Violet Grenade

by Victoria Scott

  An hour later, I arrive at my destination. The gold sedan is already parked outside, and there’s a second car parked in front of that one. The second car looks like a demon—chrome teeth, chrome claws. It’s sleek and black and glistens in the streetlights. The huge, way-too-serious boy I saw last night steps out of the driver side and walks around the car. He doesn’t look in my direction.

  After he opens the backseat door, Ms. Karina appears. She wears a cautious smile, arms folded over her middle. Even from here, I can tell she’s tired. A sliver of guilt courses through me for calling so late.

  Somewhere in the distance, a train releases a mournful choo, choo. Almost immediately, my shoulders loosen. I love trains. I love their sturdy engines and rusted cars. I love the steadiness at which they chug along and how they seem to be going slow until you get right up close.

  But the sound is best. I respect a machine that gives fair warning while it’s still far away. When something is that powerful, that dangerous, it’s only right that people have time to flee. Here I come, it says as it screams down the tracks. Give me room!

  “Come, dear,” Ms. Karina says.

  I come.

  My footsteps echo off the sidewalk. As I approach the car, the man-boy opens the backseat door on the opposite side. Before I step inside, I glance over the hood at Ms. Karina. “I’ll need to go by my place and get my stuff.”

  “You’ll get new stuff once you arrive,” a new voice says. I glance at the gold sedan parked behind us and see White Shirt guy. He’s swinging keys around his pointer finger like he’s in a hurry.

  “If she wants her things, she’ll get her things,” Ms. Karina snaps.

  The guy straightens and then shrugs. “I’ll follow you, then.”

  Ms. Karina looks in my direction. “Eric can be quite impatient, but I want you to be comfortable. Shall we?” She motions toward the inside of the vehicle.

  Glancing around, I take in Detroit in all its gristly glory—the city of motors and lions and brute determination. I didn’t grow up here, but it was home for a little while. A better home than I’ve had in the past.

  I sit down in the car, and the smell of leather hits my nose. The interior is dark and stiff, and the cup holders contain a glass bottle of orange pop and a plastic tub of gumdrops.

  Who are all these people? Wilson asks. I don’t trust them.

  You don’t trust anyone, I hiss, before remembering that replying only encourages him.

  “Where to?” Ms. Karina asks.

  It’s been so long since I’ve been in a car. I want to touch everything at once. Instead, I tell her where my place is, and the boy in the front seat kicks the beast into drive. It travels down the road like a ghost, feet off the ground, and by the time we make it to the abandoned house I don’t want to get out. But I do anyway, gathering my wigs, body jewelry, and makeup from upstairs. I’m too embarrassed to bring any of my other stuff.

  The last thing I do is leave a note for Dizzy. If he somehow escapes (he won’t), or talks his way out of jail (he might), then I want him to know how to contact me.

  Diz,

  I’m going with a woman who says she’ll give me a job. I’ll earn enough cash to get you out of jail, and then come back. If you get this, and I’m still gone, call Greg. I’ll keep in touch with him.

  Domino

  I leave the paper on the couch. It’s hard to refrain from adding more to the letter. Like how I’m feeling with him gone. Or how I wonder if he’d do the same for me if the tables were turned.

  Though I think about it, I don’t tell the house good-bye. This isn’t my real house, not like the one I’ll have when I get enough money. So I just grab a T-shirt of Dizzy’s on my way out and return to the idling vehicles.

  Giant Boy opens my door again.

  “Thank you,” I say to his two-layered eyes.

  He doesn’t respond, but I don’t miss the way his muscles tighten. I wonder if, when he works out, he uses these cars as bench-press weights. Black one on the right side of the bar, gold one on the left. Three sets of eight reps and he’s all warmed up.

  I step inside, and the door softly closes.

  My makeup and jewelry is balled in Dizzy’s T-shirt, but my wigs spill across my lap in a disheveled rainbow. Ms. Karina eyes them and smiles. She seems pleased that this is what I needed to retrieve.

  “Let’s go, Cain,” she says to the boy.

  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.

