Out for Blood

by Devyn Forrest

  “Can I ask who’s calling and what information you have?” the woman asked.

  “I really can’t tell you,” I said. My voice felt really heavy and flat. “I can just say that this is very important to me. The baby in her care needs to be taken elsewhere. Please.”

  “This is a serious accusation you’re saying,” the woman said.

  “I understand that,” I whispered.

  “Okay.” The woman paused, as though she just needed me to grasp the brevity of the situation—as though I hadn’t lived with that exact fucking situation the past few months. “Okay, we’ll send someone over tomorrow afternoon.”

  Tomorrow afternoon. Well, it was better than nothing. I wondered why there wasn’t this mad rush to come save a baby, but hell, what did I know? Actually, I knew that the foster care program in Colorado did their best with you, but they were short-staffed and they had so many children to keep track of. I knew it because I had been a part of it since I was three years old. Hell, I didn’t have memories of before that.

  The internet had already taken on my story. Someone at Denver Athletics had seen it as some kind of benefit to their image, or whatever, and some journalist had come to interview me the week before. The article had appeared in The New York Times—with the headline, “From Foster Care to Olympic Dreams.” When I had seen it, I had nearly vomited. There I was, in a slinky leotard, with my hands high over my head. In the photo, I was about to spring into a flip across the balance beam. I had sent the photo myself; it was one that Jeanine had taken at a contest the previous year. But it was super bizarre to see it so large and colorful on the front page of the Sports section of one of the most popular newspapers in the world.

  Karla had scoffed when she had seen the article. “You think you’re hot shit now, don’t you? Don’t get your hopes up to much. You’ll fuck up sooner than later.”

  But others had been much more kind. Marcia from the diner had called me screaming and said she had hung it in a frame already at the diner. “I always knew you could do it, kid,” she’d said. I could tell, even over the phone, that she was crying with happiness for me. She had such a big heart.

  I worked a few last shifts at the diner before heading up to Denver Athletics. In the back of my mind, I was praying for some kind of miracle regarding that last $5000 dollars. Some of my regulars, those who had read the paper, left me extra tips—an extra five or even sometimes an extra ten. But by the end of the week, I had really only made about sixty more than my usual three hundred dollars a week. I collected my tips and hung my apron up in the back closet. When I closed the door, I nearly leaped out of my skin, because Marcia hovered on the other side of the closet door with this big, leering smile on her face.

  “Marcia! You scared me.”

  “Oh, darling, I’m sorry about that. I really am. I just, I couldn’t wait to give you one last present,” she said.

  I tilted my head. “What do you mean?”

  Marcia gave a sad sigh. “You’ve worked here with me for so long, my Roon, that I just can’t imagine not seeing you here every day. It hurts my soul. But dammit, nobody deserves this more than you do. And I want you to know that. Here.” She slipped her hand into her apron and drew out a crumpled check. Then, she pressed it into my hand.

  “What is this?” I whispered, looking at it. On the check, she had scrawled out with red pen $1000 dollars. It was ridiculous, especially with what I knew about her struggle with paying rent on the diner. I thrust it back toward her and said, “No way. I can’t take this.”

  “You have to,” Marcia countered. Her eyes glittered, and she swallowed. “Honey, you’re the closest thing to family I got right now. If I didn’t have you here, I don’t know what I would have done. Just take the money and use it for whatever you need—maybe some new leotards or just something pretty for yourself. God knows you deserve it.”

  I fell into the most perfect, most comforting hug. I breathed the smell of her—her vanilla lotion mixed with French fries and said, “I wouldn’t have known what to do without you either. You saved my life. Thank you, Marcia.”

  It was true she had. She had hired me to work under the table when I had been too young to work legally. She had worked around my gymnastics and tutoring schedule, and she had always shot me a funny joke, a smile, or just a piece of pie to keep me going or lighten the mood when she knew things were bad. She was one of my most important ‘mother’ figures. And now, it was like I was going off to college, leaving her behind. I told her that I would find a way to visit as much as I could, and not to let whoever replaced me replace me in her heart. She laughed at this and said, “As if.”

