by W. H. Vega
“For now you do,” Nadia says, “But how about when one of them goes too far? What would have happened if Garrick hadn’t stopped Paul when he was after Conway? What if Nancy decides that she needs a punching bag and uses one of us? What then?”
“We’ll deal with that if it happens,” I say.
“It’s not a matter of if, Trace,” Nadia says, “It’s a matter of when. And you know it just as well as I do.”
The four of us lapse into an uneasy silence, drinking in the truth of Nadia’s words. In a few months time, I’ll be free of the Daniels forever. But can I really leave the others to fend for themselves here without me?
“You know what...” Garrick mumbles, “I could use...a fucking drink.”
I laugh, happy to have the tension cut through. “That sounds good to me,” I say.
“I’ll have what you boys are having,” Conway chimes in, relaxing in Nadia’s arms.
I dig a bottle of Jack and three shot glasses out from under the couch. The drinks I pour are liberal, and Nadia stares at them long and hard for a moment before speaking.
“Where’s mine?” she asks.
I look up at her, surprised. Nadia never joins us in our imbibing, but she looks dead set tonight. I nod approvingly and rustle up another glass, doling out a fourth shot of booze. We all seize our glasses with weary appreciation.
For most kids our age, drinking is a novelty. Sneaking into your parents’ liquor cabinet and having a sip of Bailey’s is like the thrill of the century. But for us, booze is a balm. It’s something we can come together and share as friends, as family, as the war buddies that we are.
We raise our glasses in a silent toast to each other and toss back the shots. I watch Nadia out of the corner of my eye as she samples the booze. She doesn’t even wince as the strong medicine goes down. I smile grimly at her tolerance, her poise.
Even in this dingy fucking basement, some level of hell on earth, she still manages to be drop dead gorgeous. We lock eyes across the darkened basement and share a secret moment of commiseration.
Without asking anyone whether they’re in the mood, I pour another round of shots. It’s going to be one of those nights here at the Daniels house.
~~~
After school the next day, Nadia and I plan to slip off together for some one on one time. This has become a daily occurrence, and thank god. I think it’s keeping us both sane. I bring Garrick and Conway home straightaway after school, linger in the parking lot and chain smoke until Nadia is done with mock trial, or yearbook, or whatever other club meeting she has.
She hops into the passenger seat, tucks her long hair behind her ears, and we’re off. It doesn’t even matter where we go or what we do after that, just as long as we’re in the same place.
I look up as the front doors of the school open and Nadia comes strolling out. She’s wearing one of Conway’s vintage dresses from the eighties or something, and damn does she make that frock look good. It’s this grungy plaid print, and just short enough to show off her incredible legs. I get so distracted by the fine shape of her calves that it makes me a minute to realize that she’s not alone. There’s some guy walking beside her, too close for my own comfort.
He’s wearing a varsity jacket, of all things, and his dark hair is cropped close to his head. His skin is a dark olive, and he’s sporting a big toothy grin aimed straight at Nadia. They’re laughing about something, and her nose is crinkled in that adorable way it gets when she’s having a really good time.
I’ve never been territorial about girls before, and certainly not protective. But something about the way this lug leans toward Nadia boils the blood in my veins. Before I know what’s happening, I’m striding across the parking lot toward Nadia and Mr. Loverboy himself.
“Nadia,” I call, taking the front steps two at a time.
She turns toward me, all smiles. It’s only when she sees my expression that the corners of her mouth fall a bit.
“Hey Trace,” she says, feeling out my mood, “What’s up?”
“You ready to go?” I ask, flatly ignoring the neanderthal with the varsity letter.
“Aw, you’re heading out already?” the jock says, pouting like a goddamn pansy, “We were just getting to the meat of the conversation.”
I have a feeling that the “meat” this guy is so preoccupied with has nothing to do with conversation. Balling my hands into tight fists, I swing my gaze his way.
“We’ve got plans,” I say, fighting to keep my tone even.
