All Out of Pretty

by Ingrid Palmer

  “Shut up,” I tell him, worry gnawing me.

  “Mr. Greeley’s not stupid. He acts cool with us kids, but he’s got his shit together. Trust me.” Brick is still laughing, but I feel sick. Could I have made things worse?

  “He wouldn’t, like, show up at my house or anything, would he?” I ask.

  The nervous note in my voice stops Brick’s laughter. “Not for talking in class.”

  “Are you sure?” My eyes burn. I blink several times. “I mean, if he thinks I lied, he might…”

  Brick’s face sobers, and I realize I’m freaking out, giving away too much. “Andrea,” Brick says, his sure brown eyes staring right into my pale blue ones. “He won’t go to your house. He’s got kids dealing drugs at lunchtime. He’s got bigger things to worry about.”

  “Okay.” I shudder in a breath and try to compose myself. “I’m just not used to this. I’ve never been in trouble before.”

  “Yeah? You lied pretty smoothly in there.” Brick’s voice holds the hint of a challenge.

  “Not smoothly enough, apparently.” I jump to my feet. “We’d better go back to class.”

  I don’t wait for Brick because I don’t like the suspicious look in his eye. All afternoon I curse myself for acting so scared in front of him. The last thing I want is to give up my friends. But if they get too curious, that’s exactly what I’ll have to do.

  Chapter 28

  “Wasn’t sure you’d show,” Brick drawls as he sits down next to me in the back row of after-school detention. “Thought you had to be somewhere.”

  “I do,” I mumble. “I’m going be late.” I dread facing Judd, who expects me home right after school. I’d fretted about my situation all afternoon, finding myself once again with no good options. In the end, I decided that missing detention could cause more problems than just being late to meet Judd. Either way, I’d have to face his wrath. At least this way I won’t have the school administration tracking down Ayla on top of it.

  Detention lasts an hour and I watch the minute hand slowly tick its way around the clock, my stomach in knots. When it’s over, Brick offers me a granola bar as we walk out to the parking lot, and I accept it gratefully because I doubt I’m getting dinner tonight. He insists on driving me home, but I ask him to drop me at the market instead.

  “Is this where you work?” he asks, idling his SUV outside the door.

  “No, I’m meeting my boss here. We have to make some deliveries.”

  “Should I wait to make sure he’s—”

  “No. Thanks for the ride.” I hop out of the car and rush inside before Brick can ask anything else. I wait until he drives away, then I dart back outside and start jogging down the road. I look at Gram’s watch as I run. I’m almost two hours late.

  Judd is waiting.

  I’ve barely stepped inside when his voice bellows from the kitchen, “Shut the goddamn door and get your ass in here!”

  He’s leaning against the counter when I slink in. His eyes are red slits and he holds a whiskey bottle in one hand. His knuckles look pink from gripping it so hard.

  “Guess I’ve been too easy on you, lettin’ you run off all the time. Now you think showing up to work is optional?”

  “I got hung up,” I murmur. “I’ll work extra to make up for it.”

  “There’s no goddamn extra work to do. I needed you here for somethin’ specific. Now you fucking cost me more money!”

  Fed up with his baloney debt, with his mandates and his menacing, I glare at Judd with all the hatred I have suppressed over the months and yell back through gritted teeth, “So add it to my tab, asshole!”

  I barely have time to recognize the danger I’m in before he hauls back and pitches something at me. Luckily, my reflexes are quick and I duck instinctively. The whiskey bottle whistles past my left ear and shatters against the wall.

  I screamed at some point, but now I’m speechless. He threw that bottle with all of his strength and if I hadn’t ducked just right… The realization turns me cold. He really doesn’t care if he kills me.

  When I look at Judd, his lip curls. “What’re you waiting for? Clean it up.”

  I pull the wastebasket out from under the sink, grab the hand broom and dustpan. The glass is everywhere, crunching beneath my shoes. My hair falls into my eyes as I survey the mess, trying to figure out where to start. I go for the biggest pieces first, bending over to pick them up and drop them into the garbage can. Judd circles me, watching. I keep turning my body toward him so he can’t launch a surprise attack. Squatting down, I brush the tiny shards of glass into the dustpan, working frantically.

