It was the main reason I hated the holidays. I never felt connected to Christmas in any way, shape, or form. For me, it had always been just another day. Nothing special, nothing remarkable or noteworthy, and certainly nothing to get excited about. It just was.
Oh, the nuns at St. Aggie's always tried to instill a little holiday cheer around this place. They put up a tree, tinsel and decorations everywhere, holiday music played all month long, and the Christmas cheer was rammed down our throats. We always had a present under the tree with our name on it to open on Christmas morning – though it was usually socks or underwear. They did what they could, but it always felt forced and manufactured. Fake.
Anyway, it didn't really matter. I mostly kept to myself in those early days. Usually just crawled into a corner somewhere and buried myself in a book. It was on one of those days – I remember it was raining and cold outside, another dreadful Christmas was fast approaching, and I was already in a sour mood because if it.
I remember that day, being huddled in a corner in the home's common room, reading a book – not an unusual occurrence. I don't even know why, but I remember Derrick Newman and a couple of his buddies decided to choose that day to mess with me. Maybe they were bored because we were trapped inside the home, and had nothing better to do, or they'd grown bored picking on the other kids. They usually left me alone to do my own thing, but something changed that day in their tiny, pea-sized brains.
That day, Derrick had walked up and snatched the book out of my hand. When I went to grab it back, he laughed and tossed it to his buddy, who then tossed it to the other guy. Around and around the fucking game went on until I'd had enough. I pushed Derrick and told him to give me back my book.
He laughed and drove his fist into my stomach. I can still remember how bad it hurt. I remember doubling over. Remember the pain that seemed to radiate from my every nerve ending. Remember the sound of their voices when they laughed and taunted me, called me a baby for crying. I can see it all as clearly as if it had happened yesterday.
After the initial shock and pain wore off, I remember feeling this dark rage well up inside of me. All at once, I felt strong. Powerful. Invincible. And then, I just snapped.
Filled with that same rage, I launched myself at Derrick, fists and feet flying with a reckless abandon. I connected with his face and his body, driving him backward. I remember howling like a banshee as I rained down kicks and punches on him.
His buddies stood by in shocked, wide-eyed silence as I continued kicking and punching him until he was sputtering and gasping, and I saw blood on his face – which made me punch even harder. I was like a bull seein' a fuckin' red cape or something.
Eventually, the nuns came running, and pulled me off him. He cried and sputtered, told them I attacked him for no reason. Told them he had no idea why I'd flipped, and that there was something wrong with me. After the fight, I was put in solitary for a couple of days – and then given all kinds of spiritual counseling for my anger. They completely ignored the fact that Derrick was a stupid bully who deserved everything he got – and probably a hell of a lot more than what I'd dished out.
After that, Derrick and his buddies never bothered me again. People looked at me with a mixture of fear and respect, which was weird, since most of them didn't notice me at all before that. And although I've had to fight a few people after that – mostly newbies who walked in– nobody threatened or bullied me again. My reputation was set. Solid.
After that, people whispered, or just fell silent whenever I walked into a room. Some people gave me a wide berth while others begged for my protection. Derrick had fallen from grace, and I'd stepped into the void and had elevated myself in the eyes of the other kids. I was the big man in the home, now.
And honestly, I started to like the little position of power I'd carved out for myself. People looked up to me. Respected me. And most importantly it got people to leave me the fuck alone for the most part.
Back in the here and now, Gary and I step out of the house and into the cold afternoon. Winter – and unfortunately, another Christmas – is on its way, making the days short and packed with as little warmth as the nuns who run the home. Most of them have the temperament of a honey badger with a toothache.
I'm in a light sweatshirt and jeans – my usual attire, as we walk across the yard, my anger already rising inside of me. The anger ignites a fire inside of me, warming me from the inside out, and I feel beads of sweat beading on my forehead, despite the frigid temperature of the afternoon.
Summer in Hell's Kitchen sucks. It always seems like you can’t find any relief from the unrelenting heat and humidity. Winter is even worse, given that no matter how many layers you put on, you can never get warm.
Rounding a corner, I see a crowd of the kids gathered in a circle and in the center, Luke is looming over one of the new kids. I let out a breath and shake my head.
“Luke,” I call as we approach. “What the fuck are you doin', man?”
He looks up at me, his fists balled at his sides. I see fear flash across his face as he takes a step back. He knows he fucked up, and that not staying in his own lane could result in him getting his ass kicked. Again. I've never credited Luke with an overabundance of brains, but he's smart enough to know when he screwed up – most of the time.
“I was just showin' the new kid how shit works around here, Carter,” he says. “I was –”
I stop, standing less than a foot from Luke, my eyes boring into his. I hold his gaze for a long moment, letting the tension build between us – ratcheting up his fear a few notches. All around us, the silence of the other kids, all of them watching us intently – most all of them wanting to see Luke get his ass beat – only adds to the air, already thick with tension.
“Did you have my permission to do this?” I finally ask, my voice low and colder than the wind whipping around us.
