For almost a year, I lived with a boy from Iran with black curls and long lashes. I slept on his blue mattress with the busted spring in the corner. I learned how to steal, and he learned what paint works best on concrete. He was my person.
But now I wonder if I was ever his.
Cain doesn't touch me. He doesn't fast talk like Dizzy or try to make me laugh or say let's nip a pint of Jack Daniels and forget this sadness. He only stands there. Breathing in, breathing out.
Reminding me how it works.
Chapter Twenty-One
Taken
Before the phone call, I was determined to leave. Surprisingly, I still am. There're only thirty minutes until guests arrive, and already Mercy is barking orders up and down the hallway. I should be getting ready like Poppet, Candy, and the rest of the girls, but right now I need to think.
Here, at the house, I have a girl who thinks she's my friend, and a woman who speaks gently, but I have to get out of here before I self-combust. These people can't care about me. No one can. I'm alone in this world, and that's the way it should be.
I'll never leave you alone, Wilson says gently.
For once, I don't push him from my head.
Instead, I check the hallway to ensure no one's coming and rush toward my bottom drawer. Tonight, as the other girls are entertaining guests, I'll skedaddle. My father taught me to always repay my debts. But the biggest favor I can do for Madam Karina and Poppet is to leave.
I pull the drawer out and reach into the back. My fingers spider across the empty space as a clap of thunder sounds through me.
The money is gone.
I lean forward and check again. But it isn't there. I tear the clothes and wigs and makeup from the drawer and sift through them. Nothing. I jump to my feet and yank the drawer off the rollers, toss it onto my bed. Then I check again, again.
When there's no avoiding the truth, I crumble to the floor and cover my face. Rock back and forth and moan into my hands. I needed that money to get out of here. To pay for a train ticket and food to keep my belly full on my return trip to Detroit. But I'm upset over more than that. After all, I can hitchhike. I can steal food and drink from fountains along the way.
The real reason I'm pissed is because someone in this house stole from me.
They've picked on me. Called me names. Poured toilet water down my throat and laughed at me more times than I can count. And now what little I came here with has been taken. First, in the form of my dignity. Second, when they dug through my belongings. Oh, and let's not forget the time they threw dirtied water on Dizzy's shirt.
Of course, what does that matter?
Why would Dizzy's shirt be precious to me when he couldn't take the time to cross the damn street and ask where I went?
Mercy pops her head inside the room. "What are you doing, freak? The guests will be here soon. Get your ugly butt dressed."
I close my eyes. I close my ears. She can't get inside me now.
"Um, did you hear me, retard? Get off the floor and take a shower. You smell like the toilet." She laughs. It's an old joke now, but she hasn't tired of it. "No surprise there, though, huh?"
I shake my head. Back and forth. Keep her out and keep me sane. Don't listen to her words. Nothing can touch me.
"What is wrong with you?" Mercy growls. "Get off that floor or I'll get you up myself."
Poppet walks into the room. Sees me rocking, hands over my ears, though I can still hear everything. Too much.
"Leave her alone," Poppet says.
Mercy turns, bares her teeth. "Don't you dare tell me what to do."
Poppet raises her hands. "I'm just asking you to give her some space. You guys pick on her nonstop."
Mercy walks away from me, gets close to Poppet. Her chest bumps into Poppet's chest. Poppet pulls back and Mercy leans forward, fogging her glasses. "I'm not in the mood for this tonight. So I'll do you a favor. I'll turn my head if you will leave this room right now. If you don't, I'll knock your teeth out."
Mercy holds up a finger like she intends to back up the threat.
I uncover my ears, because something sinister is crawling over my mind. It's different when Mercy is talking down to me. I can block her out if I try. But when she's spewing her poison on Poppet, I'm alert. All my senses: ON. Sight, smell, sound, taste: ON.
Wilson: ON.
"Come on, Mercy," Poppet whispers.
Mercy jerks her finger in Poppet's face, pushes it directly against the center of her forehead. "Say one more word. One. More."
Poppet looks down, and tears fill her eyes. It's the first time I've ever seen Poppet truly upset. I should never see someone like Poppet cry, yet here come the waterworks.