It was sort of great, at least in the beginning it was great. My parents moved away the Saturday after I graduated. What few possessions Libby had were moved in Saturday night. So began my adventures with Libby.
Chapter 2
(21 months later)
I had been standing in front of the massive metal cabinet that doubled as a pantry in our back hallway. I shoved the empty orange and yellow Ramen Noodle packaging aside, only to find an empty macaroni and cheese packaging wadded up behind it. My angry stomach growled in frustration.
My eyes roved to the next shelf, hoping to find another delicacy. The only semi-meal I could see was rice and soy sauce . . . maybe. My stomach complained as my hands slid the rice aside. Something, there had to be something in here to eat. A lonely can of stewed tomatoes invited me to pick it up. What were we thinking to have bought that?
Onto the third shelf: two cans of generic Dr. Pepper – I’d rather drink water. Backing away from the pantry to get a better look, my hunger tried to take control of my legs, imploring me to find something. Where was all the food? The Ramen and mac and cheese should have lasted us another couple days.
It hit me – Doritos! I’d given Melinda a ride to school. She was notorious for leaving half-eaten bags of chips in the back seat of my car. Her bag still had to be there.
Not even bothering to grab a coat, I launched myself off of our front porch, bounded down the steps in front of our house, and sprinted thirty feet up the street to where my car was parked. I had just parked it a couple hours before when I got home from work at the restaurant, and it was already like a deep freeze inside. The door complained as I swung it all the way open. Tipping the seat forward, I found McDonald’s bags, Burger King bags, empty pop cans, a couple empty cigarette packs – then I saw it, the bright red corner of the Doritos bag peeked at me from beneath all the crap on top of it.
I freed the bag from the pile of garbage. My fingers greedily dug into the bottom of the bag to find nothing but crumbs. Telling myself there was no shame when hunger was involved, I tipped the bag upside down, so I could free the few slivers of chips. It was just enough to make my stomach complain for more. The watchful eyes of Mrs. Bavcock stared at me through the front window of her house.
It was seriously cold; I hoped she wouldn’t take the time to get her coat on to come outside. I tossed the now completely empty bag back onto the floor of my car, plastered an over-sized smile on my face, and waved at her.
Her congenial expression didn’t change as her hand excitedly waved back at me through the frosty glass of her front window. When the weather was decent and she saw me anywhere near the street, she nearly tripped over herself to talk to me. Conversations were always the same: she would tell me about her cats. . . her grandchildren, her cats. . . her ailments, her cats. Growing up, I’d always believed Mrs. Bavcock to be wealthy, but as she grew older, she didn’t migrate south for the winter with all the other old people. Maybe she was as broke as the rest of us.
I liked my street. It was an old neighborhood. All the other houses were occupied by empty nesters whose grown kids would occasionally show up on the weekends. When my sisters and I were little, I remember watching all the visiting cars, hoping for grandkids of my neighbors to stop by to visit so I could play with someone other than Kim and Carly.
That was the way it was supposed to work – the natural order of things. Kids grew up, moved away, came back and visited their parents on the weekends, maybe for Sunday dinner, birthdays, or anniversaries. Too bad my family didn’t fit the mold: it had been almost a year since I had seen my parents.
Growing up here, my sisters and I had been the only kids on the whole street. Kim was twenty-four and Carly was twenty-two: both moved away after high school. Now Kim was all business. She was a receptionist for some law firm and was too wrapped up in her own life ever to be bothered with mine. It had been months since she had even returned a text.
Carly was different. She was the middle child. Carly was the social butterfly of the three of us. She was on a full-ride academic scholarship and had been since she graduated. Carly was always too busy studying to see me other than winter and summer break when she was thrown out of the dorms. That left me, here, surviving.
Libby’s voice called from the house, “Damn, Candy, too hot for you in here or what?!”
When I had sprinted down to the car on a quest for stale Doritos, I hadn’t bothered to pull the front door shut behind me. I called up, “Naw, just scavenging for food. Did you throw a party last night or what?”
