Violet Grenade

by Victoria Scott

  Madam Karina takes hold of my shoulders and lowers herself until her face is inches from mine. She smiles with her whole face. But then, slice by slice, that smile slips away. In its place blooms vulnerability and anger. “You may think you can play me for a fool, girl,” she says, “but I know what it is you want.”

  “Tell me what I want.”

  She grips my shoulders tighter. “You want that boy. You want to earn enough to leave and get him out of jail. You only want him.”

  Surprise must drip from my face, because she reaches up with a thumb like she’s wiping something away. “Don’t look so shocked. You used my phone to make those calls, did you not?”

  I recover quickly, try to pull away from her, but it’s no use. This thinning, frail woman is stronger than she appears. “If you know who it is I called and why, then you know what was said, too.”

  “Yes. He didn’t call you after he got out, so why do you need this money so badly? Where have you got to go? Where will you ever have to go? You think you’ll make enough here to live on forever? Eventually, you’ll need a job. Who would give you one?”

  I don’t speak, and though my jaw aches from clenching my teeth, my chin still quivers.

  “This world isn’t for you. But that’s okay. It isn’t for me, either.” She strokes my hair. “Stop dreaming of a life past this one. This is it for you. This is it for me, too.”

  “Domino, I’m tired,” Poppet says quietly from behind me.

  “Do you hear what I’m telling you?” Madam Karina pushes.

  For once, Wilson doesn’t speak. And I really need him to, because Madam Karina is reminding me too much of someone from my past. She’s in my head and eating my insides and I can’t think because I just want her to smile again. I’m suddenly sharply aware of what Wilson said when we first arrived.

  Out of all the places you could end up, Domino, this is the absolute worst.

  When I speak again, it comes out as a whisper. “I won’t leave you, Madam Karina.”

  She pushes me. It isn’t hard, but I still bump into Poppet and we nearly tumble to the floor. Madam Karina’s face opens with alarm when she realizes what she’s done. She reaches for me. Stops herself.

  “Of course you’ll leave me. That’s what people do. They leave and leave and LEAVE, LEAVE, LEAVE!”

  Madam Karina is crying now, great rivers of pent-up sorrow escaping her soft starlet eyes.

  “I won’t leave you,” Poppet says. “I promise, Madam Karina. I won’t go anywhere.”

  Madam Karina turns away and sobs into her hands.

  It’s maybe three seconds, five at the most, before Mr. Hodge is barreling through the door, reaching for the madam. She pushes him harder than she pushed me, but he’s unmovable.

  “Get away from me!” she yells. “Go back to your precious phone. Go back to calling whoever it is you call.”

  “Shhh, puppy. Hush, now.” He wraps his arms around her and this time she doesn’t fight him. Mr. Hodge is grossly overweight, and sweats profusely, and smells like fish left in the sun. But Madam Karina quiets in his embrace. As for me, I’m letting Poppet pull me up and trying to pacify the shock of what happened here.

  Mr. Hodge turns to Poppet and me, concern in his eyes. “Go to your room. The Daisies won’t give you any more problems tonight. I’ll take care of Madam Karina.”

  “I’m sorry for…” Poppet says, referring to the madam.

  “Just go to bed,” he replies.

  Watching Mr. Hodge care for Madam Karina makes me wonder if I judged him too quickly. The madam showed us she’s every bit as explosive and unhinged as the rest of us. But here he is, steady in her aftershocks.

  Poppet strides toward the door, and I follow close behind.

  Our bare feet crunch over dried violets on our way to bed.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Hollow Basket

  The next morning, I find a basket on our dresser. Inside are three things. An uncomfortable apology from Madam Karina asking us to pardon her “inappropriate behavior” and agreeing to our “fine, well-thought-out proposal,” copies of Poppet’s and my financial statements that clearly reflect a bump from the last time we read them, and—at the very bottom of the basket, covered by a red-and-white checkered cloth—a can of orange spray paint.