  I walked directly to the bank after that and deposited the check, along with the rest of my earnings from that week. After I paid Jeanine what I owed her, I had about $900 dollars in there—which meant I had to make up the difference by $4100 dollars. I had no god damn clue how I was going to do that with my intense schedule.

  When I arrived back at Karla’s the last night, I found that someone had come to take Jeffrey away. Karla was all-out scream-crying from the back porch like Jeffrey had been anyone she had actually cared for. The other children were a bit sullen and sat in front of the TV without speaking. Jeffrey’s crib was empty and strange-looking. I said a little prayer for him. My heart ached, and I wished I could have seen him one last time if only to say goodbye. There was no way Jeffrey would ever remember me. At that moment, I made up my mind that I had to be famous, that I had to become something. If only so, Jeffrey could maybe read my name one day. Maybe something would trigger in his mind when he saw my face.

  Karla meandered out of her bedroom the morning of September 1st when Jeanine arrived to drive me up to Denver Athletics. I had said goodbye to the kids the evening before and had only shed minor tears. They had seemed mostly okay, but to be fair, one of their favorite TV shows was on and I was interrupting it. That morning, Karla wore a drab little robe and had a stale cigarette sticking out of her mouth. I walked past and grunted hello at her as I dragged my one suitcase out of my now-empty bedroom that looked so skeletal and small without my things in it, now.

  “Good luck out there,” Karla said from the porch as I clunked down it.

  I turned back so fast that my hair flashed around behind me like a flag. I stared at her. I wanted to say something—something evil and reckless about all the chaos she had brought to my life. But what I saw there before me was a weak woman, a woman who had lost so much and just didn’t know how to find her way in the world. I grimaced and forced myself to say, “Take care of the kids, Karla. They need you.”

  I don’t think she had expected this. She lit her cigarette and glared at me, and I turned back toward Jeanine, who helped me slip my suitcase into the trunk. I hustled into the passenger seat and stared straight ahead as Jeanine drove the car away. I didn’t look back, not even once.

  “You okay?” Jeanine asked me as we cut out onto the highway.

  “Yeah, I’m good,” I whispered.

  “Because it’s okay if you’re not,” Jeanine murmured. “That woman put you through a lot.”

  “Yeah. Well. It’s over now.” I said.

  God, if only I had known then what kind of trap I was getting myself into. Maybe I would have looked back at Karla’s house with regret. Maybe I would have begged for her to let me stay. But now, I pushed forward toward a “better” and more prosperous future. I was excited and anxious, barely able to remain seated during the drive. I wanted to tear through Jeanine’s skylight window and scream to the mountains around us; I’m going to make it! I’m going to make it! Everyone who doubted me, look at me now! You assholes! You absolute idiots!

  We arrived to Denver Athletics at eight a.m. sharp, the minute the dorms opened for move-in. We entered the main hall to find a long table set up with a few students behind it, each with ‘Ask Me Your Question!’ marked across their red t-shirts. They looked like they were seasoned in the ways of Denver Athletics, all of them completely muscular, stron
g-willed and clearly at the top of whatever sporting game they had chosen as kids.

  “Hey there,” a girl with a long black ponytail said. “I recognize you. You’re Rooney Calloway, aren’t you?”

  The smile alarmed me. Most people didn’t greet me this way, an orphan kid, and certainly not strangers. I nodded and tried to return her grin. “Yeah. That’s me.”

  “Thought so. It’s been a while since the Times did any kind of feature about one of us here at Denver Athletics. Oh, but they’re addicted to gymnastics stories. All those girls in pretty leotards jumping around. It’s like crack for them,” she said, grinning.

  What she said sounded friendly, but I could feel the insult behind it. I arched my brow and said, “What’s your sport then?”

  “I’m a swimmer,” she said. “Been here since my freshman year.”

  “Wow. I guess you’re right. Newspapers aren’t at all interested in women in swimsuits,” I said sarcastically.

