Ordinary Girl

by Pamela Gossiaux

  But he doesn’t. Nor does the next man.

  Tommy comes in briefly between the third and fourth man. He stands near the foot of my bed, hands on hips. Through the drugs, I vaguely realize I’m naked. I pull the covers up around me.

  “If you don’t quit crying, we’re going to lose clients,” he said. His black eyes are steely and cold. “And that would be bad. Very bad. Got it?”

  I nod.

  I’m hoping he’ll leave, but Tommy stands there at the foot of my bed, watching me for a moment. Then he sits down on the foot of it. He’s close to me. I can smell his musky aftershave and see a faint scar under his left eye.

  “You really thought he loved you, didn’t you?” Tommy says.

  At first I’m not sure who he’s talking about. But then he continues.

  “Cory is like that. Savvy, charming. He uses people to get things done. I’m so sorry you met him. If you had met me first, things would be different.”

  They would, I think. I wouldn’t be here. I would never have been drawn in by a creep like Tommy.

  Tommy leans forward and touches my hair. I pull away.

  “You shouldn’t have been messing with a college boy. But then again, you are a high school senior. One would think you would know better by now, not get pulled into his schemes. You’re naive. Been raised in a sheltered world.”

  “I’m not naive,” I say. “Cory was a jerk.” Anger rises up in me. I have never hated anyone more than I hate Cory at that moment. The way he played me. What a fool I was.

  “But you’re here with me now,” Tommy says. “I take care of my girls.”

  “I don’t need you to take care of me,” I say, the anger for Cory spilling out onto Tommy.

  But he doesn’t seem affected by it. He remains calm.

  “But you do,” he says. He gives me a sympathetic look. “You aren’t ready for the world. Look at you. Look how hard you tried and just couldn’t get good grades. And your mom. Don’t you think if she really loved you that she would get better? She was apparently just in this for your dad, and when he died, she checked out.”

  Cory must have told him that my dad died. My hate for Cory grows stronger.

  “What about your friends? Nobody has come looking for you yet.”

  “That’s because they don’t know where I am!” I say, defiant. I hate Tommy. I hate him so much.

  “Why not? Didn’t you tell them you were going to New York? Or did you just run away?”

  That stops me. I did tell them. Dennis and Aaron and Brit. They know where I was headed.

  “And surely they’ve seen Cory’s hot car,” he says.

  I told Brit the color and model. A red Corvette, I had bragged.

  “So if they knew that, they had enough info. And yet, here you are,” he says. “It’s not uncommon. I mean, as seniors they’re focusing on graduation and moving on. They can’t help that you ran away from your troubles.”

  “I didn’t run away,” I say. Or did I? I didn’t tell my mom where I was going. I had been blowing off my studying these past few weeks. Had I given up?

  “No?” Tommy says. “Hmmmmm.” He stands up and walks around to the side of the bed. Then he turns to look at me. “Heather, you need to face the facts. You’re nothing and yet I’m here for you. When nobody else is, when your boyfriend dumps you, when your family doesn’t come looking for you, I’m here. I am your constant. I feed you. I have given you a place to live—"

  “—it’s a prison!” I shout. “There are bars on the window!”

  “To protect you,” Tommy says. He jerks his thumb towards the door. “If you go wandering around there alone, someone will grab you. And you will be in a world of hell that I am trying to protect you from.”

  “A world of hell?” I say. “You make me go with strangers.”

  “Who are good to you. Nobody has tried to kill you. All they want is a little love. You have something to give, and it brings in money so we can survive. It’s what you do, Heather. It’s all you’re good for. And nobody is coming to look for you. Nobody. Cory probably fed them a few lines about you running away, and I’m sure they have given up on you. With his charming good looks, he can be quite convincing.” His voice grows quieter, accusing. “But then you know that.”

  Tommy walks towards the door. He looks back at me.

  “Those strangers you say I make you go with? At least I choose who sees you. Out there,” he turns, and points to the door again. “Out there you’re at the mercy of the streets. And believe me, this is child’s play compared to what would happen to you out there.”