  Before I do anything else, I make my third phone call from the basement, and when I do, I learn three things from Purple Nails Meg.

  Hair Flair and Fun will be closing its doors in six days.

  Greg has moved in with his boyfriend.

  Meg handles the prospect of losing her job better than I would.

  When I hang up, I realize I have only myself to rely on. Truly. And that I will never stop fighting until I have four strong walls to call my own.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Thumb-sucker

  It takes Poppet and me exactly nine days from the time we received that basket, and from the time I make that call, to break out of the Daisies’ control. With Jack’s help, I finish the week in first place and Poppet in second. I tell Jack seven true things about myself, and each one feels like a bullet hole through the chest. They are my secrets to have and to hold. And when he takes them from me, they feel less real.

  Maybe my favorite color isn’t yellow.

  Maybe I don’t like cinnamon in my coffee as much as I think.

  Maybe my parents didn’t turn me into an animal that stalks the world, rabid.

  I didn’t tell Jack about my family. That’s one gunshot wound I wouldn’t recover from, so why talk about it?

  Today is market day, just past lunch on a Sunday, and I’m headed outside and toward the east guesthouse. I want to talk to Lola about what Madam Karina said. There’s been little time for that before now. Work to do, coins to earn, chores to complete. But not today.

  I wait in the plastic chair out back and watch her territory. I know better than to approach the house, but I also know she’ll come out sooner or later. To buy a bomber jacket she’ll never wear in this west Texas heat, or a package of popsicles to crunch on, or a paperback romance novel to chase away the godforsaken, ever-present boredom.

  It doesn’t take long before she appears, but already sweat slides down my temples. Lola swishes toward me, walking on the tips of her toes like she does, and plops down in the second chair. She’s wearing oversized tortoiseshell sunglasses and plum-colored lip gloss. A bittersweet scent reaches my nose. It reminds me of the smell I picked up in Madam Karina’s room the night she accused me of trying to leave.

  Lola pulls her dark hair into a ponytail. “Saw you from the window. You waiting on that boy?”

  “I was waiting on you.”

  She laughs. “Get in line, baby.”

  “Why are you trying to help me?”

  She sobers. “Who says I’m doing any such thing?”

  “Are you trying to leave the home?”

  Her head whips toward me. “Who said that?”

  “Madam Karina.”

  Lola swears under her breath.

  “Are you?”

  “That’s enough questions, Daisy.”

  My chest swells though I’m not sure why. “I’m not a Daisy anymore.”

  Lola raises an eyebrow. “Already?”

  “Starting tomorrow.”

  Silence hangs between us, and Lola sticks her thumb into her mouth. Sucks on it and then pulls it from between her lips with a pop. “I can’t stand being here any longer. Might as well tell you, since she already knows.”

  “Where will you go?”

  “Don’t worry your pretty little head about that. You just keep the madam happy so I can slip away, understand?”

  “Why don’t you tell her you’re leaving?” I ask. “Don’t you have to apply to withdraw your money?”

  Lola laughs at this. “Listen, Domino, you’re the kind of girl who will stay here until you’re dismissed by the madam. Then you’ll live in some trailer park and do her bidding until she says you’re ready to die. And yo
u know what? That’s a better life than you would’ve had elsewhere. But I’ve got big plans, and they don’t involve staying here.”

  Anger coils in my belly. “Don’t pretend you know me.”

  “That’s the thing. I do know you. Now, will you be a good puppet and keep the madam’s attention so I can blow this joint?”

  I stare at her, disgusted that she expects me to help her after the insults she’s hurled. But then her face softens, and I see the fear in her gaze. She’s afraid I’ll say no. Afraid she’ll be stuck here and those dreams of hers will dead-end. I don’t like Lola but, just like Madam Karina, she has a way of tugging what she wants out of you. Plus, I’m still hopeful that if I play by Madam Karina’s rules and earn money the way she wishes, I can chase a dream of my own.

  Four walls.

  A strong roof.

  A soft bed that is mine.

  Safety.

