POESY
A Low Novella
MARY ELIZABETH
Copyright © Mary Elizabeth Literature
All Rights Reserved Cover Design: Hang Le
Editor: Paige Maroney Smith
Formatter: Midnight Engel Press, LLC
First Edition
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Innocents (Dusty, Volume 1)
Delinquents (Dusty, Volume 2)
True Love Way
Low
Poesy (A Low Novella)
"I found Low by author Mary Elizabeth to be a masterful, poetic journey, that speaks of sacrifice, depravity, and all that makes us utterly human." —Audrey Carlan, #1 New York Times Bestselling Author
"Even after the last word, my pulse raced with uncontrollable emotions. Hands down, a MUST-READ book!" —EK Blair, NYT Bestselling Author
"One of the most captivating, engrossing, thrilling, unputdownable reads that I've read in a LONG time! FIVE STARS!" —Maryse's Book Blog
"If you love heart stopping romance and want to be swept up in a story with a difference then do not hesitate to pick this one up. These two young lovers were guilty of stealing our heart." —Totally Booked
"Wow! Low. Read it. Love it. Savor it. One crazy ride that you won't want to end. So incredible, so perfectly imperfect. Mary hit a home run with this one!"—Jen, Schmexy Girl Book Blog
"Mary Elizabeth's word choice was intentional. Her sentences, exquisitely descriptive. Her paragraphs, like poetry." —Feeding My Addiction Book Reviews
"Raw, real, gut wrenching and intense, Low by Mary Elizabeth has made me believe in a new kind of happily ever after. 5 stars isn't enough for this book." —Rachel Brookes, Bestselling Author
Novels By Mary Elizabeth
Praise For Low
Contents
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
About The Author
Acknowledgments
For the bad guys.
I WAS SEVEN years old when my cigarette-smoking mom, stirring instant pancake mix, told me Santa Claus wasn’t real. Ash fell into my breakfast; she didn’t care.
“Do you really believe an overweight man magically slithers down the chimney while you’re asleep, and we don’t hear a thing? For God’s sake, Poesy, we don’t even have a fireplace. Daddy eats the cookies, that fat ass.”
I haven’t trusted her since.
As payback, I told my entire second grade class that Jolly St. Nick was a hoax during recess the next day. When my mother was called into the principal’s office, she denied breaking my holiday spirit. The woman who served me tobacco sprinkled flapjacks accused me of stretching the truth and being defiant since birth.
“Poe’s a bit selfish. Only child syndrome, or something.”
“It’s attention seeking behavior, ma’am,” the school leader said.
“You don’t say?” Mom replied.
She never trusted me.
Our relationship wasn’t much to brag about before she stole the magic from my childhood, but if I had to choose a definite turning point, it was that day. Eleven years later, I’ve come to terms with the fact that some women don’t have the mother gene, despite being capable of childbirth. Georgie Ashby’s fucked up in the head, not the uterus. Too bad she didn’t figure it out for herself before she procreated, subjecting me to this bleak life.
Mom was emotionally foul.
Dad was just emotionless.
He resents his wife for getting pregnant after a few drunken L.A. weekends, and he resents me for being born.
I grew up provided for, but I was far from nurtured. There was always a roof over my head and a bed to sleep in. My dad earned a paycheck, and my mom made sure dinner was on the table every evening. We all went through the hoops, back-to-school nights and birthday parties, swimming lessons and drivers’ licenses. Family photos were taken every May, hung in inexpensive frames around the house four weeks later. There are grins on our faces, because who can help but smile when the photographer says “cheese”?
We got a dog once, but he couldn’t handle the meaninglessness and ran away.
But I’m stronger than the Golden Retriever none of us wanted. My keepers probably thought they were going to be free of me once I turned eighteen. Unfortunately for them, I still have three months of high school left. They needn’t worry their uncaring little minds, though. This girl doesn’t want to be here any more than they want me to be, and I’ve spent the last four years making damn sure I’ll receive a diploma from Culver City High School, and, at the very least, a first class ticket to community college.
Which is why I really need Jenna Ward—basic white girl—to shut the fuck up. Finals are approaching, and Mr. Weech, my English teacher, already suspects I plagiarized my Jane Eyre book report.
I didn’t … mostly.
He’s scratching on the dusty green chalkboard, looking over his shoulder at me every few seconds. I need to concentrate on today’s lesson to make up for my indiscretions. Mr. W’s covering the Ulysses reading schedule, but did he just say we need to read five chapters or five pages this weekend? I’d know if Jenna would practice self-control and wait to discuss different shades of pink with her neighbor after class.
“Shh,” I shush, staring at the back of her blonde-haired head. She smells like knock-off Juicy Couture and bulimia.
“Just watch the movie, Poesy. That’s what we do.” Jenna turns toward me and smiles in vain. She and her friends nod concurrently. “And chill, we’re talking prom. It’s next weekend.”
They pick up their conversation at seashell pink and bashful, disregarding my eagerness to soak today’s lesson into my long-term memory. Hopefully, Ulysses is on Netflix, because at this point, Mr. Weech sounds like the teacher from Charlie Brown.
