Enough already. The boy doesn’t want anything from me. He’s the only one. The bills are piling up, Terek hasn’t come home, my dad isn’t getting any better, I miss my mom, and maybe giving the twins dish duty wasn’t enough of a punishment. They hid my phone again and I forgot to buy bread for lunches tomorrow, neglected my homework, and we’re low on toilet paper. The house still reeks from the dinner I attempted, which Hem named Grossaghetti, and my stomach is unhappy with how much I ate just to prove it was edible.
As I roll from my left side to my right, Sam farts. The smell might peel paint from the walls, but the dog did me a solid, cleaned up the Grossaghetti, so I can’t blame him for it. I squeeze my eyes shut and breathe through my mouth. Sleep, sleep, sleep, please, please, please. For some reason I can’t stay awake during Calculus, can’t fall asleep in my bed.
A sudden thump, thump, thump jolts my eyes open wide. A knock. OMG. Who could be on my doorstep at … I tap my phone … two eighteen in the morning? Doesn’t matter. Getting my siblings tucked into bed is a lot like that whack-a-mole game, with heads popping up all over the place, and no way I’m letting anybody, not even Freddy Krueger himself, drop in a pair of quarters and wake them all back up.
I shove the blankets off, grab a hockey stick and tiptoe downstairs to the door. Sam runs along with me but whines the whole way. Ignoring his disapproval, I throw the door open and realize I’m rocking skimpy sleep shorts, no underwear or bra or makeup. I should have listened to the dog. There’s probably dried spit on my chin, and my hair is a snarly mess. I didn’t think it was possible to look worse than I did for school today, but I am an overachiever. How perfect to find Gibson Tazmerek standing on my porch, glaring back at me with dilated pupils, a purple bruise under one eye and is that blood spatters on his shirt? He appears even more pissed off than usual.
What’s his problem? Is this about the dirt bike? The pencil incident? Me telling him he smelled? We’ve had a rough first day, but he could do worse than having me for a friend. I’m kind, cheerful and have been told I look like Margot Robby. OK, only by the creepy old guy who loiters around the dumpster behind the grocery store and he actually called me Harley Quinn, but still. Smiling despite wanting to kick this boy in the shin, I suddenly catch sight of …
“Mora?” Wow. This drunken, Vegas stripper wannabe, tripping over the welcome mat, looks identical to my fifteen year old sister. But there’s NO WAY, because Tamora is tucked in bed, hugging a stuffed lemur. So I screech, “Where in the goddamn hell have you been?”
“Quarter!” she shrieks back at me.
“Shhhhh.”
“Quarter, quarter, quarter,” Mora chants, so hilarious she’s falling all over herself.
I have a confession. The West family tends to have nastier mouths than constipated sailors. In my effort to be a better person, I created the swear jar. It’s costing me a fortune, and I should have set the price at a nickel instead of a quarter.
“You’d better have a good explanation for whatever this is.” I’m talking to the pair of them. Do I sound like my mother? Is that a good or bad thing?
Taz thinks he can slink away. I see it on his face, in his posture, in the one foot already inching backward.
“I have a particular set of skills,” I warn him. “Skills I have acquired over my years as a big sister. Skills that make me a nightmare for people like you.” I’m totally ripping off Liam Neeson. “If you come inside, that will be the end of it. But if you don’t, I will look for you, I will find you and I will kill you.”
Taz hesitates. He finally makes the right choice and trails Mora into the house. The faint glow from the light over the stove, which I leave on to guide Terek home, silvers his pale irises.
Sam tucks his tail, shrinks behind me and whimpers. I tighten my grip on the hockey stick. If Taz laid one pinkie on my little sister, I don’t care how badass he is. I’ll bop him over the head, dig a hole in the backyard and bury him. I’ll plant a vegetable garden over top, and everyone will rave over the size and juiciness of my tomatoes.
“Tell me,” I demand. “Explain this.”
“He beat up Philly,” Mora blurts. “Pounded the fudge nuggets outta him. Then everybody said we had to leave, both of us, which was totally unfair, cuz I didn’t do anything. But this dude, this guy, right here ...” She throws both hands around Taz’s neck and dangles from him. “He walked me home. Isn’t that the sweetest?”