Ignoring my question she yelled, “You’re going to go into hypothermia. Get in here!”
Standing in seven inches of snow in a pair of sweat pants, flops and a t-shirt in the dead of winter was not the brightest thing I’d done today. Sadly, it wasn’t the dumbest thing, either. I wasn’t supposed to work at the restaurant during the week, but I had been so hungry I went in hoping to pick up a shift. The manager said he didn’t need me as a waitress, but the janitor had called in sick. I ended up having to scrub the bathrooms; I had gotten three hours of work on the clock, but no tips and no food. I chalked my poor wardrobe choice up to being close to passing out from starvation. When she pointed out that hypothermia was a possibility, I shoved my car’s heavy metal door and sprinted back up to the house.
Our entryway was warm and welcoming after the arctic temperatures. My eyes darted around looking for her when I zeroed in on Libby standing in the kitchen. “Where’s all the food?” I accused. “I don’t get paid for another three days.”
Her dismissive answer frustrated me, “Oh, stop it. You get paid every day.”
“Yeah, tips today were a big fat goose egg. I couldn’t even score six bucks to cover lunch. I don’t have hours at the restaurant again until Saturday.”
Libby stalked over to the cabinet and started shoving boxes around the same way I had right before I decided to scavenge for food in my car. She didn’t find anything either. Still concentrating on the metal cabinet, she asked, “Where’d the peanut butter go?”
Further frustration ebbed into my voice, “Gone last weekend. You were supposed to pick more up.”
“What about the tuna fish?”
My nose crinkled, “Ewww . . . gone and no need to get any more.”
“We had some Ramen noodles in here last night.”
I walked up behind her, reached around her into the cabinet, and held up the cellophane that had held the case of noodles, “Yeah, they’re gone, too.”
“All right. Let’s go to the store.” She walked up to the stove and grabbed the coffee can where she hid her money. “I’ve got twelve bucks.” Twelve dollars. Was she kidding? That wouldn’t even cover a gallon of milk, a case of macaroni and cheese, and bottle of vitamins. We’d both proven that those three staples were enough to survive on. I was sick of just surviving: I was hungry for real food.
I could usually count on a meal at the restaurant during my shift: something a customer had sent back or a special that got cold, something – not today. The new manager backed my hours off at the restaurant, too, so that meant even fewer meals with real meat. I’d been late twice this month, both because of school, so all of the sudden I was no longer reliable enough to be scheduled for the weekday lunch crowd. I’d been tempted to slash his tires, but I couldn’t afford to lose my job, at least not the one that I could count on to get tips to keep gas in my car and a hot meal when the cupboards were bare.
“Twelve bucks isn’t going to cut it. Didn’t you just get paid?”
Her cheeks flushed, and I didn’t need to hear her say it. Dammit. This happened every time I was working and she had money. She’d invite some friends over, order pizza, get some beers, then wings: the next thing our cupboards were empty, she was broke, and rent was due. If it wasn’t rent it was the electric bill, the gas bill, the water bill, or the trash bill – this had to stop.
Unapologetically she said, “Go throw on a skirt.”
“Shit, no frickin’ way! Y
our check’s gone, isn’t it?” I accused.
“Don’t worry about my check. Get a skirt on, and we can go to the grocery store afterwards.”
“No. Find someone else. I’ve got a test tomorrow I haven’t studied for, and I have to be at the gas station at midnight.”
She looked at the clock on the stove. “It’s only six. That’s plenty of time.”
“Are you deaf? I have to work tonight, all night. I have to study, and I haven’t slept yet today.”
“Do you want to eat or not? You know I hate taking anyone else. Get a skirt and wear the black sweater you wore last time.”
Unbelievable. I didn’t try to mask any of my contempt at her suggestion of the short black sweater, “It’s like twenty below out!”
“Okay, fine. Wear what you want, but the less skin showing, the less food in the pantry.”
