by Emilia Finn
With that affirmation in mind, I inhale forgiveness; of myself, my brother. Even for our parents, because despite the fact they’re one of the reasons Will and I are forced to live this way, they’re also the reason Will and I are forced to live this life together. Without them, I wouldn’t have Will. And without Will, I have no reason to stick around for the next episode of This is Supremely Fucked Up.
When a new sense of peace settles in my chest, and my scowl is replaced with an almost smile, I pick my phone up and swipe it open. I navigate to my text app, then press my thumb to his name.
Will: Did you get hit by a bus? Or did you seriously just hang up on me?
I send my thumbs flying over the screen with fast, barely-there taps, and reply: I have to go. Mr. Han pays me to work. Not steal anything that fits in my pocket. I’ll see you when I get off work. What time do you finish?
Will: Eleven. But then I have to run a quick errand. You?
Me: Nine. I’ll turn your electric blanket on. See you on the flippity-flop, big brother.
Will: I love you, Bubbles. Always and forever.
I slide my phone into my pocket and go back to work stocking shelves. I can’t go too fast, because then Han will realize I only need four hours to get my work done, and not six. And hell, at eight dollars an hour, I need that extra sixteen dollars a day.
I slide cans onto the bottom shelf in a neat line, I bring the older stock to the front – because if we have a repeat of the time Han screamed at me in public, I might do something illegal and irreparable, something that can’t be undone, and will lead to Will’s disapproving glare – then I move along to the tins of corn.
Time passes by with the usual brain-numbing monotony that has been my constant friend since I graduated high school and started working full time hours. But it’s not so awful. While my hands are busy arranging, and my thighs burn from an eternal squat, in my mind, I choreograph the kinds of dances I see in the movies. I use the music playing through the supermarket sound system; it’s tinny and horrible, but in my head, it’s quality, it’s heavy bass, and perfect harmonies. I stare at yellow and green paper labels, but I imagine green and yellow costumes upon a stage. I see the corn cob on the label, tall, strong, and healthy, but in my head, I see a male lead with tights that show all of his business; a style of pants I’ll never be able to get used to, but have accepted as a tool.
To dance a duet means a partner. And to have a partner strong enough to lift me means dudes in doodle tights.
These are the sacrifices we must make.
At a quarter to nine, I stand tall and stretch my spine until it clicks at every joint. Reaching my arms high above my head, I let out a long yawn that is so all-consuming, so refreshing, that tears come to my eyes and Mr. Han elongates his neck at the front counter so he can spy on my every movement.
Bringing my hands down again, I fix my shirt and begin collecting the collapsed cardboard boxes. I fold them, stack them, pocket the tape so I can throw it in the trash, then I make my way through the electronics section in aisle one on my way to the storeroom out back.
A box slips out of my grasp and thuds to the floor when the corner hits the metal shelf, but with another yawn, I pick it up and re-jam the tape into my pocket.
In the storeroom, I toss the tape into the plastic trashcan, then I hip-bump the steel doors open to reveal a heavy snowfall that makes me groan. It’s not even Hallmark-movie snowflakes, but the annoying kind, with sharp wind and biting flurries that make a girl’s nose want to up and run away from her face.
I make my way the twenty feet from the back door to the massive recycling bin, and since I already collapsed the boxes, I simply toss them on top of the pile, and decide I really have zero fucks to give about the fact that they are going to get wet in the snow overnight.
Not my problem. Because in – I check my watch – seven minutes, my shift is over, and I have somewhere else I’d rather be.
Rubbing my hands together to combat the cold, I hustle back through the doors and blow warm breath into my palms. Pulling the heavy doors closed, I stand just on the inside and do a little jig in place in an attempt to warm my aching body. Jeans just aren’t enough to battle the cold. One coat isn’t enough. One beanie.
“Cameron!” Han’s high-pitched screech comes from the front of the store and brings a spike of adrenaline pumping through my blood. “Cameron! Come here, please!”