“Is that true, Nadia?” the dude asks.
“You think I’m a liar, buddy?” I snap, taking a step toward him.
“Hey, cool it,” he says, rolling his eyes at me. “I’m not looking for any trouble, OK?”
“That so?” I say, “Cause chatting up another guy’s girlfriend is a pretty good way to land yourself in a shit ton of trouble, in my experience.”
“Girlfriend?” the jock says, looking over at Nadia.
I hold my breath, as Nadia takes the longest pause in the history of the world. I didn’t mean for the “g word” to slip out. It just happened. She’d be in the right to slug me across the face for laying some kind of claim to her. But instead of taking a swing, she takes a step toward me instead.
“That’s right,” she says amiably, “Guess it never came up.”
“No. It didn’t,” the lug says gruffly. Clearly, he had plans for his little chat with Nadia that went beyond a pleasant discussion. It takes more than a little will power not to punch his stupid face in for assuming that he’d ever be good enough for Nadia.
“We’ve got to be off,” Nadia says, taking my hand in hers, “See you later, Bryan!”
“Yeah Bryan,” I grin, “See you later.”
Nadia and I turn away and walk back to the car, hand in hand.
“You didn’t have to gloat,” she whispers conspiratorially.
“That’s where you’re mistaken,” I say, squeezing her hand tighter, “If you’re serious about being my girlfriend, I’m going to be gloating all day every day.”
“You’re incorrigible,” she tells me, grinning.
“You’re beautiful,” I reply, opening the passenger side door for her. She stops in her tracks and stares at me, mouth open. “What?” I ask, “What did I say?”
“It’s just...I don’t think you’ve ever told me that before,” she says softly.
“Maybe not out loud,” I say, “But I’ve been thinking it since the day we met. And from now on, I’m going to tell you every single day.”
“Trying to give me a superiority complex?” she smiles.
“Something like that,” I say.
We slide into the car and set off, our faces plastered with the biggest shit eating grins anyone’s ever seen. I’ve never been anyone’s boyfriend before, but I think it’s something I could get used to. I reach for Nadia’s hand again, thrilling at the simple contact.
If Garrick or any of my guy friends could see me now, they’d hand me my ass on a silver platter. But it’s just me and Nadia, our own little world of two. If I had it my way, we’d never have to be anywhere but at each other’s side. But life has a pretty shitty way of intervening when things are good.
Ten
Trace
Girlfriend and Boyfriend
The afternoon flies by, as it always does when it’s just us. We hit the diner, and I submit to Nadia’s tutoring for a couple of hours. Every time I get an answer right, she lets me have one of her extra crispy fries. It’s a good system we have worked out.
After we pay for our grub, we park over by the pond for a while and just talk. We plan our fantasy getaway plan, as we do most days. We think up creative way to escape the Daniels’ house, book a ticket on a plane or a ship, set off where no one will ever find us.
But the light begins to fade in no time at all, and we turn ourselves toward home. Garrick and Conway have taken to setting out on their own excursions to limit their time at home, so I don’t have to worry about the
m all evening.
The four of us are all better off the less time we can spend under Paul and Nancy’s roof. The real question is, what the hell and I going to do once I turn eighteen, knowing that the others are still there? Guess we’ll figure that out then.
I pull up to the crappy row house and walk Nadia across the scrappy front lawn. As we drag ourselves up the porch steps, the front door swings open before us. My every muscle tightens as Nancy staggers into the doorway, blinking out at us.
“Where the hell have you been?” she slurs.
“Out,” I say shortly, pushing past her into the house.
“I’ve been waiting...for dinner...for hours,” the woman complains, grabbing at Nadia’s arm. “Where’s dinner?”
“Haven’t you already slurped it up?” I ask, nodding toward the half-empty vodka bottle in her fist.
“I can make you something now, if you’d like,” Nadia offers. “What are you in the mood for, Nancy?”
“Why...are you so...fucking...nice?” the ragged woman drawls, starting at Nadia like she has eight heads.