  “Where were you?” he barks as he paces. “Off with some boy? Gettin’ busy in the back of his Explorer?”

  Shit. How does he know about Brick? I remain silent and continue to sweep up the glass, assuming his questions are rhetorical. Until I realize my mistake.

  “I asked you a question. Answers aren’t optional either!” He plants his boots, bends his knees, and lunges at me so fast, I yelp. It is nothing but a fake-out, meant to scare me. And it works. I recoil and lose my balance. I manage to catch myself before sprawling face-first onto the glittering floor, but my palms press into the tiny pieces of glass and it hurts. It really, really hurts.

  While I crouch there in agony, Judd continues, “Yeah, I’ll bet you and lover boy got ‘hung up.’ Didn’t realize you were a slut, too, Bones. Just like your mama,” Judd sneers.

  My long hair hides my face, but it doesn’t mask the thin lines of blood trickling out from under my hands. Tears are coming and I’m not going to be able to stop them, so I turn everything—my pain, anger, fear—into venom. I look straight up at Judd and hiss, “If my mama’s a slut, know what that makes you? An ugly little troll who can’t keep her satisfied.”

  It happens so fast. I barely feel being lifted into the air and thrown across the room. I do feel the thud of my body hitting the wall, and his hands on my neck as he shoves me to the cellar, and then his steel-tipped boot cracking against my backside as he kicks me down the steps. I fly and land hard. Then I writhe on the cellar floor like a yowling cat, unable to suppress the pain radiating down my tailbone. It’s the worst pain I’ve ever felt. Much worse than the glass still embedded in my palms.

  The door closes and the light goes out.

  As night falls, the temperature drops. It’s always cool in the cellar, but it’s too cold now, in my shorts and thin T-shirt. My body hurts way too much to curl up for warmth, so I lay flat on my stomach and shiver, my breath coming out in little puffs. I focus on a box of toys across the room. Mr. Potato Head stares back sadly, like he’s sorry. I must be delusional. Every time I try to move, pain grips me and I give up.

  In my delirium, I curse myself for being so small for my age. If I were bigger, like some girls at school, Judd couldn’t whip me around like a rag doll. I could fight back and have it make a difference. Even Ayla, skinny as me, has her height as an advantage—and not just for making clothes fit her like a supermodel. Gram was tall, too. Maybe I get my short stature from my father, whoever he is…

  The next morning, Judd’s boots clomp-boom-clomp menacingly down the stairs, but I don’t lift my head from the dusty cement floor. When he hauls me to my feet, the sound that escapes my throat is a cross between a whimper and a moan. Tears drip down my dirty cheeks as Judd guides me upstairs and into the bright light of the kitchen. He’s gentle for once, and I can’t help feeling thankful.

  At the sink, he allows me to pluck out the glass shards from my hands and wash my cuts. I know this is necessary to avoid infection, but it hurts like hell and brings on a surge of fresh, silent tears. Judd perches on the counter smoking, watching as I tend to my injuries. When my hands are clean and patted dry, he holds out a box of bandages, which I take with trepidation.

  After my palms are bandaged, Judd hops off the counter and cups my chin
in his hand—the one holding the cigarette. It trails smoke right into my eyes so that they burn. He tilts my filthy, tear-streaked face up to his and sighs. “This is gettin’ tiresome, Bones. You’re here because I’m fond of your mama and she asked me to take care of you. Don’t I give you everything you need?”

  I nod.

  “Now I don’t want to have to keep reminding you who’s running this show. But I will, if need be.”

  I swallow, but I’m not afraid at this moment. Just utterly defeated.

  “You knew you had that coming, didn’t you?”

  “Yes,” I say in a raspy, regretful voice.

  “Good. Glad we understand each other.” He smiles—or at least attempts to.

  I wish he’d let go of my chin, but it’s a power tactic. He holds onto it for a minute before releasing me with a jerk. “Get some food, then take a shower. You stink.”

  The food, I’m all about. I open cupboards and eat everything within reach so I don’t have to move too much. When I’m full, I hobble into the bathroom. It takes forever, since each step is excruciating. I don’t look at myself in the mirror. There’s no good reason to face what I’ve become.

