Want You

by Jen Frederick

  * * *

  “You okay?” I ask Bitsy, who is fiddling with a tube of lip balm.

  She’s been quiet since the Arturo thing. I know it’s scarred her in some way, but she won’t talk about it. Last Friday was the dance. She skipped it. The blue dress got blood stains all over it and she refused to go shopping for another outfit. I didn’t push her because, well, shit, I wasn’t thrilled about her going to the damn dance either.

  “I was just thinking about my science test tomorrow,” she says.

  It’s a lie, but I don’t call her on it. I’m afraid to. I’m afraid to poke and prod at whatever mess is inside her head because she might tell me what I’ve been scared to hear—that she doesn’t think I’m good enough for her. That she should leave me.

  It’s going to happen soon anyway. She’ll go to college. I’ve been saving up for that. She’ll get a real job, not one that involves her blending smoothies for the locals. She’ll find a man.

  My stomach clenches at that. The idea of another male laying hands on her spins me up in a bad way. It’s because I raised her, I tell myself. No parent is excited about their girl getting it on with some punk. My feelings of possessiveness are normal. Or normal for how we’ve lived.

  For so many years, I’ve had her to myself. While the outside world burned down around us, while I bloodied my hands and traded all my humanity for a few greenbacks, I’ve been able to escape to the bubble that is Bitsy.

  She’s growing up, though, and I can’t hold her forever. I realized that the other day when she tried on that dress. She looked like a woman and it scared the shit out of me. I glance over at her head bent over her science notes. The sunlight streaming through the windows paints parts of the curly black hair red. My gaze treks along her smooth forehead and down the small slope of her nose. On either side of her cheeks there’s a tiny smattering of freckles that she hates and I love.

  I drink in her beauty, stopping at the shoulders. Since she started getting boobs, I’ve refused to look from the neck down—until she tried on that damned dress. Now I can’t get the image of her figure out of my head. She reaches for the lip balm and spreads the cherry gloss all over her lips.

  I push away from the table and stalk to the fridge.

  “You hungry?” She jumps up.

  “Nah.” I open the freezer and stick my head in. “Not for real food. I thought I’d get a snack.”

  She pushes me aside. “I’ll make you something. Go sit down.”

  “I’m not hungry,” I protest, but my words are ignored.

  Bitsy thinks I’m hungry, and in this house that means she’s cooking me something. I don’t tell her I ate at Marjory’s while Mary and Beefer were entertaining Cesaro. I plant my ass in the chair and try not to watch her every move.

  “The Shake Shoppe job going okay?” Seeing Cesaro makes me doubly glad Bitsy’s nowhere near Marjory’s.

  “Yeah. Customers are awful, but the money’s good.”

  She’s making under ten dollars an hour. Kids her age on the street are making ten times that an hour, delivering drugs or pickpocketing or selling themselves. Yeah, her money is good.

  “I think half the reason I want to draw for a living is because I won’t have to interact with people.” She cracks a couple eggs in one pan and heats up another. Looks like we’re having toast and egg sandwiches.

  “You’d have to meet with clients,” I point out.

  “But it’s not like a regular stream of people bothering me and asking me to make weird concoctions like almond milk and orange juice and then complaining it tastes awful. And, if I drew for a living, I’d be surrounded by my pens and paints, so that would make up for any forced interactions with other people.”

  “Okay.” Mentally, I run down a list of nearby art galleries. I’ll have to see who runs those and what their vices are so I can be sure that Bitsy lands her dream job.

  As if she reads my mind, she spins around and shakes her spatula at me. “And I don’t want any help from you.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I’m a grown-up. I can do this sh—stuff all on my own.” She dismisses me and returns to frying up the eggs.

  “Okay.” It’s easier to appear agreeable than tell her the truth—as long as I’m alive, she’s never going to be alone. “Movie tonight?” I suggest.

  Bitsy brings over my snack. I admire the fluffy egg filling and the golden-brown bread, evenly toasted on both sides. She’s turning out to be a good cook.

  “Sure. How about that anime? The one with the two kids who swap bodies?”