  I swallow. I have no more words. Fatigue and sadness are overwhelming me at the moment, reaching through the drugs to claw at my heart.

  “I’m here for you,” Tommy says. Then he turns back towards the door and leaves. I’m alone in the hotel room.

  Is it true that nobody’s looking for me? I can’t believe it, and yet here I am. I’ve been here for days. I don’t understand why they haven't been able to track Cory down yet and through him, track down Tommy.

  Maybe my mom is so deep on drugs that she can’t think straight. Or maybe she is so depressed she no longer cares. Without me, she has it easier. No one to condemn her. No one to take care of. To feed. To feel guilty about neglecting.

  But I know my mom loves me. I know she does. Things just changed after Daddy died. She can’t help it. She’s just hurting.

  And Brit. I can’t imagine she would forget about me. We promised to always be there for each other. But I didn’t listen to her when she told me not to go off with Cory.

  I put my head in my hands. What have I done? Have I brought this on myself? I certainly made enough mistakes. I never should have dated in the first place. I should have worked harder to get good grades. And I never should have run away without telling Mom where I was going.

  That’s me. A loser. A run away. A stupid girl.

  Maybe I do deserve what I’ve gotten. Maybe I do deserve to be here.

  What if Tommy is right? What if this is all I’m good for?

  And then the door opens. Another man comes in. This one is dressed in a business suit. He looks at me and grins. The fight is out of me, and I allow him to have me as I force my mind into a place that is far beyond the motel room. The drugs take me away, and I don’t remember much after that.

  I crawl into my own bed as soon as Tommy brings us home. I want to shower the filth off of me, but I can’t. Instead, I curl into a ball and cry.

  Chloe comes in to my room.

  “Here,” she says. “You have to eat. You’ll feel better.”

  The warmed burrito smells good. I haven’t eaten all day. Since last night, maybe? I’m getting the days and nights mixed up because we work until the early hours of the morning. Sometimes either Chloe or Serena begins their day as I’m coming in. There are men who want them on their way into work.

  I sit up and take the burrito from Chloe.

  “What day is it?” I’ve lost track of time, but I think I’ve been here about three days.

  She shrugs.

  I left from home on Friday, which seems like a lifetime ago. Then spent the night at Cory’s. And two nights here. So it’s Monday?

  A wave of relief washes over me. Mom will realize I’m not home. She’ll call Brit’s mom. Someone will be looking for me! And Brit…she’ll know the make and model of Cory’s car. They will find me! Maybe even today!

  “Why are you smiling?” Chloe asks.

  I shake my head. “Nothing,” I say. “Nothing.” Because I don’t want to tip them off. Maybe when they come, I’ll take Chloe with me. She needs to get out of here too. It’ll be good.

  I eat the rest of my burrito and fall asleep as soon as Chloe leaves. I’m feeling better, knowing that by morning, my help will arrive, and I’ll be able to go home.

  I don’t wake until nearly noon. Reg is shaking me. “Get up and shower. You stink.”

  And no one has come for me. But soon they will. I know it will be soon.


  The next morning I’m sitting in the living room. I got up on time, got dressed and ready, and even borrowed Rag’s dark eyeliner for my eyes. I’ve learned that if I don’t fight, I don’t get hurt. And I’m just biding my time. I’m even eating a donut because I’m sure that any moment my help will arrive. They’ve realized by now that I’m gone and have gotten the police involved. They can track down Cory’s car. And my phone signal which must have pinged at Cory’s house last. Right? Or however that works.

  I look at Chloe and Reg. They are thin and look tired. Reg, slumped back on the couch, is eating a donut and smoking a joint at the same time.

  Serena is out. She had the early shift.

  When Tommy drives me to the motel room, my heart sinks a little bit. I thought the police would be here by now.

  “What are you looking for?” Tommy asks.

  “Nothing,” I say. I try to quit searching for a familiar car, or a police car. I don’t want to tip him off that they’re coming for me.

  When I get in the hotel room, I feel a little more desperate.