  After I’m clean, I realize that it’s Friday, and I flinch at the idea of having to work tonight, when the tiniest movements hurt my hands. Luckily, Judd’s not around when I crawl up the steps to my room wearing nothing but a towel. The exertion makes my rear-end bloom with pain. It makes the stinging in my palms feel like a mere annoyance. When I reach my bed, I ease myself onto it and fall into a thick sleep. I fall so far and so fast that my prayer is left half-whispered on my lips, Help me, Gram.

  Chapter 29

  Just when I think there is no end to his cruelty, Judd lets me off all weekend—no preparing orders, no deliveries. I’m left to doze in bed instead of tackling the hundreds of steps up and down all the dealers’ apartments. It’s no act of kindness, though. Judd knows I’d slow him down in my current condition.

  Pretending to be Ayla, I email in sick to school Friday. On Saturday when she and Judd are doing deliveries, I inch my way downstairs to dial the Mastersons’ number. Brick answers, which is perfect because he’s the one I need.

  “Hey. Can you tell me what trig problems Sampson assigned yesterday?” I ask, making my voice neutral.

  “Yeah, sure.” Brick rattles them off.

  “Thanks. I’ll see you—”

  “Wait, are you sick or something?”

  “Yeah. I have the stomach flu,” I lie.

  “Oh, that’s too bad,” he says with sincere regret. “Do you need anything? I could have my uncle whip up some chicken noodle soup. Of course, it might end up tasting more like corn and eggplant.”

  A quick laugh escapes, causing a spasm in my ribs. “No, but thanks. Tell Chloe I won’t make it to the pond tomorrow morning.”

  “She’s right here, I’ll let you talk to her.”

  Before I can protest, Chloe is lamenting into the phone, “Oh, Andrea! Why don’t I come hang out with you tomorrow? We could play board games and listen to music. Or talk about boys…”

  My eyes widen in horror at the thought of Chloe stepping one impish little foot anywhere near Judd’s rat-hole. I moan and try to sound pathetic. “No, Chlo, I don’t want you to catch this. It’s pretty nasty. I’m sure I’ll be better by Monday. I’ll see you then.”

  “Alright.” She sounds dejected. “I hope you feel better.” Then she adds, “Hey, how are you calling me anyway? Brick said you guys didn’t even have a phone.”

  In the background, I can hear Brick snorting with laughter. I close my eyes and remind myself to murder him on Monday.

  While Judd and Ayla are out, I slip into Judd’s bathroom to inspect myself in the mirror. Despite the pain radiating from everywhere, I find no bruises on my body. The only visible marks are the cuts on my hands. Even drunk, Judd knows what he’s doing. I paw through the medicine cabinet until I hit the jackpot—Advil. Then I hesitate, wondering if he might’ve put something more potent in the bottle as a cover-up. But a closer look reveals the stamp on each pill, so I’m safe. I pour several of them into a baggie and take them upstairs, along with as much food as I can carry.

  The Advil eases the soreness in my tailbone and soothes my throbbing hands enough that I can hold a pen and bust out my homework. I work through mid-afternoon, until I hear a car spewing gravel outside. Assuming Judd and Ayla are back for more supplies, I’m startled by sudden, urgent pounding on the front door. I tiptoe over to the window and peer out. A short, bald man is pacing back and forth on the front step in that jerky, agitated way of junkies. He bangs on the door a few more times and yells, “Judd, if you’re hiding in there, you better get our money! You don’t want Donavan to pay you another visit.” Cussing some more, he circles the house and looks in a few windows before kicking an old piece of pipe laying in the gravel. Then he climbs into his car and disappears in a swirl of dust.

  I crawl into bed again, my heart beating a staccato. So Judd owes some thug named Donovan money. Maybe that’s why he’s been increasing his dealings lately. Perhaps that’s why he slapped that crazy debt on me and Ayla. But who is Donovan, and how much money does Judd owe? Realizing that I may have found a flaw in Judd’s armor, I savor the idea like candy in my mouth.

  Judd and Ayla are back by dinnertime, and I feign sleep when Judd pokes his head into my room to check on me. His gaze makes the hairs on my neck prickle. Soon, his big black car pulls out of the driveway, but I can still hear Ayla clattering around downstairs.