  “Sounds good to me.” I can’t read the captions for shit, but I like the music and the imagery. I take a bite of the sandwich and let the white bread melt on my tongue. Yeah, she’s growing up to be a real good cook.

  “Let me finish going through these notes and then we can watch it.”

  She re-applies herself to the schoolwork and I finish the food. After I’m done eating, I tidy the kitchen. She only messed up two pans and a spatula, so it doesn’t take much time. With a sigh, I force myself to go sit in my bedroom so I’m not bothering Bitsy while she studies.

  I lie on my bed and tap my fingers against my abdomen while my thoughts drift back to the dress shop, or, more specifically, Bitsy in the dress shop. Beefer would tell me I need a woman. Maybe he’s right. The only satisfaction I’ve ever known has been from my own hand. Maybe if I took a woman to bed. Maybe if I had one that would put cherry-colored lips around my—

  “You ready?” Bitsy pops her head in.

  My head jerks up. “You done already?” I ask, trying not to appear guilty.

  “Yep.” She gives me an odd look. “Were the eggs bad? You look like something isn’t settling right in your stomach.”

  I force out a laugh. “No. It’s all good.”

  But the night’s awkward for us. I sit in the chair instead of on the sofa. Bitsy gives me a wounded look and then wraps herself up in the blanket like a human burrito.

  The captions swim in front of my eyes, interspersed with images of plump, glossy lips, long legs, and a high, spankable ass. I end up getting a blanket for myself and covering my lap. Maybe I do need a woman.

  * * *

  A call at three in the morning wakes me up. The caller ID says it’s Beefer. “Leka here.”

  “You—I—” Beefer stops talking.

  I sit up and shove my feet into the boots beside my bed. “Where are you?”

  “Marjory’s.”

  “You in danger?”

  There’s a long pause and then, “Not yet.”

  “I’ll be there in twenty.” I disconnect and stick the phone in my pocket. A peek inside my girl’s room confirms she’s still sleeping. I leave a note on the kitchen table in case she wakes up and I’m not back.

  I tuck my gun into the shoulder holster and tug on a coat for concealment. At Marjory’s, it’s dark except for a tiny light from the kitchen sneaking through the glass. The front door’s unlocked when I try it.

  Gun out, I go in low. The front room is clear, but I hear faint sobs coming from the back. My gut tightens. I straighten and walk toward the sounds.

  The scene in the kitchen hits me harder than I thought it would, but I’m not surprised. Beefer’s oldest daughter is laid out on the stainless steel table. Her sparkly nightclub dress is torn. There’s an ugly bruise forming on the right side of her face. She’s crying, softly, almost as if she can’t breathe without a sob coming out.

  Mary’s applying salve to the bruises and cuts and murmuring nonsense like, “it’s going to be okay.”

  I holster my gun. “Where’s Beefer?”

  Mary jerks her head to the back door. “Outside. Calm him down, will you? We can’t handle a fight.”

  I find Beefer standing against the fence in the alley. He’s taking drags on his cigarette as if the stick holds the only oxygen in the world. Around his feet are a half-dozen butts. Beefer hardly ever smokes.

  “What do you want to do?” Mary’s no
t going to be the one to dictate what we should do in this case. If we can’t handle a fight now, we’re never going to be able to hold this territory, and I don’t know about Beefer or Mary, but I’m tired of being bossed around.

  “Nothing.”

  “Nothing?”

  He flicks the butt on the ground and lights up another, the flame shaking heavily in his hand. “Nothing. Cesaro said it was his right. Right of the king,” Beefer sneers. “He’s going to be here for three more nights. Clancy’s wife is taking her girls to Florida to see his mom.”

  Clancy’s girls are eleven and twelve. I nearly vomit.

  “Beefer, this isn’t right. Let’s do something.”

  “What do you suggest? Killing Cesaro? The entire organization will come down on our heads. This is his loyalty test. I took it and passed.” The hand holding the cigarette shakes violently. “I took it and passed,” he repeats before folding in half and puking his guts out.

  I take off.