My stomach let out a furious rumble. Mrs. Bavcock across the street probably heard it. “It’s a Tuesday night. Where are you going to find a chump on a Tuesday night?” I asked incredulously.
Libby was as sympathetic as a paperclip. “Dammit, Candy, stop bitching and get dressed!”
She stalked out of the room and up the stairs. I hated this. I hated that my wellbeing was tied to someone who wasn’t responsible enough to adopt a puppy from the pound. I went back to the cabinet, begrudgingly pulling the rice and soy sauce from it. The shower turned on upstairs as my water started to boil on the stove. I shook my head to no one in particular. She couldn’t be serious. No one would be at the bars on a Tuesday night in the bitter cold beyond the alcoholics and the regulars. She couldn’t get money from either of those two groups – they all knew her.
Five minutes later my instant rice was ready. I took a seat in front of the television, grabbed my notes for my test tomorrow, and eyed my pathetic meal as enthusiastically as I could. The bowl nearly emptied itself. It wasn’t great, but the sharp pains in my stomach eased. Libby’s hair dryer blared to life upstairs – if she thought I was going with her, she was insane.
Trying to decipher the scribbles in my notebook, I tuned out everything else. School sucked, but no way was I going to live like this the rest of my life: three jobs, full-time school, and no boyfriend.
As irresponsible and carefree as Libby could be, there was no one I was closer to in the world. It drove me crazy, because for every time I was ready to kick her out in favor of a roommate who I could count on, she would do something amazingly selfless and remind me why she had been my best friend since grade school. She had an enormous heart. Blowing her paycheck the night she got it and having friends over who cleaned out what little food we had in our cabinets sucked, but it wouldn’t have been in her nature to tell someone “no.”
As I zoned out over my notes, I noticed her standing at the entryway to the living room.
My eyes about popped out of my head. She wore two scraps of fabric: an emerald green halter top and a short black skirt. Black leather boots with sky-high heels went up over her knees, letting little of her muscular legs peek through. Her blonde hair stretched half-way down her back and was smoothed straight. She must have been hungrier than she was letting on; in an outfit like that, no one would stand a chance against her. In a voice normally reserved for drill instructors, she barked, “Get dressed.”
Absently I answered, “I told you, I have a test tomorrow, and I have to be at work in a few hours.”
She looked at the clock. “You said midnight. That’s almost six hours from now. Get dressed.”
“Barely five hours, and I haven’t slept yet today,” I growled.
“You can nap at the gas station tonight. C’mon, I can’t do this tomorrow night, and we don’t have enough food to make it until then anyway.”
My eyes took in her scant clothes. Instead of agreeing to wear a short skirt and half a top, I simply said, “Julia Roberts called. She wants her Pretty Woman outfit back.”
“Shut up and get dressed.”
Decisively I looked her square in the eye and told her one last time, “I’m not going. Call someone else. But rent’s due next week, so if it doesn’t work out at the bar, you may want to stop by lower Third Street. You’ll fit right in.”
My insult, “lower Third Street” where all the prostitutes hung out, was ignored. Instead she hurled a low-blow in my direction, “If you go with me, I’ll make manicotti tonight.”
My stomach lurched at the offer. Libby’s manicotti was my favorite, and she knew it. I shook my head, trying to keep from taking the bait. “You say that now, but five hours from now you’ll be sleeping, and I’ll be going to work.”
She held her pinky up in the air, “I swear. Two hours tops at the bar. I’ll go to the grocery store after, you take a nap, and it’ll be ready before you have to go to work.”
Arguing was a waste of time. She had me. I would do all the chores around here she didn’t want to do at the mere hint that she would make a pan of it. Throwing on a skirt and helping her find a chump in a bar was a lot less work than what I would have been willing to do for her manicotti. Dammit. I tossed my illegible notes on the floor, put my empty rice bowl in the sink, and was in my room changing before I could convince myself that I was an idiot.
We rolled into Bank Shot at the end of happy hour. The aroma of the happy hour food, the stale alcohol smell which permeated the air, and the loud music blaring through the sound system was a familiar welcome. The sad remains of free chicken wings were lined up on the bar. I started for them like a toddler to chocolate.
