follow her off to dream world for a spell, but wake up just a few hours later. I smile through the window at the lightening sky.
We’re entering into the last weeks of fall, now. The trees are letting go of their colorful leaves at long last, and winter will be here in no time. A little churn of anxiety wrenches my stomach when I imagine being cooped up here with Paul and Nancy, but I’m sure that the other kids will make up for it.
Since I’ve been here, our foster parents seem to leave us alone for the most part...except when they’re in a shouting mood. And I, for one, have no complaints about that. As far as I can tell, they’ve forgotten that I’m here at all.
I roll out of bed and toss my new favorite outfit back on. All the makeup that Conway applied to my face is still pretty much intact, and I decide to leave it for the time being. I like catching glimpses of myself in the mirror, surprising myself with this newfound look.