  I arrive home in minutes, but it feels like hours. The apartment is exactly how I left it. Bitsy’s still in her bed, her lips parted, a tiny snore wuffling between them.

  I rush over to the closet and pull out her suitcase. I’ve got half of her dresser packed before I run out of room.

  Bitsy struggles into a seated position. “Leka. What is it? Did I oversleep? Is it time for school?”

  “We’re going on a trip,” I tell her, stuffing my old duffel full of clothes. I zip it shut and toss her a pair of jeans. “Get dressed.”

  She blinks in confusion. “Now? I have a science exam.”

  “Yeah. Now.”

  “But—”

  “Now!” I scream and slam my fist on the empty dresser.

  She lurches to her feet, clutching the jeans to the front of her Powerpuff Girls sleep shirt. Tears glint in her eyes. I never yell at Bitsy. Never.

  I rub a trembling hand across my mouth. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, but we’ve got to go.”

  I should’ve never taken her in. I should’ve left her on the street. Someone else would’ve found her and given her a good home. Someone else who didn’t have to shower three times before he came home so the stink of dead people wouldn’t pollute her air. Someone else who didn’t have connections that would strip her of her innocence and violate her in ways that shouldn’t be possible.

  “We have to go,” I say hoarsely.

  She nods and shoves her legs into the jeans, the sleep shirt riding up to reveal untouched skin and a scrap of lace. I shut my eyes and leave, slamming the door behind me.

  She starts crying the minute the door is closed. I lean against the wall and bang my head against it until I can’t hear anything but the ringing of my own ears.

  “I’m ready,” she says. Her eyes are red and her cheeks are flushed and she’s so damned beautiful.

  I nearly want to cry myself. Instead, I grab her suitcase, shoulder the duffel. “Let’s go,” I say gruffly.

  She doesn’t speak to me for the first two hours of our drive. But when dawn breaks through, she can’t hold it in anymore.

  “Where are we going?”

  “There’s a boarding school in Vermont. You’ll be finishing school there.”

  “What? No!” she yells. She grabs at the door handle.

  I slam on the brake, sending the car fishtailing wildly. “What the fuck are you doing, Bitsy?”

  “I’m not going to any fucking boarding school!” she yells back.

  “Stop cursing and yes you are.” I reach across her and slam the door shut.

  “No. I’m staying with you. You said I’d always be with you.” Tears are filling her eyes.

  Another time, I’d turn the car around, but the image of Beefer’s daughter on that table, staring up at the ceiling wishing for death, has me pressing the gas.

  “It’s school, Bitsy.”

  “It’s boarding school! We never even talked about this. Where did it come from? Did I do something wrong? Is it the dress? I never wanted to buy that expensive dress. We can take it back. I’ll get the blood stains out.”

  I force myself to breathe through my nose until I gain enough composure to answer her. “I’ve been thinking about it for a while now. Time seems right.”

  “It’s the middle of the semester!”

  “It’s October.”

  “Exactly. I have two months left until the end of the semester.”

  “And you’ll spend those two months in Vermont.” Along with every other month until Cesaro is out of power. Until the danger is gone. Until…fuck. Until forever because my life is full of danger.

  “If you make me leave, I’m not coming back. Do you hear me? Do you?”

  “I hear you.”

  “Take me back, Leka. I promise whatever I did wrong, I won’t do it again. I promise.” She clutches my arm. Her anguish stabs at my heart, but I knew this day was coming—that at some point, I’d have to give her up.

  “It doesn’t matter what you do or don’t do, Bitsy. You’re going.” I punch the gas and watch the speedometer creep past ninety. We can’t get to the boarding school fast enough. I’m afraid I’m going to give in and turn around.

  “Is it because of that night at Marjory’s?” she asks quietly.

  Bitsy’s never been slow. I hate that she saw that. I should’ve moved her, should’ve kept her away.

  “It’s because you’ll be safer,” is all I allow.

  “Beefer has kids and so do a couple of other people you work with.”

  Yeah, and Beefer’s daughter is never going to be the same again after tonight. I clamp my jaw shut and drive.