  “Let them have you. It’s easier that way.” I hear Chloe’s voice in my head. And that’s what I do while I wait for help to arrive.

  Halfway through my shift, Tommy comes in. My pill is wearing off, and I am shaking. I’m so scared I can hardly breathe.

  “Am I done?” I say. That can be why he’s here. He has come to take me away from this. Back to the house. At least there, no one hurts me.

  But he shakes his head. Then he goes to my purse and counts the money I’ve collected so far today.

  “How you doing?”

  I pull the covers up around me. I’m naked underneath. Tommy likes for us to get dressed in between clients, but I didn’t have time.

  I shrug and don’t meet his eyes. I’m trying to be tough, but then the words come out.

  “Can I be done today?” I say. I’m ashamed at how much my voice trembles. “Please?” I hear myself beg, and I hate it. Then I turn my head away, facing the wall, because I don’t want him to see me cry.

  “Have you made your quota?” Tommy asks.

  He knows I haven’t. But he stands there, waiting for me to answer.

  I shake my head.

  I hear him sigh, like I’m a child who doesn’t want to do her homework.

  Then he turns to leave. I hear the door shut and know that soon it will open again, and I will have to get back to work.

  The blankets are worn thin, and I wonder if they are ever washed. There are stains on the mattress that look like blood. Back home, Mom used a fabric softener that smelled like citrus. I close my eyes and try to remember the fresh smell. It brings back memories of Daddy, and me waking up late on Saturday mornings, and pancakes.

  Then I think about my cat Gracie and wonder if Mom is feeding her. Or if they are both dead now, starved because no one has checked on them. The sudden thought of my cat being dead upsets me so much I clutch the blankets hard, and my nails dig through them into my palms. The pain is a welcome relief, because it distracts me from my present situation.

  It has been a few minutes since Tommy left. There’s a spark of hope that my next client won’t show up. And then I hear the door handle turn.

  Reg says sometimes, if you can get them high enough, they forget what they’re there for. They pass out.

  Reg says it’s a chance for us to get some rest. But I think maybe it’s a chance to grab their phone.

  Three weeks later, I decide to try it, so I’m smoking a joint when the next guy comes in. Tommy gives us drugs regularly, to help us work. We’re not supposed to save them, share them, or sell them. But I have to take the chance.

  This guy is big, I mean really big. Like football player big. His eyes are dark brown, and he looks mean. He’s dressed in khakis and a polo, so not a total slum, but he looks like he means business.

  “Want some?” I say and hold up the joint. There’s a haze of smoke around me, and I’m feeling unusually relaxed. I’m trying to look cool, reclining back against the headboard. I’m not cool— there’s always fear inside of me, inside my stomach gnawing away at me. But it’s muted by this stuff I’m smoking. Reg is right. This is pretty good stuff.

  “I didn’t pay for a drug addict,” he says. “Is that all you are? You sell yourself so you can get high? Disgusting.”

  His nose crinkles like he smells something bad, and he grabs me by the ankle and pulls me until I’m lying flat.

  Then he takes the joint out of my hand and throws it on the floor. He crushes it out with the heel of his shoe.

  “Drug addicts disgust me,” he says and slaps me hard across the face. The pain bites into my skin with a fierce burning. “You’re a pathetic loser. That’s what you are. I wouldn’t screw you if you were the last woman on earth.” He slaps me again, and my ears ring. Never hit on the face. I hear Tommy’s words echo in my head. Never. It leaves marks. I’ve heard him tell at least a dozen men this. Tommy’s gonna be mad.

  The man pins my wrists down so I can’t move, and he straddles me. But now he’s not here to have sex. He’s here to kill me.

  I scream.

  “Loser,” he says, and one of his hands frees my wrist and wraps around my throat, cutting off my air. “Coke whore.”

  I take my free hand and try to beat him off, but my pounding has no effect.

  He lifts his hand once again, and I gasp in gulps of air. I try to scream, but it comes out hoarse.

  “Drugs will kill you. If you want to die, I’d be happy to help you out.”