  This isn’t the house I hope to own one day, but it’s better than the place Dizzy and I shared. There are no boards covering windows or broken glass. This home is built of clapboard, and there are three wide steps like enameled molars leading to the porch. A few bushy plants grow snug against the house, browning in the July heat, and there’s a single chaotic rosebush near the right corner.

  There isn’t a sidewalk. No numbers to mark the address. And the entire area is surrounded by a five-foot-tall fence built of wooden posts and barbed wire. The place feels eighty years out of date, and for some reason that makes it less intimidating. Internet, cell phones, security systems—these are things I’ve lived without for months. But this place feels historic, like it’s been here a while and it’s not going anywhere anytime soon, thank you very much.

  Two girls sit on a front porch swing. When they see our car grumbling toward the house, they dash inside. The screen door smacks shut behind them. Seconds later, silhouettes appear in windows. Their faces press against the glass, hands cupping their eyes for a better look.

  I sink down in the seat.

  “Don’t worry.” Ms. Karina has a compact out. She examines herself in the mirror. “You’ll fit right in, if you want to.”

  The car comes to a stop, and Cain opens the woman’s door and then mine. Behind us, Eric parks the gold sedan. There isn’t much of a driveway, so the vehicles simply squat in the crunchy yellow grass. It’s hot outside. Impossibly, mind-blowingly hot. I’m still dizzy from so many hours spent half asleep, but the heat slams into me like a flyswatter.

  “Some girls are groggy after such a long trip,” Ms. Karina says. “It’s understandable.”

  “I’m fine,” I reply.

  “I’m gonna take the bags in and then drop the rental in town.” Eric has a bag under each arm and is marching toward the porch. He toes the front door open and heads inside.

  Ms. Karina looks at Cain. “Go ahead and get started on breakfast. Let’s have eggs, scrambled, and turkey bacon. Not that fatty pork kind. Turkey.” She turns back to me. “You like eggs?”

  I nod. I’m trying not to appear too eager, but I could eat an entire henhouse of eggs right about now.

  Cain reaches for my wigs and Dizzy’s shirt in the backseat.

  “No!” I bark.

  He snaps his hand back and stares at his feet.

  “It’s okay,” Ms. Karina says. “He’s only going to put them in your room.”

  It’s not her words that change my mind, though, it’s the look on Cain’s face. He’s large enough to cause an earthquake, and his face is carved from a quarry, but he’s incredibly skittish. And I know it didn’t help that I snapped at him.

  “Here.” I shove the wigs and Dizzy’s shirt into his arms. “Sorry.”

  He looks up at me. It’s only a second, but it’s enough. There’s a world of hurt behind those brown eyes. And something else, too. Something I feel reflected inside myself. I can’t name it. I’m not even sure what it is.

  Cain turns and heads toward the house.

  “This is my family home. Built by my grandfather in the 1920s. He worked on it for six years to win his sweetheart’s hand. Now that my parents are gone, it belongs to me.” Ms. Karina says this last part like she’s arguing with someone. She puts her arm behind me. Not in a touching manner. Just, there.

  I walk beside her, wishing I still had Dizzy’s shirt to cling to, questioning whether I’ve made a mistake in coming here. As we approach the house, I realize how enormous it is. Monstrous, really. I wonder what kind of work they do out here in the middle of nowhere. Maybe they help keep the place from falling apart. I’ve heard of old houses needing an entire team to keep them functioning. That could be fun. Though it wouldn’t explain what Ms. Karina was doing in Detroit.

  From the corner of my eye, I catch sight of an empty garden bed. It’s positioned on the side of the house and surrounded by smooth stones and railroad ties. The dirt is cracked and barren, telling me nothing has grown there in some time. Ms. Karina sees me studying the garden, and her shoulders tense.

  The porch creaks when we step up, and the screen door is even louder. We spill inside, the blue door gaping open. Ms. Karina closes both behind us, and a second later Eric reopens them to go back for more luggage.

  Three girls sit on a couch pushed against the wall. One girl, a slim Asian, beats her heels against the floorboards. The second claps her hands together and then the tops of her thighs. And the third sings a playground song.

