I feel myself moving toward Poppet before I even realize what I'm doing. I don't know this song, but I won't let Poppet stand up there alone a second longer.
When she sees me coming, she raises her hands like I'm going to shove her off the mic. Her reaction tells me someone has probably done this to her in the past. I motion for her to stay put and join her in singing the ridiculous song, figuring out the words as I go. Mostly though, I just stand beside her. I can't sing to save my life. I guess Poppet can't either. But she lent me a black shirt and this dress I'm wearing, and she doesn't deserve this kind of treatment.
In the movies, when something like this happens, the taunting eventually turns into encouraging cheers. In this scenario, it gets worse. Girls yell for her to stop the insanity, and a singer from earlier actually tries to sing over us. The guests seem to think it's part of an act, and so they laugh, too. We're almost to the end of the song when someone starts in on me.
"The freak is worse than Poppet," a voice calls from the back. "Look at that lip ring. Who's her father, Charles Manson?
It's the last comment that stuns me. I figured if there were one off-limits topic in this place, it'd be parents. After all, how many of us would be here entertaining customers for bronze coins if we had Mommy and Daddy at home to steer us right?
Another girl joins the fun. "Hey, freak, was your mother attracted to murderers?"
I stumble two steps back. Katy is talking with another girl, and I'm standing in front of everyone, shaking, trying to control the voice in my head that tells me to shut these witches up. To burn them at the stake.
To burn them in their beds.
I'll find the matches! Wilson cheers.
"I have to go," I tell Poppet. I run toward the curtained door, but Mercy blocks my path.
"Get your butt back in there. Now!"
I shove past her and race outside. Once I'm standing in the front yard, surrounded by haphazardly parked vehicles, I gasp for air.
Lean over.
Hands on knees.
Breathe.
I've spent almost a year on the streets, and Dizzy isn't the sort to get too close. But the girls here press in until my brain swells. I'm not used to this. Even at school, before my mother homeschooled me, I never had more than a couple of friends. And now I'm supposed to stand in a room overflowing with bodies and sweaty upper lips and smile when they tease me about my parents.
I can't.
That's not true. I can. Just not right this second.
They don't know anything about my parents. They don't know what my father did. Or what my mother did in retaliation. I realize this, but it still stings. Because what they said back there about my mom loving murderers? It felt like they undressed me. Like I was nude before an audience.
They got close to the truth, didn't they? Wilson says. But not quite.
I circle the house and discover an uncovered porch. It's a slab of concrete with a broken ceramic planter and two plastic chairs. On the ground between the chairs is an overfilled ashtray, rainwater turning the butts and ash into a gray pulp.
The chair scrapes across the concrete as I drop down, and my eyes fall upon the guesthouses. One on the left, for the Lilies, and one to the right, for the Violets. They look the same-one story white clapboard, miniatures of the main house, with empty flower boxes on the sills. One of the windows on the Lilies' house is open, and morose music wafts out into the dry Texas night. I wonder what it's like inside those houses. Whether the girls treat one another like family instead of competition.
The sound of approaching footsteps hits my ears.
I slouch farther into the chair, as if I can become invisible.
My heart thumps harder.
Cain rounds the corner, a cigarette dangling between his fingers.
Chapter Thirteen
There Once Was a Boy Named Cain
Cain doesn't seem surprised to see me there. But he does pause, like maybe he planned to come after me but doesn't know what to do now that he's here. My gaze travels over his frame. Six-foot-four, I'd say. Buzzed hair. Biceps stretching the hem of his navy blue shirt. And those eyes with hidden layers. I lean to the side and kick the other chair. An invitation.
He remains standing, lighting a cigarette with a silver lighter, gaze set on the guesthouses.
Those houses are hard to look away from.
"I'll come back in soon." I'm not sure what his job description entails, but in case it includes ratting out bad investments, I want to make sure he's clear that I have no intention of giving up. Those girls shook me, but I won't stop until Dizzy is out of jail. Hell, maybe I'll make enough after two or three nights to spring him. Who knows how the payment structure works. Maybe each bronze coin you get from a customer is a hundred spot in your pocket. With the sixty plus bucks in my dresser drawer, I'd need only four Katys to put their coins in my box.