“Just the way I was raised, I guess,” Nadia shrugs. “How does stir fry sound?”
Nancy nods, dazed by Nadia’s composure. I follow Nadia into the kitchen as our foster mom stumbles back into the living room to plant herself in front of the TV.
“You don’t have to do that,” I tell her, “She’ll be asleep again in no time.”
“It’s still a nice gesture,” Nadia shrugs.
“Why bother?” I ask, “They’ll still be abusive assholes, no matter how many meals you whip up for them.”
Nadia is about to reply when something over my shoulder catches her eye. I spin around and see Paul leaning heavily against the threshold of the kitchen doorway.
“Abusive asshole, huh?” he asks. His voice is clearer than usual, but even more intimidating for that.
“You know it’s the truth, Paul,” I say, squaring off with him across the kitchen.
“If I’m such an asshole, why don’t you get out?” he asks, taking a step toward me.
“And deprive you of your tax credit? I don’t have the heart,” I say, rolling my eyes.
“Where the hell do you two keep sneaking off to?” Paul demands suddenly.
Nadia’s voice is small as she says, “I’m tutoring Trace in—”
“Bullshit,” Paul cuts her off. “You’re fucking aren’t you?”
“No!” Nadia says quickly.
“That’s none of your goddamn business, Paul,” I say.
“The hell it isn’t!” the man growls, “This is my house. You follow my rules. And I won’t have any of you bumping uglies on my watch.”
“No,” I say, “You’re the only one allowed to get your rocks off around here at our expense, right Paul?”
“What the hell does that mean?” he demands, “What are you—?”
“We know what you tried to do to Conway,” Nadia says quickly, “That’s not OK, Paul. There are limits, you know.”
“I didn’t do anything to that little stick,” he says, waving off our accusations.
“You were probably too drunk to remember,” I say, “And besides, Garrick stopped you in time. But if you try something like that again, I’ll be there to stand in your way. And I’m not the type to take a beating, Paul.”
The man’s eyes swing from me to Nadia, resting on her beautiful, fearful face for a moment longer than I’m OK with.
“My house,” he repeats, crossing to the fridge. “My rules. Deal with it.”
Paul snatches a beer out of the refrigerator and stalks back to the living room. I watch him go, my hands balled into fists at my side. I feel Nadia’s hands on my shoulders. They’re trembling. I turn to her, pulling her tightly against my body.
“Don’t worry,” I say, smoothing down her smooth, dark hair, “Nothing’s going to happen to you while I’m around. You’re safe with me. No one’s gonna hurt you on my watch, Nadia. You have my word.”
Eleven
Nadia
The Cold of Winter
Winter falls heavily upon our troubled home. With each passing day, we lose a little more daylight, a little more freedom from the suffocating tension that’s simmering within our little row house. The first symptoms of cabin fever start to make themselves known as the six of us are forced to spend more and more time indoors.
Chicago winters are not for the faint of heart, and even though we’ve been through our fair share, braving the outside world is a chore to be undertaken.
For the first few months of my stay with the Daniels, us foster kids had all but free reign. Paul and Nancy were vaguely threatening, but not in the present tense. Sure, they raised their drunken voices and hollered about noise and mess, but things never really escalated from there.
Paul’s advances on Conway and subsequent beating of Garrick set a whole new precedent for relations inside the home. Since that night, we’ve been on high alert for more chaos, more violence. And though no one’s gotten hurt in the last few weeks, the mood in the house has shifted for the worse.
As temperamental as our foster parents have always been, they’ve always shown something of a united front. Paul and Nancy have their routines, just like anyone else. They get home from work, sink down in front of the TV together, drink themselves into oblivion, and repeat. But ever since Paul went after Conway, their resigned bond has started to crack.
Fights erupt between them at the slightest provocation. More than once, a glass bottle has gone sailing across the room, missing one or the other’s skull by mere inches. I wouldn’t be too broken up if Paul or Nancy got a nice concussion, but there’s the bigger picture to consider.