  Gingerly, I head down and find her standing at the kitchen counter, mixing a drink. She looks nice in a flippy black skirt and coral-colored tank top. The black sandals on her feet expose some chipped pink toe polish. Except for her bloodshot eyes, Ayla could pass as any normal woman—a mom, even—after a long day of work. Something lurches in my chest. Why couldn’t she be normal? Why couldn’t she change?

  “Ayla?” I speak softly, knowing my voice will startle her.

  “What?” she says without looking up.

  I take a breath. “What do you know about Judd’s business?”

  “It’s pretty straight-forward. Doesn’t take a genius like you to figure it out.”

  “No, I mean. I think…” I lower my voice. “I think he owes someone money.”

  Ayla’s head is down by her knees so fast I almost miss the arc of it. Laughter fills the corners of the kitchen. “Oh, yeah, that’s a surprise!” she gasps. My eyebrows crease. “Bones, these people always owe each other. That’s what it’s about for them—money. Profit. Power. It’s not pure, like it is for me—” She abruptly stops laughing, straightens up, and takes a long sip of her drink.

  “Don’t you ever want to quit, Ayla?” I don’t know where the question comes from, but I wish I didn’t sound like such a pleading baby when I ask it.

  My mother’s eyes fix on my face for a long, lingering moment, and I would give anything to know what she’s truly thinking.

  Then she sighs so deeply it’s as if she sucked in all the light of the world, and with one breath, extinguished it. “What the fuck for?”

  She throws back her remaining drink and shuffles over to the sagging couch, the stained carpet, the cheap coffee table. The flat screen TV that she turns on is, however, state of the art. Soon the voice of some sleazy talk show host is rambling on about which of these three men is the real father of blah blah blah.

  Slowly I back up, climb the stairs to my attic room, and close the door. I gaze out the hexagonal window at the leafy green woods, dull in the twilight, and hear my mother’s question reverberate in my mind.

  I whisper a sorrowful answer, “For me.”

  The Harvest Dance is a few weeks away and it seems to be all anyone at school can talk about. The teachers even take time out of their lectures to let students sound off on themes and clothes and music. It’s getting on my ner
ves. If I didn’t care about making waves, I might raise my hand and ask if we could please stay on track and actually learn something. Ms. Sampson is the only one who refuses to allow any dance-related gossip to pervade her classroom. This week alone, four senior girls were sent packing because they couldn’t stop whispering about the big event. Ms. Sampson is growing on me.

  “You’re going to the dance, Chloe.”

  “Shut up, Brick. You can’t make me do anything.”

  As I sit in the cafeteria listening to my friends bicker, I begin to wish I was spending my lunch hour in the library.

  “Your parents are going to worry again if you don’t start socializing,” he warns.

  “I socialize. I hang out with Andrea.”

  “Slinking off to the woods every weekend isn’t their idea of being social,” Brick argues. “No offense, Andrea.”

  “Just keep me out of this,” I mumble and rub circles into my temples. I’m careful to conceal my palms, which are almost healed but still a little blotchy.

  “I don’t have a date,” Chloe reminds him. “And I’m not asking anyone. And you’re not asking any of your posse to ask me. I won’t be a charity case.”

  “I’ll take you then,” Brick says simply.

  “Oh, great. Just the popularity boost I need—to show up at my first dance with my cousin! No one would think that was pathetic.” Chloe launches a raw carrot onto Brick’s tray. He scowls as it plops into his chocolate pudding. I smother a grin.

  “Look, I promised them I wouldn’t let you disappear again.” Brick’s voice deepens into an annoyed growl. “And I keep my promises. Besides, I know you want to go,” he adds, digging into his mashed potatoes.

  A mutinous silence descends and I secretly agree with Brick on that last point. I saw the way Chloe’s eyes lit up when she spotted the first Harvest Dance flyer in the hallway. But then she realized that the dance was scheduled for a Friday night, when I always have to work, and her enthusiasm dwindled. In a way, I wish I could go, to keep her company. But mostly I’m glad I have an excuse to opt out. Dancing is not my thing. Even Gram and her sore toes knew that.