Violet Grenade(12)

Cain.

I let that name sit on my tongue like a peppermint. It burns with flavor.

Cain pulls out onto the road and, behind us, the gold sedan follows along. I lie back on the headrest and look up at the stars. It's early morning now, but it'll be hours before the sun rises. 

"Where are we going?" I ask quietly.

"Texas," she responds. "West Texas."

My heart leaps at this news. I figured we might travel some, but Texas is a million states away. How will I get back? How will I get the money to Dizzy? And what was Ms. Karina doing here if she lives in Texas? Something about this whole thing unsettled me since the first moment I saw her in the alley, but now I'm almost ready to bolt.

Almost.

I wonder what's in west Texas. I've never been to the state before, but I've heard it's big and flat. And friendly. I think I heard somewhere that people in Texas are friendly. And I know for a fact that it's even farther from my past, which is endlessly enticing.

"Have a jelly." Ms. Karina offers the plastic cup of gumdrops. I'm not ready to accept any kindness from this woman, but my mouth waters seeing the crystals of sugar clinging to the candies. I choose a green one. When she holds out the soda, I take that, too. Both treats taste like childhood. Like pajamas with feet and cartoons on Sunday and my father's arm around my shoulders.

It tastes incredible.

And it makes me forget my concerns.

For the next twenty hours, we travel. We stop once at a hotel and sleep for a few hours. But mostly I feel as if I'm asleep the entire journey. The realization that I'm moving farther away from Dizzy twists my stomach, and it makes me tired. My eyelids are heavy, and my chest rises and falls slowly. I'm walking through a field of REM-blossoms. I gather them into my arms, all the colors of the world right here at my fingertips. Look how much sleep I'm holding. Enough to feed an army of insomniacs.

Wake up, Domino, Wilson urges.

But it's too hard.

Ms. Karina offers me sandwiches if I get hungry, and always the jellies. One after another, gumdrops in my mouth.

Sometimes when I don't even want them.

At some point Ms. Karina says my name directly, like maybe she's said it more than once. "We're almost there, Domino. Are you excited?"

I push myself up, and the woman offers me a new drink. Water, I think. I gulp it down, ravenous after so much tart orange soda. I put the bottle down in the cup holder and glance outside. The ground is impossibly flat with knobby oak trees peppering the landscape. A heavy sun hangs in a cloudless sky, and I can practically see the heat vibrating across the land. Cain navigates our car down a narrow unpaved road toward a manual fence. When we get close, he hops out to unlatch the thing. It groans as he pushes it open, his triceps flexing against the weight.

Cain runs a hand over his shaved head as he walks back. I try to catch his eye, but he won't have it.

"Did you hear me?"

I turn to look at Ms. Karina.

"I asked you a question. I need you to answer when I ask you questions." Her voice is sharper than I've heard it in the past.

"Sorry," I mutter. "Yes, I'm excited."

Her face relaxes, and she smiles like it's perfectly okay. I like it when she smiles at me that way.

Cain shuts the door and pulls the car through the gate, and the woman waves an arm toward the windshield. "This is it, Domino. Madam Karina's Home for Burgeoning Entertainers. Isn't it spectacular?"





PART II

DOMINO'S RULES

FOR LIVING IN A GROUP HOME

Remember why you're there, and how to get out.

Keep your head down and your mouth shut.

Don't be afraid to make enemies.

Make yourself useful.

Claim your space.





Chapter Eight



       
         
       
        

Status

The house is white. Or, it once was white. Now it's more of a dull cream color. It's three stories tall, and there are toad-green shutters framing the windows. A porch stretches from the house in a vulgar underbite, and thin beams support the floor above. A bold blue door is suffocated by a rotting screen one, and I wonder what kind of person paints a door blue when the shutters are clearly green.

My home will be much more traditional. Colors that match and a wreath on the front door. I'll paint the siding using long strokes and put on three coats if that's what it takes. In the backyard there will be a swing lounging in the sun. I'll paint that red and watch as the years of rain erode my work. Inside there will be soft couches bought from real furniture stores and a dining table where I'll eat eggs and toast with raspberry jam.

And in my room. In my room I'll have a queen-sized bed with a lavender comforter. It'll be big enough for me to spread out in, small enough so that no one else can sleep there comfortably with me in it. It'll be a room I sleep in. Dream in. It will be my room.