by Jeyn Roberts
“Do you really live here?” Paige finally asks, breaking the silence and my thoughts. She looks up at the church in awe. She’s actually impressed. I find that funny, considering I was so amazed at her place. I guess that’s what happens when you lead completely different lives.
“Yeah,” I say. “Do you want to come in?”
“I’d love to.”
I unlock the door and we’re greeted by silence. Thankfully, Gazer isn’t home. So I give her the whole tour. The living area that’s surrounded by empty pews, the kitchen with our bipolar refrigerator; I even show her the basement with the broken-down gym equipment. Eventually we end up in my bedroom. I try not to act embarrassed because there are clothes on the floor and my bed’s not made. I’m sure her room would be the same if it weren’t for the maid.
“I love this place,” she says. “It’s so beautiful.” She sits down on my bed and bounces up and down a few times. “You’re so lucky.”
“Me? Your place has a pool and, like, twenty bedrooms. We don’t even have heat half the time.”
“But a church has character,” she says. “Anyone can live in a big house. How many people get to say they live in a cool place like this?”
“Most people get weirded out by it.”
“Not me. I’d kill to live here. It’s so unique. You’ve even got stained-glass windows. So pretty.”
I can’t help it. I laugh. But not in a mean way. I think of the few people who have been here over the years and most of the time they react the same way Detective Aggett did when he was here. They get nervous, as if they’re offending God or something. No one has ever called this place pretty.
There is definitely more than one side to Paige. But which one can I trust, if any?
“Anyway, you can keep that,” Paige says as she points to the envelope still in my hand. “It’s just a copy. Dad’s got the real deal and he’s going to use it when he files the complaint with the school.”
I open my desk drawer and toss the signatures inside. Best not to leave it out in the open. I still haven’t told Gazer I’ve been expelled. If Paige actually follows through on this, then I might figure out what to say.
“So what do you think?”
“It’s probably a waste of time,” I tell her. “You’re trying to change the laws. That’s not easy to do.”
“They need to fix things,” Paige says. “They’re biased. This whole damn world is biased. Times are changing. Everyone deserves a chance. Just think. Getting you back in school could be the first step.”
I can’t help smiling. She’d make a great politician. She’s obviously got a flair for the dramatic. I understand why she’s doing this now. I’ve officially turned into a cause. There’s something wrong and Paige is determined to right it. I guess I can’t complain. I think of Beth and her skinny arms and how her parents treat her differently now that she’s got her own scars. Let Paige fight. It’s not just for me. It’s for Beth and Chael and even Arnold Bozek. It’s for the thousands, if not millions, of people out there that need more help than this world is willing to give them.
If Paige has her way, she’ll probably change history. Thinking about all this actually makes me like her a little bit more.
“I should probably go,” Paige says as she gets up off the bed. She actually holds out her hand to shake mine as if we’ve come to a truce. “Is there anything else I can do?”
I look down at her perfectly manicured gel nails and an idea comes to me.
“Actually, yes,” I say. “There is something.”
Half an hour later we’re at the beauty salon and a lady with an eyebrow ring and a purple-and-black spiked style is lathering up my hair. I shouldn’t have let Paige talk me into this. All I wanted was for her to take me to the place so I could buy Beth a gift certificate. I promised to take her out tomorrow and do something fun and I was thinking along the lines of getting her nails done, maybe a pedicure too. I think it will do wonders for Beth’s self-esteem to have a girls’ day out.
But Paige has managed to convince me during that short car ride that the one thing I need in the world is a new hairstyle.
“You look beautiful already,” she says. “But this will make you gorgeous.”
I’m such a sucker.
“So what do you want done?” the stylist asks as she tousles my damp hair.
I look at her spiked style and try not to cringe. “Nothing major,” I say. “I don’t want to lose the length. But I do have a date tonight. Maybe something nice?”
The stylist picks up her scissors. “I know just what to do with you.”