The sun is setting through the smudged windows of the bedroom I share with Conway when another fight breaks out downstairs. My foster sister looks up nervously from her magazine, pricking up her ears to take in the details. I close my science textbook as quietly as I can and hold my breath as some piece of furniture topples over on the ground floor. Nancy’s voice is agitated and hurt as she rails at Paul, almost incoherently. But even with her slurring, a few phrases come through loud and clear.
“They’re gonna snitch on us,” she moans, “After what you did to that boy’s face, it’s only a matter of time.”
“You see any cops knocking down our door?” Paul shoots back, “I’m not a goddamn idiot. I know how to keep them kids in line.”
“Used to, sure,” Nancy says, “But you’re losing it, bud. We’ve had this system all worked out for years. Throw the little brats some table scraps, collect all the perks. Never had a problem before. Not until you started getting distracted by a couple of tight, young asses...”
Conway and I trade nervous glances, knowing that Nancy is talking about us.
“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” Paul grunts downstairs.
“Bullshit!” Nancy screams, “You think I’m blind or something? You think I don’t see you checking those girls out whenever you get the chance? You don’t just peek, neither. You...leer. You ogle. You’re a dirty old man getting his dick hard to jail bait.”
“Haven’t done nothing wrong,” Paul growls, “Haven’t touched either one of them. Can’t pin nothing on me, you crazy old bat.”
“And how long’s that gonna last?” Nancy demands, “How long before you let those hands of yours wander where they please and ruin everything for us?”
“You think I’m some kind of monster, huh?”
“You’re damn right I do.”
“Like you’re some kind of fucking saint,” Paul spits, “Staggering around here, drunk off your ass, couldn’t fry and egg if you had an instruction manual.”
“You saying I don’t know how to keep a home?” Nancy presses.
“Fucking right!” Paul cackles, “If I’d known how shitty of a wife you’d turn out to be, I would have just left you to be a single teen mom, guilt be damned.”
“You don’t mean that,” Nancy says quietly.
�
��Fuck if I don’t,” Paul shoots back, “Only reason I married you was ‘cause you forced me into it. For the baby’s sake. And then, and then, you go and have a goddamn miscarriage as soon as the ink on the marriage license is dry? Knowing full well I couldn’t afford to divorce your ass, of course. You tell me that I’m the monster, that I’m gonna ruin everything, well...guess what. You ruined everything a long time ago. When you wouldn’t get that half-alive lump of tissue suctioned out of your gut like I told you—”
A heartrending screech tears through the halls as all hell breaks loose down below. Glass shatters, blows land, the whole place trembles on its foundation. Conway and I abandon our posts and race down the rickety steps. As we swing out into the foyer, we see the basement door fly open.
Garrick and Trace launch themselves at the battle that’s raging between our foster parents. Trace puts himself between the warring couple as Garrick seizes a thrashing Nancy in his strong arms. Paul retreats to a corner of the kitchen, a harsh red handprint burning on his cheek. Nancy looks positively mad, her limp hair askew, her eyes flashing.
“Let go of me!” she screams, flailing viciously against Garrick’s solid form.
“Just calm down,” Garrick says, tightening his hold.
“Don’t you tell me to call down! This man is a demon. A perverted fucking demon from hell. I’m gonna kill him. You let me—”
“Shut up, Nancy,” Trace says, keeping his voice low and even, “Let’s just cool down—”
Nancy’s growls give way to sobs as we all look on, aghast. She crumples to the floor, her anguished tears streaking cheap mascara all over her lined face. We stand, silent and horrified by her sudden show of emotion. My heart strains at its sensitive casing. Even after all the heartache I’ve been through myself, I’m still way to empathetic for my own good. I can’t just stand here and let this woman cry herself to sleep on the kitchen floor, no matter how vile she might find me. I take a tentative step forward, seeking to comfort Nancy.
“Get back,” Trace warns, his eyes fixed on our foster mother’s flushed face.