I pat my pockets in a panic, consider dropping and running, but then Han appears in the doorway with his hands on his hips and an ugly little Hitler-type moustache that makes him look… confusing.
Casually, I drop my hands into my pockets and walk back into the store. “What’s up?” Don’t ask about the cell. Don’t ask about the cell. Don’t ask about the cell.
“You left a box of chickpeas on the floor, Cameron.”
I frown. “What are you talking about?”
“Here!” He grabs my arm the way Will does, but unlike with Will, I want to backhand this little man and send him sprawling to the floor so he can feel a little of the humiliation I feel every time he speaks to me. “Here, Cameron! You left the peas!”
“Well…” I look to the clock on the wall and raise my brows. “It’s nine o’clock. I’ll get them stacked tomorrow.”
“You can’t stack them tomorrow, stupid. You must stack them tonight.”
In place of the beautiful dances and costumes in my mind, I now think of taking a wet floor sign and slamming it down over this asshole’s back. But if there’s anything I’ve learned over the years, it’s to not cause damage where there are security cameras, and not when a little family is waiting for their asshole father and husband to come home.
“I’m officially off shift, Mr. Han. I will stack the rest tomorrow.” I take a step backward. Then another. My left hand wraps around the cell I swiped minutes ago. My right hand, around the sucker stick and wrapper. “I’ll be back at three o’clock, Mr. Han. Tomorrow.”
“What about the peas!?” he screeches. “Cameron!”
“Tomorrow.”
I turn on my heels at the end of the aisle, and duck into the little storage room where employees keep their things. The other workers toss their handbags in here, their phones, perhaps their expensive headphones and lip glosses. But anything I have that is worth something stays on me always.
I snatch up my gloves, a second coat, and then a hot thermos of coffee I poured before I left the house today. I hug it to my chest as I maneuver into my coat, and on the way back into the store, I lift the thermos and sip the perfectly hot liquid like it’s the elixir of life.
“Peace out, Han.”
“Cameron! We are not done here!”
“Hey, Con.” I fist-bump the cashier coming on shift, smile when he winks for me, then I skip onto the sidewalk and get slapped in the face by the frigid wind.
Groaning, I drop my head low and start along the street in the direction of my home.
I have a fast pitstop to make first, the reason I couldn’t stay back and hang out with the annoying Mr. Han, but while I move, I think on the options I have laid out in front of me. Winter is back, which means Christmas is almost here. Christmas means Stacked Deck, which means Will is readying to climb into his car and travel a dozen hours away in hopes of a fair fight, and winning enough money to claw us out of a dump and move us into something with less bugs and starvation.
Last year, Will advanced three fights and made it to the second night before Kyle Baker decided he no longer wanted to share the stage with ‘scum’ – his words.
He took a running start when he saw Will in the hallway, pretended he was stumbling, and slammed Will against the wall until his shoulder popped out of joint.
A relatively minor injury in the grand scheme of things, a reasonably easy fix. Will fought despite the pain and swelling, because that’s who he is, but he couldn’t win with only one arm, so he was forced to tap in the next round, and coincidentally, Reid Baker made it all the way to the finals that night
.
You could say that, in our home, ‘Baker’ is a dirty word… never to be repeated, unless it comes with plans for retribution.
And that thought, as I round the corner of the next block, is what makes my decision for me.
I was going to stay home this year, stay away from the fights, stay away from Jamie Kincaid’s pending psychotic break – because he’s a little too strange for safety – but knowing Kyle and Reid Baker will be going again this year is enough to convince me that if I don’t go and keep Will under control, he’s likely to do something that will end with cuffs wrapped around his wrists.
Or worse.
Which means I don’t get a choice. It means I must tell an overly enthusiastic guy ‘no’ a dozen times, but hey, the last time I saw him, he had a beautiful chick under his arm. It’s been a year, and there isn’t a single high school crush that lasts that long. In reality, it’s likely he’s forgotten all about me. And the fact I worry he still thinks about me is conceited and dumb.