  She rolled her eyes. “Touché,” she retorted. “Oh, but let me get your assignment. I think you had a roommate, right?” She flicked through a large box of folders and then dragged one out and flipped it back toward me. My name was stitched across the top right corner. “You’ll find your roommate assignment, your dorm room number, information about where to get bedding and things like that you’ll need for your room, and also your schedule for both these first two days of orientation, as well as when school starts on the third. Since we’re Denver Athletics, even orientation has open gym times and meetings with trainers. We don’t take much time off.”

  “I wouldn’t have expected anything else,” I said.

  The girl leaned forward and her eyes glittered with something like malice. “Get ready for the fucking hardest year of your life. Oh, by the way. I’m Ellison. Ellison Vance.”

  Ellison Vance. The name actually rang a bell. Had she been in Nationals the year before? I remembered watching her slam her hand against the wall and get fourth place in the 500-meter freestyle. Fourth place had meant basically nothing to her, nor to anyone else. She wasn’t talked about. I’d known she was a Denver Athletics girl, and I had really felt for her—felt all the chaos of being so fucking good but not good enough.

  “Right. Good to meet you,” I said.

  “I think you’ve already met my friend Poppy,” Ellison said. “We came up here together at Denver Athletics.”

  Poppy. Fuck.

  “We met briefly,” I answered, which was basically telling only a portion of the story. I didn’t want to get on anyone else’s bad side, so I thanked Ellison and turned back toward Jeanine, who looked a little anxious. Her eyes flashed around the big stone foyer, up at the long line of National Championships banners that hung up above. All of them were for men and women’s volleyball.

  “Whew. They’re good at everything,” she muttered as I approached.

  “Jeanine, that’s Ellison Vance,” I said. “She’s one of the best swimmers on the planet.”

  “Good thing she’s not your competition,” Jeanine said. “Her shoulders look so powerful like she could kill it on uneven bars.”

  “Or she could kill someone with her bare hands. Either way,” I said.

  The girls’ dorm building was located about a quarter of a mile from the main hall. It looked like a small castle, with a bell tower at the top. Girls between the ages of fifteen and eighteen streamed in with their parents. Their ponytails flipped back and forth and, as we approached, it was really like looking at a pack of horses. Each time one of the girls recognized another from a previous year, they did this weird shriek thing and hugged one another like they had thought they would never see each other again. I couldn’t imagine ever feeling that way about someone my own age. I glanced toward Jeanine, who seemed to actually read my thoughts.

  “It seems like a good place to make friends,” she said.

  “I don’t even know if I’ll have time for that,” I returned.

  “Promise me you’ll try,” she said and rocked into my shoulder as we continued on.

  The dorm building was four stories high, with a basement. According to the guide who stood in the main foyer, the top two floors were single bedrooms, some of them with balconies, while the bottom two and the basement were for roommates. I glanced at my packet again and saw my room listed as B23. Basement.

  “I guess it’s because I can’t pay for more,” I muttered, feeling a little stung by it.

  We wound our way down to the basement and we only spotted five rooms down there. When I flung open my door, I found it to have a small window at the top of the wall, which looked out over the grass of the arboretum between the buildings. It offered barely any sunlight, but the air was cool and the darkness was actually kind of soothing.

  “It’s not like you’ll ever get up after the sun comes up, anyway,” Jeanine joked.

  “That’s for sure.” This voice drifted from out of the corner. I realized, with a jolt, that my roommate was already in there, leaning against one side of her bed, which had been bunked to create a little desk area beneath. The girl was slender and tall, with broad shoulders and muscular thighs that eased out of her super-tight jean shorts. Her eyes were unwavering toward me, but they seemed incredibly kind. Her dirty blonde hair curled at her shoulders, damaged a bit probably from chlorine. I knew instantly that she was a swimmer.

  “Hey!” I said and shot her a warm smile. “You must be...” I glanced back down at my packet.