I tear off small pieces of paper from my blank notebook and launch spitballs into Jenna’s perfect curls. Dipshit isn’t bright enough to realize I’ve sprinkled her tresses in college-ruled paper, even after the emo kid beside me snickers and murmurs, “Idiots.”
I’m bored with their mindlessness.
Then I see blondie’s backpack is open, and her wallet is within reach.
“Yeah, well, my dress is Cupid pink, and the tuxedo place only has magenta. Eric and I won’t match. It’s total bullshit,” Jenna womp, womp, womps.
Excitement sizzles from the tips of my fingers, up my arms, and across my shoulders as I look around the classroom. Delicious nervousness trickles down my spine, filling my stomach with fluttering butterflies, pushing heavy pressure into my chest. No one’s paying attention to me, and I’m already reaching into Jenna’s backpack.
I lift a mint-colored wallet from her book bag between my thumb and pointer finger and hide it under my binder. For the next thirty minutes, I ride a wave of adrenaline flooding my veins, surfing the electric-like ripple with a sly smirk on my lips.
My heart drums in my ears, drowning out all other noises when class ends, and Jenna zips her Jansport and hitches it over he
r shoulder. Spit wads fall from her hair, but she still doesn’t notice.
“Have you bought a prom dress yet, Poe?” she asks, smiling forcefully. Her blue eyes squint, and she twirls the hookah shell necklace around her neck between her long fingers. “Are you going?”
“Nope, I’ll be busy trying to figure out what the fuck Mr. W was teaching today.” I close my folder and return her smile. The three-ring binder teeter-totters above the stolen wallet.
Jenna drops the act and spins away from me, sling-shooting wet paper balls across the next aisle of desks. I wait until she’s exited the classroom before I stand, gathering my folder and her wallet against my chest and following the crowd into the hallways.
After dumping my things into my locker, I flip through Jenna’s wallet, pocketing the twenty-something dollars in cash and tossing the rest into the lost and found bin outside the main office. Mid-afternoon sunlight shines blindingly from the top of the sky, distorting my vision and warming my freckled skin. I skip down the flight of stairs leading toward a broken sidewalk in front of the high school, ditching class for the rest of the day.
The city crackles with life. Public transport coughs black clouds out of a hot exhaust pipe, and oil sprinkles from a cracked pan or leaky whatever-part-of-the-bus motor oil flows through from the undercarriage. A short Mexican lady in socks and sandals sells tamales in front of the ninety-nine cent store, and a lanky white guy with meth mouth asks for my signature on some sketchy petition.
“Sorry, man,” I mumble as I walk by. “I’m only seventeen. Not old enough to vote.”
“Help me out. Sign with your mom’s name,” he calls as I pass.
I keep forward toward the center of town, past a homeless man pushing a wobbly shopping cart, and a woman dressed in a shabby Lady Liberty costume, twirling a Tax Depot sign. Sweat pools above my lip and drips from the back of my neck. By the time I reach my favorite sandwich shop for a turkey on rye and a fizzing cherry cola, my hair and skin smell like hustle and flow.
“See ya later, P,” the girl behind the counter says, handing me a brown paper bag with my food inside.
I eat half of my sandwich and give the other half and Jenna’s change to some kid, who should be in school, with missing teeth and holes in his sneakers. He’s posted on a bus bench by himself, kicking his little legs back and forth.
“Get yourself home, squirt,” I say, running my finger through his overgrown and underwashed head of curly brown hair.
Roaming the streets, soaking in Southern California diversity and richness, one mile has bail bondsmen and laundry mats on every corner, and the next is cluttered with fancy coffee chains and boutiques. As downtown tapers off to uptown, sidewalks go from being bordered by scummy gutters to being edged with palm trees and lanes without potholes.
Like there’s an invisible line in the road, bums and playas don’t pass “Go” and collect two hundred dollars when things get fancy, and the uppity avoid the mark leading to the dark side like they’ll catch “poor” by breathing the same air as the less fortunate.
Both parts of town feel like home.
Both welcome me with open arms.
I bump elbows with men in cropped jeans and slip-on shoes, and I admire storefront windows showcasing alligator skin handbags and expensive distressed jeans. My image reflects back at me off the surfaces of my aviator sunglasses and limo-black window tint. City buses are hybrid, and the air smells of espresso and spray tanner.
My heart triple beats as I contemplate lifting a set of gold bangles I absolutely need, but I use my dad’s credit card, because the small shop has cameras and the owner complimented my eyes.
“They’re hazel,” I say, signing my old man’s name on the CC slip.
I swipe my John Ashby’s plastic a few times before I head home, mentally hammering myself for missing a half-day of school and not returning in time to get my things before the weekend. If Ulysses isn’t streaming anywhere, I may have to resort to online cheat notes, and those are as reliable as my mom on my birthday.
So, not at all.
Under a new pair of sunnies, with bracelets singing around my wrists and large hoops swinging in my ears, I step foot on my street as the day begins to dim and the late April temperature cools a few degrees. I hum the melody of a song, content in my head—my own best friend. Not belonging on either side of the tracks is a tricky place to be. It’s left me friendless, loveless, and uncaring but daring.