I try not to look too worried as she begins to cut.
Paige drops me off with promises to keep me fully informed of her new goals. She’ll let me know the second the school responds to her father’s petition. And she plans to take it further. Maybe the newspapers. Or television reporters. But small steps first. I won’t lie and pretend that the thought of seeing Mrs. Orman’s face when she gets the complaint doesn’t make me feel all warm and bubbly inside.
Paige actually asks me if I’m willing to go have coffee with her sometime. Part of me thinks she’s just looking for some new way to slum. .
I’m still not going to put her on my friends list just yet, but I say yes because deep down inside, I really do think she wants to change. Maybe I’m a glutton for punishment but only time will tell. And helping me get a new hairstyle and a manicure sure did up her brownie points a bit. I won’t admit it out loud but I actually had fun.
Back at home, I sit by the fire with Gazer while we both try to keep warm. It’s raining more heavily than usual tonight and the church seems engulfed by a cold draft that just won’t be tamed. The fire crackles and sputters and I toss in another log and glance up at the clock. It’s just a bit after seven. I promised Chael I’d meet him at nine. He’s going to show me his apartment tonight and I must admit, I’m dying of curiosity to see it. I pick up the poker and shove the embers around.
“Are you expecting someone?” Gazer asks, his eyes peering from the top of his book. Moby-Dick. A classic. The pages are worn and swollen from constant creasing.
“No, why?”
“Because you keep looking at that clock every other minute,” he replies. “Either you’re expecting time to stop altogether or you’re waiting for someone.”
“Neither,” I say, and I pick up my book. A cheap romance, nothing nearly as deep or exciting as what my mentor would ever read. I’ve been turning the pages for over an hour but I can’t say I’ve read a single word.
“Are you going out tonight?”
“Yes,” I say, trying to sound nonchalant. “In a little while.”
“Who is he?”
I look at Gazer and he’s staring at me intently. There might be a twinkle in his eyes or it could be just the fire reflecting in his pupils. I can’t tell.
“What makes you think there’s a boy?” I ask.
Gazer chuckles and I toss my book at him.
“You’re transparent, Faye,” Gazer says. “Completely, utterly transparent. Of course, having a new hairstyle might have something to do with it.”
“Is it that terrible? I knew I shouldn’t have let her use the curling iron.” I jump up, ready to run to the bathroom and try to dismantle it bit by bit. There’s a lot of hair spray. What if it doesn’t come out?
“You look beautiful. You’re going to knock him flat on his back. Figuratively speaking, of course.”
I laugh but my hands sneak up toward the top of my head to make sure the curls are still in place.
“I hope I’d approve of him.”
“You would.”
“Does he have a name?”
“Chael.” I don’t offer him a last and I pray he doesn’t ask. I don’t actually know. I guess I could use Bozek.
“Sounds like a gentleman. When will yo
u bring this Chael by?” Gazer picks up my book and studies the cover. He wrinkles his nose and tosses it back in my direction. Gazer still can’t fathom why anyone would want to read something that doesn’t involve philosophy or has been written in the past century.
I stand up and stretch. One last glance at the clock and I decide it’s time to get ready. “I didn’t think you’d want to meet him.”
Gazer grins. “Of course I want to meet him. Someone’s got to be here to walk you down the aisle.”
I make a big show of rolling my eyes before retreating to the coldness of my room. I spend a lot of time at the mirror trying to tie my hair up in a way that won’t get it wet or ruin the curls. Thankfully, the hot water is working and I’m able to have a shower. The water burns against my back, sending steam off my body and leaving my skin a nice pink color. Afterward, I quickly dress myself in a pair of nice jeans. Standing in my bra, I dig around in my closet until I find a tank top. Chael isn’t ashamed of my scars so neither am I. There are no more rules for me to follow. After that, I add a sweater for warmth that can come off later if need be.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m not planning on doing anything I shouldn’t be doing tonight. I’m not there yet. But at the same time, I’m ready for a little more.