  “You imply that it’s hard to leave this place.” I say this almost as a question. And part of me is afraid of her response. In order for me to continue here, I need to know that at the end, my goal is reachable. After Madam Karina’s outburst, I’m not sure I can trust that.

  Lola hesitates. “It’s not that you can’t leave with a pocketful of cash. It’s just that Madam Karina is very persuasive.”

  Persuasive. I can deal with persuasive.

  Can you? Wilson whispers.

  “I’ll keep her watching me, Lola.” I stand and run my eyes over her frame. Then, to return the grace she’s shown, I add, “Shouldn’t be too difficult considering my competition.”

  She smiles. “Bitch.”

  I smile, too. “Trash.”

  Lola offers her hand.

  “Weren’t you just sucking your thumb?” I ask.

  She shrugs.

  I stick my own thumb in my mouth and pop it out. Then I offer her my hand.

  She shakes it.

  I walk toward the house, and behind me Lola says with a chuckle, “Look what we have here, ladies and gentlemen. The future Top Girl of Madam Karina’s House for Burgeoning Entertainers.”

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Riders on the Storm

  It’s my last night as a Daisy, and I can’t sleep for two reasons. One, I’m afraid the girls will use this chance to confront Poppet and me before we’re officially promoted. Second, because it sounds like the freaking apocalypse has descended upon this clapboard house.

  The thunder rolls on top of us like a great ogre stomping his feet. Rain pelts the roof, and I watch a brown stain in our ceiling grow wider and then drip onto the hardwood floor. Poppet is completely out, and I don’t want to wake her. But I hate storms. Despise them. They remind me of the night my father slipped away and the world crashed into the sun. When storms tap-danced through Detroit, Dizzy used to let me bring a blanket into his room and sleep at the foot of his mattress.

  Like a dog, I realize now.

  I pace the floor, dip my big toe into the dripping rainwater. My mind is already where it wants to go, and at a certain point, I feel disconnected from it. So I roll my head and then my shoulders and shoot one last glance at Poppet.

  Can I trust she’ll be okay alone?

  I peek into the hallway and don’t hear anything above the storm’s fury. Glancing over my shoulder, I remember the way Poppet launched herself at those Daisies. I smile and cover my mouth to keep from laughing.

  Then I pad down the hallway in hot pursuit of my lost mind.

  I find it on the first floor. Dipping my head inside the Carnations’ entertainment room, I watch the toy train roll across its tracks near the ceiling. The lights are off in the room. The girls have swept away the balled napkins and soda straws. But that train still chugs around the room unperturbed.

  I smile at the sight.

  When the thunder crashes again, I startle and make my way to the kitchen. Twice, I start to turn back, to find my bed and chase elusive slumber. But on the third try, I find my courage.

  The door to the basement opens easily in my hand, and I tiptoe down the cool stairs. The lavender gown Poppet lent me brushes the floor, and my hair slides over my shoulders and down my back. I bite my lip when I reach the bottom, desperately wishing, above anything else, that I had thought to wear a wig. I’m too exposed. Too vulnerable.

  Cain rolls over on his mattress.

  His eyes meet mine.

  He doesn’t move as I inch toward the chain link wall that separates us. My fingers curl over the metal and I cling to it, my legs shaking beneath me. What am I doing here?

  Thunder rattles the walls, and Cain rises like the god who summoned it. He strides toward me, one bare foot in front of the other. His eyes are dark in the dim light creeping through the window. They flash with the lightning, shadows thrown across the room, across his face. He stands a breath away, looking down at me. He is enormous.

  Large as a storm cloud.

  Large as a tornado.

  I take in every part of him—his shaved head, his powerful shoulders, the bulge of muscles beneath his white T-shirt. His skin is smooth and tan, his lips full. This close, I can see the slightest sprinkle of freckles beneath his eyes. They seem like a false sense of security. Make him seem harmless, when I know that’s a lie. Just look how I’m reacting when a wall separates me from him. He’s like a caged animal down here in the dark, and though electricity shoots through my fingertips, I want nothing more than to release this beast and see if I am nuzzled or destroyed.