Taz goes a little nuts, borderline twerking in panic, but my sister is more adhesive than the wrapper on a brand new DVD.
“Philly?” I pry Mora off and drag her a safe distance from Taz. “Philip Lexington? How did you end up between two senior guys? After curfew? Dressed like that!”
“I am.”
“You’re what?”
“Dressed like this.” She poses on stepladder heels and stumbles. “I crawled out the window.”
“Holy hell Mora, where were you?”
“Yellow House.”
“Yellow House? THE Yellow House!” I start out loud, remember the younger sibs and drop to the hiss of a teapot reaching the boiling point. The Yellow House is a drug house. Oh. My. Sweet. Lord. I turn on Taz. “What was my little sister doing at the Yellow House? Did you take her there? Are you insane?”
I’m not expecting an answer, but he surprises me. “She’s drunk.”
There’s that voice again, rough enough to cause a brush burn. Two words this time. I’m collecting them, one by one. Focus. Focus. Mr. Sexy Voice was messing with Mora. He doesn’t even look sorry or worried or ashamed of himself. His eyes fight back.
“Thank you, Captain Obvious. Tell me how she got that way? What happened with Philly? How did you get mixed up in this? In case you didn’t know, my little sister’s FIFTEEN!”
As the words spray from my lips, he shrinks backward and all ten fingers tap frantically at his sides. Mora rolls her eyes and hiccups. “Isallgooood.”
“No. No it’s not. It’s actually two thirty in the morning, and you could have gotten in real trouble, and I wouldn’t have known where you were or who you were with and I … and I .... dammit.” I wave my hands, erasing all of it. I’m nearly hyperventilating, nearly in tears, and I want my daddy. I now owe at least a dollar to the jar, and my sister is in no condition to interrogate. Back to Taz. “Did you get my sister drunk?”
A head shake. Progress.
“Did Philly get my sister drunk?”
A shrug.
“Why did …” I want to know why he beat the guy up, but I’ve got a pretty good idea, and I need to stick to yes and no questions. “Was Philly trying to get in my sister’s pants?”
A slow nod.
“Were you?”
With those eyes, he doesn’t need to speak.
“OK, OK.” I take a breath. “You’re off the hook.” I need to sober my sister up before I kill her. “C’mon,” I tug on her. “You’re going to bed and getting up for school no matter how sucky you feel in the morning. You’re also grounded until you hit menopause. And you …” I make eye contact with Taz. “Stay right there.”
He shifts from foot to foot, shoulders hunched, mouth twisted off to the side. He is in such desperate need of a hug.
“Please stay?” I try.
I don’t get anything back, so I just don’t know.
I lead Mora down the hall, Sam’s nails clicking along with us. I wish he’d at least pretend to be a guard dog and keep watch on Taz, instead of rolling his eyes at me, like I’m the bad guy for opening the door.
“You could have barked, growled, something,” I tell him.
I get my sister into her jammies, wash the makeup off her face, tuck her in, and give her a couple of Tylenols with a glass of water. She’s passed out in a matter of minutes. I take one more to just sit on the edge of her bed and be thankful she came home safe. What happened tonight could have ended badly, could’ve led to something my sister could never take back, and I am responsible for her. I need to do better. I’ve got to do so much
better. At the very least, I should nail her window shut.
I sag, swipe the pads of my thumbs under my leaking eyes and feel selfish for thinking it, but this is so unfair. I’m stuck parenting my sister when this was supposed to be my year. Senior year. Now that my big brother and his friends have graduated and aren't threatening every guy who comes within a ten mile radius, I dared to dream of a social life. I had plans for something wilder than grabbing a milkshake with Frannie after volleyball practice. But I’m not even playing this year. Coach offered to work around my commitments, but it’s OK. Yes, I am responsible for five younger siblings and my older brother is … Grrr … but I will not give up hope for my family and wouldn’t trade them for anything. Not even the twins. Probably not the twins. Depending on what I was offered for them.
I sigh, scrub the last of the tears off my face and go looking for Taz. He’s no longer in the entryway. I should be relieved, but I’m not.