I let my hair down and thankfully it didn’t get ruined during my shower. I swear, I’ve never put this much effort into making myself pretty before. It’s exhausting. I put on a bit of makeup, smudging my cheek with mascara twice before finally getting it right. I’m just not experienced enough at this sort of thing. I ignore the twinge of pain when I think about how my mother used to sit at her mirror and apply her face. I used to hang out on the bed and watch her, fascinated with the way she expertly used those tiny brushes to make her eyes appear twice as big and a thousand times more exotic. That was back in the days when my father was still around and she was happy.
“Don’t open your eyes,” she’d say as she used the brush to apply the tiniest amount of blue shadow around my eyes. “Just a bit more. Okay, take a look. You look like a fairy princess.”
I was always enthralled by the way my eyes looked with shadow on them. I felt so grown-up. I know it’s such a cliché but I truly felt different. Transformed.
Only, princesses usually didn’t have secondhand clothing with holes in the sleeves, but I didn’t know enough to care about that. Even Cinderella had her rags for a while. The faded picture on my shirt was of a white stallion and I wore it all the time. I’d never even seen a horse before.
But none of that mattered. Mom had given me one of her older lipsticks and I loved twisting the cylinder over and over, watching the pink column rise up and down from the darkness of the tube.
“Remember to blot it,” Mom would say, holding out the box of tissues. I’d reach out and take a handful at a time. Removing the lipstick was more fun than actually wearing it. I liked seeing the color on the Kleenex more than on my face.
“So pretty.”
“That’s way too much, darling.”
“But I like it this way.”
“You won’t when you’re older. But don’t worry, I’ll show you how to do it properly then.”
Now I sit in a dingy room and try to figure all this out on my own. I still find it hard to imagine that my memories are actually real. I once had a mother who loved me and didn’t toss me out in the cold, calling me a little slut, and telling a complete stranger to take me away so she didn’t have to ever see me again.
But I’m not going to feel sorry for myself. Not tonight. Not anymore.
Sixteen
I should have known better. All that work to try to keep those curls curly. Ten minutes in the rain and it’s stuck to my head. Water is dripping down the back of my neck. I’m beginning to think that maybe it’s time to invest in an umbrella. Or at least a hoodie. It’s weird. I never had anyone I really wanted to impress before.
Of course, when I see Chael, his hair is just as wet as mine. Funny, on him it just makes him look sexier. There are drops sticking to his eyelashes. He looks like he’s crying crystals.
I’m positive I look like a drowned dog.
We meet in front of the coffee shop but we don’t go inside. This is the big night. He’s taking me home, wherever or whatever that might be. I’m dying of curiosity, but I don’t ask any questions. It’s obvious that he’s enjoying the suspense game too much. If he pulled out a blindfold and asked me to wear it for secrecy, I wouldn’t be overly surprised.
“So are you ready?” he asks with a grin. “I hope you didn’t eat dinner?”
“I can always eat,” I say. “With the amount of exercise Gazer makes me do a day, I could scarf down a dozen meals and still look this hot.”
“I like your new haircut.”
“What?” My hands instinctively go up to the tangled wet mop. “How can you even tell?”
“Because it looks different. I’ve grown accustomed to your ‘straight out of the shower’ look,” he says, and tousles my hair, sending droplets all over my shoulders. “Correct me if I’m wrong but I think there are still a few curls there.”
“Look who’s talking.”
He takes my hand and leads me off. As it turns out, he doesn’t live very far from the docks, where we witnessed Rufus and Ming Bao killing the men.
He finally leads me down a street that appears barren, as if no one has lived there for at least a decade. We walk halfway down and he stops in front of what once might have been an apartment complex.
“Home sweet home,” he says.
I look up at the dilapidated building with skepticism. “People live here?”