  Cain’s fingers slip through the links until his hands rest on mine.

  He holds my gaze until I can feel him in the very back of my mind.

  We stand like that for several moments, my heart beating like a wild, unpredictable thing, and him searching my face like there’s salvation to be found there. Finally, he nods toward the door that stands between us and strides toward it. He unlocks the thing and throws it open.

  He doesn’t invite me inside, but he doesn’t need to, either.

  I go to him.

  He watches as I walk to his bed and sit, folding my leg beneath me. Though his sheets are rough and his pillow hard, goose bumps rise along my arms. He stands across the room, head down, chest rising and falling quickly.

  When several seconds pass and he hasn’t moved to sit next to me, heat blooms in my cheeks and along my neck. I’m an idiot. I shouldn’t have come here. He doesn’t want company, and he’s too kind to say so.

  With my face burning, I start to push myself up. That’s when he speaks.

  “I don’t want to hurt you, Domino.”

  I freeze. “So don’t.”

  He raises his head. “If you knew the things I’ve done.”

  I tug his blanket around my hips. “Tell me.”

  He lifts his head and lets it fall back, breathes out like he’s been holding his breath for three hundred and sixty-five days. And one to grow on. “I killed my brother.”

  Though I hate myself for the reaction, I can’t stop the fear that boils under my skin. I don’t speak, and Cain finds my eyes.

  “My father was a bastard,” Cain continues. “Everyone in Pox knew that. But no one knew it like my brother and I did. He had two loves, and neither were his sons.” Cain laughs darkly. He holds up a pointer finger. “My father loved to drink.” He holds up a second finger. “And he loved MMA fighters. You know those guys who fight in cages? He thought they were like Roman gladiators.” Cain lowers his voice like he’s emulating his father and beats a closed fist against his chest. “You boys need to be more like them. You’re too soft. You’re too goddamn soft.”

  Cain drops his arm and sighs. “He started making us fight each other. Training, he called it. Said maybe his pansy boys could make him some money one day like those gladiators he saw on TV. At first we refused to do it, but my old man found ways to motivate us.”

  He runs a hand over his head. “My dad wasn’t one to smoke cigars often, but occasionally he’d pair them with whiskey. So one day he’s smoking one and he got this idea to use th
em on us after we fought.”

  My stomach turns hearing Cain’s story, and though I don’t want to hear more, I’m afraid this may be the first time he’s ever told this story. He needs to expel this memory the same way he would poison. So I remain silent.

  “He let the winner of each round choose who got burned,” Cain continues. “So I fought harder, because even though I didn’t want to hurt my brother, it was my father’s hand on him I dreaded most. So I won. Over and over, I won. And each time I chose to take that burn.”

  “Cain—”

  He raises a hand like he needs to finish this. “One day I hit him too hard. He fell and slammed his head onto the fireplace ledge. He was dead. He was dead, and I killed him.”

  Cain’s voice breaks, and I can’t stand it any longer. I get up and cross the distance between us. He doesn’t cry for his lost sibling, only breathes harder like he’s trying to prevent a breakdown. But when I twine my arms around him, hesitantly, I feel the change. His breathing slows and I hear an aching sound deep in his throat.

  “Your father killed your brother, Cain. Not you.” I wrap my hands around his cheeks, force him to look at me. “Your father was a monster. You are not. Do you understand?”

  He pulls his face away, and because I know how hard it is to accept forgiveness for something you’ve owned for so long, I take a different approach. Taking his arm, I guide him toward the mattress. I crawl on and he crawls behind me, keeping a river of space between us. It takes every ounce of courage I have to—gently, slowly—take his heavy arm and wrap it around my body like a blanket made of steel. Several minutes pass before he moves a touch closer.

  We stay like that for a stretch, neither of us saying anything. And though I don’t prefer being touched, it’s okay with him. It’s okay.

  Can I say something? Wilson asks gently from the back of my mind.