Libby’s hand grabbed my arm when she reminded me, “We’re not here to eat.” If my stomach could have controlled my hands, they would have slapped her for that comment. Was she for real? We were here to get money for food, and there were dried up, cold chicken wings just a few feet away.
Libby’s eyes roved over the room: there were ten pool tables, all with players – a surprising crowd for a Tuesday night. She studied each table, cautiously sizing up each player. Libby could have been a professional – she and I hadn’t played pool for fun in years. Her eyes stopped on table four, where a tall slender guy with a bad case of acne was racking. He was probably about our age. The one getting ready to break was shorter, muscular, and was at least early thirties. Both had raven-colored hair.
The two she picked were average Joes, nothing special about either one. Neither was overly attractive, nor were they painful on the eyes. They didn’t wear designer clothes, but both had brought their own pool cues with them. Sizing them up, I shook my head, “No, not needy enough.”
Libby shook her head, and said, “I’ve never seen them here before. It’d be easy.”
Chris shouted from behind the bar, “Candy, you two better not be doing what I think you’re doing!”
Libby flinched. She shot him one of her perfect smiles then spoke to me through clenched teeth, telling me, “Go talk to him. Give him a sob story so he doesn’t give us any trouble. I’ll find a spot for our coats.”
I was a little surprised at Chris’ outburst. We’d been coming to Bank Shot since we were still in high school; he’d never given us an ounce of grief. I shook my head, “You do it. This was your idea.”
Libby’s bright smile diminished as she confessed, “I took him for three hundred bucks the last time I was here. You think he’ll listen to me?”
I hadn’t been with her that night. Libby was the best pool hustler around. A few of the bars around town had banned her, which was a pretty decent accomplishment for a girl who was still shy of the legal drinking age. It wasn’t like her to take money from a bar employee. That was the quickest way to be shown the door, as we had both learned during our senior year of high school when we were trying to get money to go on the senior class trip. I was the decoy. In my own right, I wasn’t half-bad, but I couldn’t shark on my own.
Begrudgingly, I strode up to the bar. “Hey, Chris. I haven’t seen you around. Been working much?”
He ignored my attempt at small talk and pointed an accusing finger in Li
bby’s direction. “She better not be sharking tonight.”
“Oh, come on. She’s just blowing off steam. It’s not her fault she’s better than most of these guys.”
Chris looked me dead in the eye. “You know she took me for more than a hundred dollars.”
She had just told me she had taken him for significantly more than that, but letting on that I knew would only bruise his ego further. I played it off, “Yeah, she was really excited when she came home that night. Thanks, by the way. We were able to pay the electric bill. I hate seeing my breath in my bedroom.”
Chris had been glaring at her, but my confession softened his stare. His voice changed when he prodded, “For real?”
I rarely let anyone in on how dire our circumstances were, but if I didn’t share the truth, there was a good chance he’d toss us. If that happened, we were completely screwed. “Yeah. You should see our pantry right now. The mice have moved out and have applied for food stamps.”
His eyebrows rose. There was a kindness showing through when he asked, “Why don’t you two get regular jobs like everyone else?”
“We have regular jobs. It’s not enough to cover the bills. She only does this when we’re really in a pinch.” I forced a smile and added, “I’m not exaggerating about the mice.”
He shook his head. Without another word he grabbed what was left of the chicken wings from happy hour and put them all on a paper plate. He filled a big plastic glass with ice water and placed both in front of me.
The smell of the wings did something to me. I picked up the first one as my hand began shaking – I was hungry in a big way. I didn’t care if Chris thought I was some kind of animal. I devoured the whole thing, not setting it back down until it was a naked bone.
I didn’t hear the music or conversations around me, and I couldn’t feel Chris’s eyes – even though I was sure he was staring. I had inhaled the first five wings before Libby’s hand on my shoulder brought me out of my eating ecstasy.
His Frozen Heart Page 2