I was a three-foot-nothing five-year-old when I started stealing from my parents … a little ragamuffin kid looking for attention. Mom had a red pair of stilettos she wore for special occasions, and I liked to walk around the house in them. She forbade me from touching her things, so I’d do it behind her back, which wasn’t hard when menthols and The Days of Our Lives kept her preoccupied most afternoons.
Unfortunately, I forgot to put them away on a night she happened to be meeting friends for dinner. Mom found her heels under my bed. As punishment, she made me hold my hands out while she slapped my knuckles with a wooden spoon. I cried, and she yelled, red-faced and stunning.
“Look at what you made me do,” she hissed, rubbing her thumbs over my swollen fingers. “You make me so angry sometimes, Poesy.”
My mother, barefoot and rose-scented, made an icepack out of a sandwich baggie and held it to my hands as a cigarette burned between her lips. She pushed my tear-soaked hair behind my ear and sat next to me at the kitchen table, not over me like she normally would.
I felt loved.
I choked on carcinogens and nicotine, and my hands throbbed like hell, but she was there until the swelling went down, and she painted my fingernails purple afterward. There was an overflowing pressure inside my chest that made my eyes water, and a warm sense of closeness I felt when she touched me. I’d soon figure out they were sensations I only experienced when my parents showed me affection, and it usually only occurred after penance.
“You don’t take things that don’t belong to you, Poe. It’s in bad character, and I’m not raising a chump. Do you understand me?”
“Yes, Mama,” I answered.
The street I live on consists of two and three-bedroom homes built in the Howard Hughes and the Spruce Goose era. They’re in some need of remodeling, but the lawns are green, and the cars in the driveways are middle-class appropriate.
This time of day, right before the sun sets and the streetlights turn on, small children ride their bikes on the sidewalk, marinating in the last hour of playtime. Dads and moms come home from a long day at work with tired eyes and sore feet. Gutters flow with overspray from sprinklers and hoses, and the ice cream man slowly cruises down the block, eager to spoil dinner for a dollar.
“Hello, Miss Poesy,” my neighbor, an old woman I’ve lived next door to for as long as I can remember but can’t recall her name, says. She waves with a hand full of mail.
I smile and continue home, walking past a truck and trailer with a handmade, scuffed sign advertising “Flaco’s Lawn Service” on the side. The sharp scent of just-cut grass tickles my nose while pollen and dust irritate my eyes. The three-man crew—two Mexicans and a white boy—clip, edge, and mow my front yard, because my dad’s too busy and my mom’s too lazy.
The short, dark-skinned man pushing a lawn mower shuts it down as I move up the driveway. He grins politely, pulling a sweat-stained ball cap from his head. The second guy, edging the landscape with earbuds on, doesn’t realize I’m here. And the third person … He turns away from my mother’s overgrown roses, cut and bleeding thanks to their razor-sharp thorns. Blood courses slowly around his arm, from his elbow to the tips of his fingers, like ruby-colored ribbons tied around a gift.
“Hey,” he says.
“Hey yourself,” I reply.
Drops of his DNA drip onto the walkway as he steps forward. I don’t skip a beat, swaying my hips and pushing my hair over my shoulder as I walk past him toward the front door. But I know he’s staring, and I got a good look at his blue eyes and head full of
thick blond hair. He smells like a hard day’s work—dirt, sunshine, spice—dressed in a white T-shirt and old denim.
My heartbeat explodes, shooting heat through my limbs and warming my cheeks.
“I’ve always hated those fucking roses,” I say before I enter my house, closing the door behind me.
Holding my hand over my chest, I pull my bottom lip between my teeth and turn around to spy on the bleeding boy through the peephole. He’s where I left him, running his dirty hands through his hair. Blood is smeared across his shirt, and he smirks toward the house like he knows I’m watching.
“You son of a bitch,” I whisper to myself, matching his grin.
Lawn mower guy clips rose trimmer’s ankle with the weed whacker, stealing his attention. With one more gaze toward the door, the hired help waves off his co-worker and gets back to my mother’s pink Bonicas, stepping out of sight.
But I’m captivated.
I rush to my room and carefully watch him rake dead leaves and fallen petals into a neat pile through the blinds. Unlike the other men on his crew who have thick gloves protecting them from blisters and splinters, this one’s barehanded. The sun’s nearly set, but his face is flushed, and the back of his neck is sunburned.
He licks his lips and reaches for the green garden hose, drinking water straight from the source. Cool liquid fills his cheeks before he swallows, unbothered when he gets his shirt wet. The thin white cotton becomes transparent and sticks to his chest, showcasing his lean muscle.
“Lowen,” lawnmower guy calls. “Don’t drink the customers’ water, bendejo. You tryin’ to get us fired?”
Blond boy closes his eyes, takes one last drink, and turns the hose off. He uses the last few drops to wet his face.
“Chill, Flaco,” he replies, drying his mouth on the neck of his damp shirt. “No one’s getting fired. I’m just watering these fucking roses.”
“I have extra bottles in the truck if you’re thirsty,” mower man continues.
Lowen rolls the hose neatly. “I don’t want your water, man.”
Posey (Low #1.5) Page 1