  She finally gets the hint and slumps back in her seat. The rest of the trip is made in terrible silence. At some point, her tears and exhaustion overtake her and she falls asleep.

  I make a few phone calls and then, because suddenly the trip is going by too quick, I slow down. My time with her is ending too soon. I take a thousand mental pictures of her perfect, beautiful face, storing them away in the back of my head. I should’ve taken a real photo.

  I fish my phone out of my pocket, and at the stoplight in the small, sleepy town that the Boone School for Girls calls home, I snap a picture. Then another. Then five more.

  It’s not enough.

  I start up the car again and navigate to the five-hundred-acre farm that is the campus of the Boone School. I park in front of a large yellow house with a wraparound porch and climb out as quietly as possible.

  The school administrator, Janet Beatrice, is waiting. I’d texted her a couple of hours ago.

  “Mr. Moore, it’s nice to meet such an unexpected but generous benefactor.” The callouses on her hands scrape against my flesh as she wraps her fingers around one of my hands.

  “I’m sorry for the short notice,” I tell her. “Elizabeth’s not happy about coming here, but she needs this place.”

  “We’ll take good care of her. It’s hard for them to adjust at first, but in the end, they love it. I know Elizabeth will, too.”

  “I hope so.” I hand over the keys. “For when Bit—I mean, when Elizabeth can drive.”

  “Won’t you need this to get back home?”

  “No. I’ve got a car picking me up. I’ll be flying back. All of Elizabeth’s stuff is in the trunk.” I pull an envelope out of my back pocket. “Please make sure she’s taken care of.”

  Excitement flashes in Ms. Beatrice’s eyes as she carefully sets the envelope onto the desk behind her. “Why don’t you say your goodbyes and then I’ll show her around.”

  “I already did.” I give Ms. Beatrice a short nod and walk out. Outside, I climb into the waiting car I arranged to meet me here.

  We reach the end of the farm drive when I reach over the seat and grab the driver’s shoulder. “Stop,” I tell him.

  I almost turn around. I almost look over my shoulder. I almost go back.

  “Sir?” the driver says.

  I let go of his shoulder, straighten the crumpled fabric of his shirt, and slide back
into my seat. “Sorry. Keep driving.”

  Everything I’ve done since I met Bitsy is to find a way for her to be safe and happy. She’ll be both those things here.

  Part II

  22

  Bitsy

  Four years later

  "Are you sure you want to do this?" Ms. Blair asks. She folds her hands over my file and shoots me a concerned look. "It's not that I oppose gap years, but the great majority of students who do not attend college after graduation from high school will not return to complete any post-secondary education. Missing college would be a shame for someone as bright as you."

  I knew this would come up. Confidently, I pull out my next weapon, the deferred acceptance form, and lay it on Ms. B's two-hundred-year-old desk she claims was once used by Benjamin Franklin. "I'm definitely going, just not this fall. I plan to major in graphic design and minor in art history with the aim to go into animation and comics.”

  I also plan to wait tables, make coffee, and sweep floors since the pay for either of those two career options are very low, but this is the Boone School for Girls, where art is still considered valuable. I sometimes wonder if Leka knew this when he dumped me here or if it was a happy accident.

  She pushes her glasses higher on her nose and proceeds to scan the contents of my letter. “This is encouraging, but still, a deferred acceptance does not mean you'll attend, only that you have the option.” She peers at me over the round spectacles, her dark eyes searching for an answer beyond that which I’ve given her.

  "That would be true for any student, no matter if they graduate early or in the spring to attend college three months later," I point out, trying to appear calm and collected. Any early release is approved by the Dean of Students aka Ms. Kennedy Blair, and so I have to appear as adult as possible, which means no sighs, no temper tantrums, and no vaulting over the desk and shaking Ms. B until she signs the paper.

  “And what do you intend to do during these extra months?”

  The truth would shock her, so I trot out my prepared answer. “I don’t know exactly what field I want to study, so I want to spend as much time as I can volunteering for museums and publishers and artists to see what I like the best. That way my time in college is spent pursuing something I’m super passionate about instead of wasting several years trying to figure out what my major should be.”