So, with a smile and a skip to my step, I make my way one block west in the snow, I shake the flakes from my hair, and when I reach the multi-story building I’m searching for, I knock just once. One fast rap, then I step back and meet a pair of muddy brown eyes through the gap of the door.
“Gabe.”
From shrewd to grinning, he snaps the little slit of metal back into place and yanks the heavy door open. “Well, hey there, long legs.” Gabriel pulls me in for a one-armed hug, pats my back like I’m his bro, but then finishes it with a friendly kiss on my cheek. “It’s cold out, baby girl. You shouldn’t be running around at this hour.”
I bounce on the balls of my feet to fight the chill. “I just finished my shift. I have a delivery for Sly, then I’m going home.”
“You wanna speak to Sly?”
“You got the cash?”
A crooked grin creeps along his face. “I do.”
“Then I don’t have to speak to Sly.” I take the brand new cell from my pocket – Thanks, Mr. Han – and slap it into Gabe’s meaty hand, and just like that, I pull back in possession of four fresh fifty-dollar bills. “Nice doing business with you.”
“I’ll be sure to send your love to the boss.”
I step away and throw my head back on a laugh. “Yeah, because I’m certain he can’t sleep without knowing I sent my love.”
“Babe, there are a lot of men around town who can’t sleep unless you send your love. You’d blush if you knew how many ask after you.”
“Creepy.” I bounce my shoulders and turn away. “It’s weird how obsessed everyone is with me.”
“It’s because you say no, baby girl. Not just to the ugly folks, but to everyone. You create an exclusive product.”
“My vagina?” I shake my head. “My vagina is an exclusive product simply because I don’t open it up to everyone who wants it?”
He points a thick finger in my direction and grins. “Exactly! The girls around here are… eager, ya know? They wanna party, and with the party food comes sex and music. It’s just the way it is.”
“Yeah, well, if my brother ever hears party food, music, and sex-with-Cam in the same sentence, we’re all in trouble. Really, I’m doing you all a favor by closing my legs and remaining consistent on saying no.”
“Sly would make it worth your while.”
I scoff and begin walking away. “Lovely offer, but no.” I sip my coffee as I move away from a building that routinely houses dancing girls, some of the tamer street drugs, and no party “food” whatsoever.
Those guys back there are nice enough, they live by their honorable-ish code of ethics. They want to fuck, and if a sixteen or seventeen-year-old girl were to walk through their door, they don’t send them home. But they obtain a clear, and un-pressured yes. Consent is sexy, I suppose. It’s warped, and there’s certainly the argument that a sixteen-year-old isn’t capable of making those decisions on her own, but still… I routinely approach that warehouse filled with guns, drugs, and guys that sell and steal things for a living, and the whole time, I feel safe…ish.
Not so safe that I’d sleep there. I wouldn’t undress. And I certainly wouldn’t accept even a single drink or puff of illegal substances. And there’s no way in hell Will knows I come by here, but so long as I abide by all of those rules, I can come and go without trouble. I sell eight-hundred-dollar phones for two hundred. And with that two hundred, Will and I eat, and I get to visit a run-down dance studio in the daytime.
Mr. Han has no clue he singlehandedly funds every professional dance lesson I’ve taken in the last year, and though I should feel bad for stealing from him, I can’t find it in my sinning heart to do so. In this neighborhood, we do what we have to do to survive. And hell, it’s either I steal, or I sell my body. And call me crazy, but I’m not quite ready for the second option.
Walking back into my home without so much as a catcall from assholes in the street, I double lock the front door, drop my keys and phone on the kitchen counter, then, racing to the bedrooms, I switch on mine and Will’s electric blankets.
I know we agreed to buy them once he won a tournament, but seeing as how he was robbed of his win, I took forty bucks from my Miles-thousand and treated us to something nice. Will refused to use his out of pride, but as the winter progressed, and I kept nagging him about wasting money, he relented, and now we both have a warm bed to crawl into while the snow falls outside.