  He pushes down on my throat again. Black spots swim in front of my eyes. This is it. This is where I die. Here, in this seedy motel room, wearing a slutty black slip and smelling like stale smoke and marijuana. There’s almost a relief in this, that it’s almost over. That I won’t have to suffer any more. But my mom will never know what happened to me. And it can’t end like this. It can’t. The survival instinct kicks in, and I’m terrified now more than ever. I don’t want to die. Not here. Not like this!

  Just as I’m about to black out, someone hits him over the head from behind with a lamp. He roars and turns, jumping off of me. I sit up, gasping for air, holding my throat and breathing.

  It’s Tommy. Before the man can move, Tommy pulls a gun.

  “Never hit my girls,” he growls. He takes the safety off. “Now get out.”

  The man stands.

  “Pay first,” Tommy says.

  “But I didn’t—”

  “Pay.” Tommy’s eyes are dark. His words are steel.

  The man stands there for a moment, weighing his options, but Tommy’s gun is pointed right at his chest. He gives in, tosses some money on the foot of the bed, and leaves.

  Franco, Thug One, comes in as the man leaves.

  “He’s blacklisted,” Tommy says to Franco, who nods and leaves. Tommy puts his gun back in his pants.

  “You okay?” he says. He walks over to me and takes my chin in his right hand. He turns my face and looks at both cheeks, then lifts it and looks at my neck. Shaking his head, he goes into the bathroom. He comes back out with a cold, wet washcloth. “Hold this against your neck,” he says. “It’s starting to bruise.”

  I’m still coughing, but I do as he says. He has saved me. Tommy has saved me.

  — — —

  When Brittney and I were twelve, we packed some cookies and our dolls and took them down to the playground in our neighborhood. My mom had sewn us dolls when we were both five. She gave them the same skin, hair, and eye color as us, so they were like little minis. I named mine Amanda and slept with her every night. As I got older, she occupied a place on top of my bookshelf and still sits there today.

  But the coolest thing was Mom also made us dresses to match the dresses the dolls wore. I wore mine to kindergarten the day I took Amanda in for show and tell, and I would have worn it every day if Mom would have let me. Brit and I wore those dresses threadbare, and I remember crying when I outgrew my dress.

  At the
age of twelve we were almost too old for dolls, but one day we decided to take them to the park with us and share a picnic. That turned out to be the last time we really played with them.

  The sun was out and it was warm, a day in late August when summer had slowed down and the days of freedom from school were numbered. We picked some grass and piled it into a little house for our dolls. Then we got the apples out of the brown paper sack my mom had packed them in. I started slicing one with the paring knife she sent along. We were the only ones in the park, and the day was perfect.

  Brittney was braiding a daisy chain necklace for her doll, and I was munching on an apple, when four teenage girls approached us. I didn’t know them, but I vaguely recognized them as some high schoolers who rode the bus that went past my house.

  “What do we have here?” one of the girls said in a sing-song voice. She wore skin-tight jeans and had too much make-up on. She looked like trouble.

  She walked over and looked down at us. “Playing with dolls?”

  She reached down and quickly grabbed Brittney’s doll before we could stop her.

  “This one is dirty,” she said. She held it up for the other girls to see. They laughed. Then she looked down at me. “You’re going to be dirty, too. It rubs off, you know.”

  We hadn’t faced much racism in elementary school, but I knew it when I heard it. I stood up.

  “Give me the doll back,” I said.

  The girl held Brittney’s doll up by her hair. The hair that my mom had so carefully braided with purple ribbons. “Make me.”

  I grabbed for the doll, but she held it higher, out of my reach.

  “Or maybe your friend here will make me,” she said, and she used the “n” word.

  I reached down and grabbed the paring knife.

  “Heather, don’t,” Brittney said, standing up so she was beside me.

  “Give me the doll back,” I said again, this time through gritted teeth.

  “Ohhhh!” said one of the other girls, pretending to be afraid. “This one’s tough. What are you going to do? Stab us?”

  “I’ll make you bleed out,” I said. I wasn’t quite sure what that meant, but it sounded good. I heard it on TV.