  But she beat me to the intro. “I’m Chloe. Chloe Sullivan. Welcome to our dungeon.” She stuck out a hand and I shook it and shared her grin. I liked her immediately.

  “Hey. Rooney Calloway. And this is Jeanine.” I said, pointing my thumb at her. Jeanine gave her a wave. “They really shoved us away from everyone, didn’t they?” I added, laughing.

  “Sure. That’s what they do with the lower class. They don’t want to be reminded that we don’t have super nice things or super nice parents, so they only let us out to play when we have something to offer them. Like our athletic ability,” Chloe scoffed.

  Her honesty was almost alarming, but it made me laughed. I shrugged and said, “So true. I’m just glad to be here.”

  “It’s my second year,” Chloe said. “It’s intense, but it’s also, you know, everything you would ever dream of so.” She gave a little shrug. “You want me to help you set up your bed? It’s better if you bunk it so you can have space beneath.”

  I agreed, just grateful to feel like I had some kind of ally, especially someone who had attended the year before. Jeanine dropped my suitcase next to my little twin bed and I wandered out with her to the hallway to say goodbye. Our hug was one of the longest of my life and when it broke, we both had tears in our eyes.

  “I hate that you’re not going to be my trainer for a while,” I whispered, wiping a tear from my cheek.

  “I know. But this day was always going to come,” Jeanine said. She swiped at her cheek and let out a laugh. “And you’re more than ready; you know that? You’re the best gymnast I’ve ever trained. Ever! And you deserve to take it to the next level.” She grabbed my shoulders and pulled me in again and planted a kiss on my forehead.

  She let go and gave my arm a final squeeze before turning back down the hall. I watched her walk away and up the steps, but she didn’t turn back.

  Chapter Six

  Chloe and I spent the morning getting our room ready and meeting the other girls in the hall. We all joked about our destitute status at the school. One girl, another gymnast named Mallory Jenkins, said something about hearing that I had received a hefty scholarship, and some of the other girls looked shocked. Apparently, a scholarship offering at Denver Athletics was a pretty fucking rare thing. I tried to shrug it off. I felt awkward and wanted to say something like, for one, it’s none of your damn business and two I don’t even know how I’m going to pay for the rest...

  “You must be really damn good,” another girl, Mallory’s roommate named Veronica, said.

  My
eyes flew right over her and to some of the other girls in the group. I completely deflected her by asking the other girls what their sports were. It seemed the school mostly focused on swimming, track and field, gymnastics, and volleyball, with a few other things sprinkled in. Across the board, the volleyball players seemed the hottest but also the neediest, and this was only based on two of my hallway mates—Lauren Jarman and Wendy O’Sullivan, who had been on the same volleyball team out in Virginia and had been recruited together. Although they were clearly arrogant, they still had less of a ‘fuck you up’ vibe than Poppy. I dreaded bumping into her.

  Chloe was had proven to be a chatty room-mate. After years of living with Karla and the kids, this came as a shock to me. We mounted my bed up high so that we could yank a spare desk underneath, and all the while, she explained a bit about her life story and her time at Denver Athletics thus far. She was from Los Angeles, a lower-class suburb and had been discovered as a swimmer at a really young age—six or seven. Her parents both worked two jobs and told her she just had to focus on swimming and encouraged her that it would be her ticket to a better future. So she did. At that young age, she had two practices a day, plus conditioning, and she had been borderline crazy ever since. She had one brother, a toddler who had been an accident, and she still wasn’t really sure if the kid was her dad’s or not since her mother and father hardly ever talked if it wasn’t about her swimming.

  “Whew,” I said. “Sounds chaotic.”

  “Yeah. Well.” She gave a little shrug. “I know you’re out of the foster program here in Denver. I read about it. It doesn’t sound like much fun, I bet. You must have some stories.”

  You mean, Karla dropping a cigarette on the couch when she fell asleep and lighting it on fire? Or Jeffrey vomiting across my shirt at the grocery store the minute I saw a hot boy? Or calling a taxi to go to the hospital when Zach broke his arm last spring? Or...