A little more than two hours after I walked in the door, Will follows and stops in the hall to find me sitting on my bed. I have my phone in my hands, turned to the side, while YouTube clips play one after the other.
Yes, we steal Wi-Fi from our neighbors. Sue me.
“You’re not asleep, Bubbles?” His voice is deep but quiet, fatigued but still smiling when he uses the ridiculous nickname he made up for me long ago. He shuffles into the room on tired legs, and leans down to press a kiss to the top of my head.
Or at least, that’s what he’d have me believe. He checks my screen while he goes, and with a grunt of exhaustion, takes a seat on the floor so his back presses to my rickety dressing table.
He sits in heavy jeans and boots, with a thick, dark green coat, and an ear-flap hat to keep the chill away. Knees lifted, elbows on his kneecaps, he drags a long breath into his chest, then lets it out and shakes off another hard day. “Whatcha doing?”
“Choreographing. You hungry? I can make you something.”
“Nah, I ate at the shop. Whatcha choreographing?” He glances at my bed. “You’re not writing anything down.”
I tap my temple and keep my eyes glued to my screen. “It’s up here.”
“Why don’t you write it down so you don’t forget?”
“What’s the point? I have no one to show, no one who wants my dances. So I do it just for me. Love you, by the way.”
Chuckling in the back of his throat, he lays his head back and closes his eyes. “Love you too. Can I ask you something?”
“Always. Except the thing about the bag of cookies, because I swear, I have no clue who ate them all.”
Popping just one eye open, he studies me with a smirk and shakes his head. “You’re the worst thief I know.”
Ha, that’s what he thinks. “What’s your question?”
“If you could have anything you wanted, no money limits, no limits on your freedoms, no limits whatsoever…”
I pause my video and look to him with a frown.
“If the sky was the limit,” he continues, “and there was absolutely no chance of failing, what would your life look like?”
“I don’t… I…” I hesitate. Sitting taller and fixing my pillows at my back, I straighten my legs and try my hardest to imagine what he’s painting. But I honestly can’t. “Will… we don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Hope,” I admit. “Dream. Play this game where we make up scenarios, because when the conversation ends and we’re back in this room, our hearts bleed.”
“You don’t dre
am at all?” he croaks out. “You used to be our optimistic one, Bubbles. Don’t you remember the discussion about karma, and how we’re set for something better? What happened to that?”
I lay back against my pillows and cross my arms. “I grew up, I guess. Stocking shelves at Han’s, cleaning rooms at the Regency, slinging drinks at Gerald’s… it all gives me time to think. Last year, I was a child, and the dreams I was spouting off were dumb. But this year, while slinging drinks and stripping beds, I’ve had time to think.”
“But you use that time for choreography.”
I shrug. “I do that too. It’s a lot of time on my feet, so I can switch out topics for my brain to obsess over.”
“So that’s… like…” He exhales his frustration. “You’re just gonna give up?”
“On imagining luxury yachts and diamonds?” I nod. “Yes, because that’s just the way it is. But I still think about cookies,” I joke. “And electric blankets. And Saturdays.”
“Saturdays?”
“Mm…” I close my eyes and smile. “Saturdays mean no work for me at all. And it’s only a half day for you. You go out early in the morning, you work on the load that comes in, and because it’s a weekend, you make an extra two dollars an hour. While you’re doing that, I get to do the laundry, I dance around to girly music that you hate, I wiggle my butt and dust the mouse shit off the TV.”
“You’re a freak.”
“I prepare waffles, Will.” I turn my head and meet his eyes. “Then when you get home at noon, we eat breakfast together. The house is fresh and clean, I’ve already danced away my wiggles, we hang out, and then we get to stay in for the next eighteen or so hours and do whatever we want.”
“That’s your favorite part of the week?” he asks. “Seriously? Cleaning mouse shit, doing laundry, and cooking for me?”
“Having a clean home,” I amend. “Having a yummy meal, dancing just for fun, and watching a movie with you, knowing that we don’t have to drag our asses back out that door again until the next day.”