Despite the fact that he's a few inches taller and about thirty pounds heavier than me, Luke looks away, unable to meet my eyes. My reputation makes me bigger and stronger than anybody else here, and if push comes to shove, people will always defer to me.
“No,” he mutters.
“Then what made you think it was okay to lay your hands on this kid?”
He shakes his head. “I was just tryin' to help –”
I don't let him finish his statement before reaching back and drilling him square in the face. The crack of my fist meeting his nose sounds like a gunshot and draws a collective gasp from the kids gathered around.
Luke goes sprawling backward, landing flat on his ass with a grunt. He clutches his nose, and I give him a grin.
“The rest of you,” I turn and address the small crowd. “Get out of here. Show's over.”
The kids who'd gathered to watch the fight quickly filter away, low mumbles all around. Some – Luke's friends mostly – shoot me dark looks, but I know none of them have the balls to challenge me.
I turn and look at the kid on the ground. He's about my age, maybe a year older. His cheeks are flushed, his nose bloodied, and there is a stricken look on his face. A few feet away is a little girl – maybe nine or ten years old – and the resemblance between the two is unmistakable. Her eyes are wide, jade green, and shimmering with tears. The girl's cheeks are flushed, and she looks absolutely terrified.
She’s got to learn that the world is a cold, cruel, violent place at some point, right? If she – and her brother – are going to make it in here, they need to know what it takes. And that means taking a stand and never letting yourself be pushed around. If somebody takes a swing at you, you better hit back twice as hard. It ain't perfect, but it's the way this world works.
“That your sister?” I ask.
The kid on the ground nods. “Yeah, that's Darby,” he says, his voice sullen.
“It's okay, Darby. No need to freak out,” I say. “Everything's cool now.”
She says nothing. Doesn't even move an inch. She just stares at me with those wide green eyes. But then,
her lips tremble, and tears start to roll down her cheeks. She chokes back a sob, letting out a high-pitched squeaking sound.
I reach my hand out and pull the boy to his feet. He dusts himself off, and then looks at me, a sheepish expression upon his face.
“I'm Carter,” I say.
He wipes the thin blood away from his nose with his sleeve, staring wide-eyed at the crimson streak on the fabric. The way he looks at his blood, with something akin to fear in his face, tells me he’s never been in a fight before. Which is probably why he was easy pickings for an idiot like Luke – bullies will always target those weaker than they are.
“Mason,” he says.
“New here, right?”
Mason nods. “Yeah,” he says, his voice colored with sadness. “We're not going to be here too long. We've got family who's going to come get us out of here and take us home with them. They live upstate. In the country. It's going to be great.”
I let out a long breath – he's one of those types. I open my mouth to disabuse him of his little fantasy but see that the little girl is still staring at up me with a mixture of curiosity, and another emotion that I can’t really define.
All I know is that her eyes are boring into me. Eyes that have seen far too much for someone her age. As I stand there, being probed by those sparkling green eyes, I'm half-convinced she can read my fuckin' mind.
As she stares at me, I feel a pang of guilt shoot through me. It hits me that this little girl – and her brother, for that matter – obviously need to cling to that lie. Need to believe that somebody's going to come riding in on a white horse and rescue them from this place. They need to hold on to that hope for all they're worth.
Destroying it for them, would not only make me a complete asshole, but would probably do more harm at this point. They need a little time to acclimate to the environment here. They're both new to the system, and don't understand the way this world works. Not yet, anyway. Once they've been in here a year or two, they'll start to get it.
So, I close my mouth again, and say nothing. If he wants them both to live in that little fantasy world, and not entertain the reality of their situation, so be it. Doesn’t matter to me. Who am I to burst their bubble?
“We've got an aunt and an uncle who live Upstate,” Mason goes on. “They're going to come get us.”
“Sure. That's good, man.”
“Anyway,” Mason says. “Thanks for helping me out with that guy.”
I nod. “Just keep your head down,” I reply. “You won't have trouble with Luke anymore. But, if anybody else bothers you, just let me know, and I'll deal with it. You're under my protection now. The both of you. Anybody messes with you, I'll handle it.”
Mason chuckles. “You sound like you're in the mob or something.”
I shrug. “I just know how things work around here,” I say. “People around here listen to me.”
“I'll remember that,” he says. “Thanks again.”
“Yeah, sure,” I say.
I watch as he puts his hand on his sister's back and leads her away. As they go though, she turns and looks back at me over her shoulder. Those green eyes, vivid and intense, burn into me, and I wonder what it is she's seeing. What she's thinking. Something tells me she's a lot wiser to the way the world works than her brother is, and sees shit for how it really is.
* * *
Over the next couple of weeks though, I hung out with Mason a bit. He's a nice enough guy, but I could tell he felt uncomfortable about being around me. I could tell he didn't much care for feeling like he was being protected, or knowing that he needed the protection.
From some of the things he said, and the snotty little attitude he'd sometimes get, I could see he wanted to be known as someone who could take care of himself. He tried to keep a buffer between us – but, never strayed too far away, either.
The whole time we hung out together, his sister never left his side. Nor did she ever say a word to me. Not a single damn word. She just sat there, silently staring at me with those wide, green eyes of hers. To be honest, it was unnerving as hell. I didn't like feeling like she could see through me.