CHAPTER 13
TAZ:
Barbie is braless. I notice three seconds after she opens the door. She’s obviously fresh from bed, wearing short shorts, with no panties. I’m not positive about the no panties, but that’s how I’m imagining it. Because those legs are tan, smooth, at least ten miles long and leading somewhere I shouldn’t but really want to go. Ever since steamrolling my ass this morning, she has steadily ramped up the level of torture until I’m somewhere between homicidal and a hardon at all times. She’s going to kill me.
When she disappears with sister in tow, I’m outta here before I do something stupid, like throw Barbie over my shoulder and drag her back to my cave. I should know better than to take five extra seconds to steal a pair of shoes. I’ve already pressed my luck by thumping Asshat. If Barbie’s dad shows up, I’m beyond toast, but I could use something beside these wornass sandals. And nobody’ll even notice if a pair goes missing. There’s piles of sneakers, boots and even hockey skates in every size spilling out of a wooden cubby thing. I snatch the first pair that might fit, tuck ‘em under my arm, and then get stuck. Anger pins me down and I’m huffing like somebody just waved a red cape.
What did I expect in this perfect house, with this perfect family? Of course these kids play hockey. Sergeant West probably signed ‘em up as soon as they brought home the flyer in first grade.
I remember that flyer, printed on blue paper. How was I so fucken dumb? I showed it to my dad and asked to play. Before he even opened his mouth, I knew my mistake and tried to take it back. See, if there’s free time for hockey, I must’ve mastered every technique, must be a goddamn guitar prodigy, and how ‘bout a demonstration of some tremolo picking. So with snot running down my face, my licks were slow, my hand sloppy, and I couldn’t even manage a proper chord progression. My dad made me eat that flyer. After a six hour practice session.
The West kids have nothing to do with that. I shouldn’t hate them for it but why the hell not?
I wrap my fingers around the door knob, suddenly in a rush to get some air, get some space, and I am so close to gone when somebody pokes me in the back. That poke has me dropping the shoes, whirling a one-eighty and bracing for a blow.
There’s nobody there. I look right, left, then down. Way down. I find a miniature person. She’s all blonde curls, pink ruffles, big blue eyes and maybe a little scared. So am I. I don’t trust anything so small. I put her in the same category as squirrels, ferrets and mice. Who knows whether she’s going to run, climb all over me or bite? What the hell do I do if she screams? Or cries?
I refuse to make eye contact and hope she goes away. She fidgets but holds her ground. Goddamnit. I’d rather drink my own piss than deal with this kid.
“Who are you?” She inches closer.
I flatten against the door and my fingers spaz. She notices and her little mouth sours into a pucker.
“Are you Tummy?”
What? Mutt’s weed musta been stronger than I thought.
“I’m Tully,” she tells me. I don’t need or want to know that. I want out but don’t dare turn my back on her.
“Do you pick strawberries? Like Terek?” She reaches for my blood-crusted hand. I snatch it away, raising my palms up out of her reach.
“C’mon. You gotta wash your hands.” The kid hooks her finger in my belt loop and tugs.
She obviously hasn’t been on the planet long enough to get how it works. This kid would take candy from strangers, swim after eating, cross the street without looking. Nobody’s taught her to run from something like me.
“C’mon,” she yanks again, harder, and I’m half a bubble from popping my cork when a gray dog with a mangled ear wanders up next to her and snarls. I growl back, and she says, “Stop that!” I don’t know who she’s yelling at.
The dog and I maintain the standoff, both showing teeth, when the miniature girl grabs onto me with both hands, pulls and says, “Shhh, you’re gonna wake everybody.”
Everybody? Like her super sized cop father who’ll hang my nuts from his rearview mirror if he catches me inside his house? Shit.
The kid drags me into the kitchen, right up to the sink, the mangy dog following at my heels. She then grabs a kitchen chair, slides it up next to me and climbs onto the seat. She’s barely up to my armpits. How does something so tiny and helpless and pointless even survive? Can she do anything for herself? Can she tie her shoes, find her way home from school, wipe her own ass? I bet she knows her lunch code.
She flips on the water, points at the dish soap and tells me, “Wash.” So I do. I scrub the blood off my hands, splash cold water on my face and stare down at the drain, chin hanging. I’m tired. My goddamn bones ache, and when this fucktastic day finally ends, I’ll just start the shitshow over again tomorrow.