“Not really,” he says. “It’s been condemned by the city. There are a few squatters on the main floor but I haven’t seen them around much lately. Mostly just rats. A few birds. A stray cat or two. I’ve pretty much got the entire place to myself.”
“Sounds disgusting,” I say, and suddenly I’m wondering what I’ve gotten myself into. Wall-to-wall dingy mattresses? Burned floors that leak more than my church? What about the ceiling? It looks like it’s about to cave in on the top right. What if the place falls down while we’re in there?
This is where angels dare to live?
“Come on,” he says. “It’s not as bad as it looks. You’ll see.”
The door is heavy and squeaks when Chael opens it. Once we’re inside, the smell of mold and dust assaults my senses. I wrinkle my nose and try not to sneeze. It’s dark. Super dark. There’s a hallway in front of us and a staircase. I’m positive someone’s been peeing there on a regular basis. The door shuts behind us with a vibrating thud and suddenly I’m feeling very claustrophobic.
“Take my hand,” Chael says. “We have to climb a few flights. There’s no banister from the second floor on. Be careful.”
We climb for what feels like forever. I try to count the steps but I’m so busy concentrating on where I’m putting my feet that I lose track after sixty-five. It’s too dark to see anything so we move slowly. My feet blindly reach up with each step, trying hard not to stumble. At one point, I step on something lumpy and squishy. It’s the only time I’m thankful I can’t see. I keep one hand slipped into Chael’s and the other reaches out and finds the wall. It’s coarse and the plaster crumbles under my touch. The stairs creak and groan under our weight and I try to block out the thoughts of us suddenly falling through and breaking our necks.
Finally, we reach the top and head down the hallway. There’s a busted-out window at the end and I can see a bit of a glow from the streetlights. The hallway in front of us is lined with torn carpet and a long row of closed doors. I can’t hear a single thing except the sound of our feet.
Funnily enough, as old and dingy as this building is, the doors look fairly strong and secure. Some of them even have locks that look newish. Maybe Chael is wrong and there are more people living here. Maybe that’s the new thing t
o do. Live in a place that’s completely disguised as something condemned. That would explain Gazer and my church. No one would ever bother to sneak in and rob the place if they thought no one could possibly live there.
Chael stops at a door and produces a key. It fits the lock easily and the door opens into more darkness. I allow him to put his hand on my elbow and lead me inside.
“Hold on,” he says. “Let me find some light.”
I wait there patiently until a lighter sparks several feet away. Chael lights candle after candle until the room in front of me begins to flicker and glow. He kneels down in front of a faux fireplace and turns on a battery-operated heater. The room starts to instantly grow warmer, chasing away the chill, and I step further inside.
After the long trip up, I never in a million years expected to find this.
For starters, the place isn’t just clean—it’s impeccable. The floor is concrete, but free of dust. It’s obviously been washed recently. In the middle of the room, there’s an old rug. A couch that’s worn, but looks comfortable. A small table filled with candles. A bed in the corner that’s made neatly and even has a few extra throw pillows for style.
I step further inside. The kitchen is to the right of me. The cupboards are missing the doors but the shelves are free of dust. There are some groceries stacked neatly. Mostly canned food and some crackers. A few dishes, stuff that looks like it was found in secondhand shops. There’s no electricity so I’m assuming the fridge doesn’t work. The taps probably don’t run either from the looks of the bottled water on the counter.
In the middle of the room, close to the portable heater, Chael has laid out a picnic blanket. On top are two long-stemmed glasses and a bottle of wine. There is also a single pink rose in a glass filled with water.
“What do you think?” Chael asks. He’s finished lighting the candles, a few dozen of them on the table, the fake mantel, even on the floor. The glow gives the room a soft cozy feeling. He reaches out and takes my hand, leading me over to the picnic cloth and helping me sit down. Very gentlemanlike. The warm air from the heater hits my back. I take off my jacket and pat my hair down, trying to get rid of some of the extra water.