It turned out that Mason had been right all along. About a month after the two of them landed in St. Aggie's – after another shitty Christmas that netted me a new pack of boxers – their aunt and uncle from Upstate showed up to claim them – just like Mason said they would.
I was surprised, of course. In the whole time I'd been at St. Aggie's, it was rare that any of the kids who were dropped off had family who cared about them enough to come claim them. It never happened all that often.
Honestly, I was largely indifferent about their departure from St. Aggie’s. It's not like we were best friends or anything. He was just someone I hung out with.
In fact, it was a little bit of a relief. I didn't have to keep watching his back anymore.
The only thing I remember clearly about them leaving though, was that silent little girl staring at me with her big green eyes as I stood on the porch, watching them go.
It's an image I'd never forget. Though, I couldn't, for the life of me, figure out why.
Chapter Two
Darby
Eight Years Ago...
“Seriously, what are we doing here?” Jade asks me. “This neighborhood is scary. Girls like us shouldn't be walking alone in Hell's Kitchen, you know. I mean, do you know how many people get robbed and murdered around here? I just read a blog the other day, about the human trafficking industry here –”
“Relax,” I say and laugh. “It's not as bad as it used to be.”
I remember back when I was just a little girl and spent a month at an orphanage in Hell's Kitchen. I was really young at the time, but I still recall everything so vividly, and in such great detail. It was just a month in a childhood largely spent with my aunt and uncle up in the wide-open country and fresh air of upstate New York– but for whatever reason, memories of that time in St. Agatha's are still vivid in my mind.
This neighborhood scared the crap out of ten-year-old me. Yeah, Hell’s Kitchen is still a little rough around the edges today, but it’s changed since I lived here, and I can already see the difference. With the approach of the holidays, there are decorations in store windows, on streetlights, and whatnot. It's a little more festive than I remember it being back then.
I haven't been back to Hell's Kitchen for years. After our aunt and uncle picked us up from the orphanage, we moved Upstate for a couple of years. Eventually, we moved back to the Upper East Side, and into “proper” social and economic circles. Where we lived isn't all that far from the Kitchen, but it still feels like an entirely different world. One I don't really venture into all that often. Or, at all, if I'm being honest. At least, not until today.
I adjust the bag on my shoulder as we walk and look around at the sprawling urban world around me. I gaze at the tall, red-brick buildings, and can feel the history of the place washing over me. Taking a deep breath, I feel the history of the place sinking into my bones.
I stop before a vacant lot between two apartment buildings. The lot is overgrown with weeds and filled with old tires, a stripped car, and a ton of trash. It's a neighborhood dump, and I catch the distinct odor of what smells like something rotting. Thankfully, it's later in the year, and the temperatures are starting to plummet as we barrel toward winter, or whatever is decomposing in that field would stink much worse than it does now.
I'm able to shut out all the garbage, and focus on the reason I'm here in the first place. I let my eyes stray to the spray-painted pictures on the walls, looking at the intricate designs and patterns the artists incorporated into their work. Most people would call it graffiti. Tagging. A blight on the neighborhood. Something that needs to be eradicated.
When I look at the murals, I see nothing but beauty. I see an artist telling a story.
You can tell a lot about a person from their work – you just have to know where, and how, to look for it.
“Look at that
,” I say, pointing to a mural on the wall.
“It's – nice?” Jade replies.
Jade's more into hair, fashion, and boys than art. Typical of girls our age, I suppose. Not me. I've always been a bit of an outsider. Someone who doesn't quite fit in. I mean, I do like nice clothes and boys, but I’m not obsessed. Which, given the social circles I run in, makes me the proverbial square peg looking at the round hole – never quite fitting in.
Still, I'm expected to maintain a certain – image. My uncle is a highly decorated and prominent criminal defense attorney. He's one of the best in the state – if not the country. He makes enough to afford putting me through a posh, prestigious prep academy, like he did for Mason before me. Now, they’re pushing me toward a college that's equally as prestigious.
They want me to be a lawyer or a doctor, but I've held firm against that – further cementing my square peg/round hole status in their eyes. They call me a black sheep – usually condescendingly – because I already know what I want to do, and nobody is going to change my mind.
I'm going to go to school to be a teacher. That's where my true passion is. That's where my heart is. I would end up miserable and resentful if I spent my life doing something I didn’t love.
I want to be happy, and enjoy the time I have in this world. So, I take the slings and arrows that come my way. I absorb all the barbs, and keep doing my own thing. This is my life, and I'm determined to live it for me.
I appreciate everything my aunt and uncle have given me. The opportunities and privileges they've afforded me are ones I would have never gotten otherwise. I must admit, the elite, upper-class lifestyle is nice, and has a lot of obvious perks, but it's still something I'm trying to get used to. Even now, all these years later, it just doesn't feel right. Pretending to be one of them, one of the elite, has never felt right to me, and it's made me uncomfortable in my own skin at times. It's not how I was originally raised and being suddenly immersed into those waters left me flailing a bit. A lot actually.
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