“Does it hurt?”
I don’t know what she’s asking about, my skinned knuckles, bruised eye or scars, but nope, those aren’t what hurt. I shake my head.
“Do you need a bandaid?”
I give her the straight on glare. It’s usually enough to warn off the hardest asses out there. This kid couldn’t give less of a frig. She lifts her hand and before I can get away, presses tiny fingers against the swelling under my eye.
Nobody touches me. Ever. I don’t like it. My nails scratch against my thigh in a quick, repeating rhythm. My breath knots into a hard ball in my throat.
I take the kid’s measure and decide she would fit in a garbage bag. I wouldn’t even need a heavy duty lawn and leaf bag. A regular kitchen bag would work, and there’s probably a supply right under the sink. If tomorrow's garbage day, she’d be picked up and on her way in a matter of hours. Problem solved.
With her index finger, she traces the lines of my scars. Up and down, side to side, through my eyebrow, over my lips, across my chin. No one has ever done that before. It feels weird, and I’m not OK with it. But the goddamn dog is sitting right next to her chair, tongue hanging out, tail thumping against the floor, panting after a chance to mangle my ass. And I don’t know how to scare off somebody this pink and soft and new. She smells like baby powder, for chrissake.
“Terek comes home with booboos all the time,” she tells me.
I don’t know who Terek is. I don’t know how my head hasn’t exploded. I just want to get out of this. I hold still and wait for it to be over.
The kid now spreads her hands into a pair of starfish against my cheeks, leans in so close I smell toothpaste on her breath, and tells me, “I can fix it.”
I’m impressed. This kid is a surprise. I hear myself ask, “How?” Because I really want to know.
“C’mere,” she whispers, and I bend my knees until my face is level with hers.
She puckers, closes her eyes and smears a wet kiss on each of my cheeks. Holy goddamn shit. I haven’t been kissed in … well, I don’t remember. How about never?
Give the girl a prize.
“All better?” she asks.
And yeah, I nod.
CHAPTER 14
Tia:
My baby sister is cozied up to Taz
. Wonders of wonders, the scary bear isn’t making porridge out of my favorite little Goldilocks. He’s standing totally still and letting her touch his face. How … Why … What happened to the no touching rule? Because he treats me like an oozing sore. Is it just me he can’t stand?
“Hey.” I say it softly.
Taz glances up, and I see it. He’s not happy. He’s a hostage.
“Look what I found!” Tully sounds proud of herself. She points at Taz. “This is MY new friend, Tommy.” Baby Sis is trying for an English accent. She’s not good at it, so she calls him “Tummy.”
I know what’s coming next.
“No, no, no,” I chant as momentum carries me straight toward my complete and utter humiliation.
“Tia has your pitcher on her wall!” My little sister announces.
“Picture. And no I don’t!” I am too loud, too forceful and come off like a two year old who needs a nap. The Grossaghetti roars in my gut.
“That’s what I said. And do so!” Baby Sis turns back to Taz. “She watches Porky Grinders.”
“Peaky Blinders and you’re supposed to be in bed.”
“That’s what I said. And you’re still up.” The little traitor now explains to Taz, just in case he didn’t fully appreciate the magnitude of my lameness, “She looooves Tummy. Wanna see the pitcher?”
Just so we’re clear, I didn’t buy myself a ginormous poster of Cillian Murphy. Mora gave it to me for Christmas, and I couldn’t hurt her feelings, so I had no choice but to hang it up. Yes, I sometimes lie in bed and stare at those amazing eyes and incredible mouth, but who wouldn’t? So what if there’s a slight resemblance between Taz and a certain hot celeb who I’m a teeny bit, sort of obsessed with? OK, there’s a strong resemblance, and I’ve been waiting for someone to notice it. For Frannie to notice, and we’d make inappropriate comments and act like horny idiots while shoveling frozen yogurt into our mouths. But not now. Not in front of Taz, when I’ve been busting my butt to make friends with him, not scare him off and probably seem like a crazy stalker who’d paw through his garbage and save his used razors. So please, let the floor open and swallow me. Or better yet, gobble up Baby Sis.
Shatter (The Choosy Beggars Series Book 1) Page 5