  Went to the market,

  To buy me a gown.

  All the boys whistle,

  And one fell down.

  Sway my hips,

  Lips stung by a bee.

  Keep on walking,

  Till he take a knee.

  “Girls, come meet Domino,” Ms. Karina says.

  The girls stop at once and walk over. I notice all three wear silk carnations on their blouses, pink like the fading day. The Asian girl offers her hand, and I stare at it. A second girl slaps her arm down. “You’re always so overeager, Siren. Give her a second to breathe.”

  A thunderous sound rocks the house, and the girl who spoke rolls her eyes. “They all want to check you out.” She leans in close and makes a crazy face. “Show no fear.”

  I smile in spite of myself.

  Two new girls appear in the front sitting room. It isn’t a large area, and already the floral papered walls seem to close in. Both girls have dark skin and light eyes. They could be sisters, but I don’t think they are. Over their hearts are white silk daisies.

  “The others are still asleep,” one of the new girls says to Ms. Karina, eyes never straying from my green wig. “Nice hair.”

  “It’s a wig,” I say.

  “No shit.” The girl grins. Her teeth are immaculately white against full lips. She is beautiful. The other girls are, too. Actually, beautiful isn’t the right word. They’re more interesting, some with oversized eyes, or sweet freckles, or hair that tickles apple-bottom rears. These aren’t the girls you ask, do I know you from somewhere? Because one look says you haven’t seen a person exactly like this before.

  “She dumb?” the same girl asks Ms. Karina.

  Detroit Domino might have put this girl in her place, but that Domino had Dizzy waiting at home and Greg a few blocks away. So I say nothing.

  The woman drops into a chair and waves a hand toward her own face, trying to cool down. “Go and turn on the air, Jezebel. And if you say anything else you’ll be cleaning toilets for a month.”

  Jezebel bumps her shoulder into the girl she came down the stairs with. “Come on, let’s go both
er Cain.”

  As they leave, another four girls enter through the small space. They wear yellow tulips and don’t say much. They just run their gaze over my body and head toward the kitchen. I can already smell the bacon frying, and my stomach clenches in excitement.

  Everyone leaves the room, giggling and singing their playground song once again.

  Ms. Karina sighs. “Run along and get some breakfast. One of the Carnations will show you to your room after you eat.”

  I don’t know what she means, but I know exactly where the food is coming from, so I follow the smell. There’s a short hallway that connects to the front entry room. I’m halfway down it, following the tune of pans and utensils clashing, when someone cuts off my path.

  He’s round and sweaty and has the shortest neck of any human I’ve ever seen. Dark hair sticks against his forehead, and when he sees me, he grins.

  “Well, what do we have here? A little rabbit.” He’s breathing hard. It sounds like he was outside running sprints, but I find that doubtful.

  I tense, and he approaches.

  Huff, puff.

  Grin.

  “What’s your name?” he asks.

  “Leave her alone, Mr. Hodge,” Ms. Karina calls from the entry room. “She’s only just arrived.”

  The smirk leaves his face. He lifts a finger, thick as a serpent, and jabs it into the middle of my chest. “I hope you aren’t lazy. Because if you are, you’ll answer to me.”

  I brush past him, and he chuckles.

  “Your first shift’s tonight, new girl,” he says as I move away.

  I spill into the breakfast room, my pulse ringing. Mr. Hodge is someone I want to stay away from. Ten seconds with him. That’s all it took to know this.

  The kitchen is sunny, and there are multicolored Christmas lights strung across the ceiling. Several of the girls are already seated at two long tables. When one of them sees me, she shoots up from her chair.

  “Is this her?” she squeals.

  “That’s her,” someone answers.

  The first girl races toward me, and I think she’s going to—

  She throws her arms around me and hugs me close. “Now I’m not the new girl anymore. You saved me. You saved me! My name’s Poppet. You can call me Poppet. I’m a Carnation, obviously, but some of the other girls are Daisies and Tulips. The Lilies and Violets live in the guesthouses out back and they eat later, but we can—”