Shatter (The Choosy Beggars Series Book 1)

by Charisse Moritz

  Following my sightline, Brandon huffs a breath. “You feel sorry for him, right? Same as the stray dogs and cats you’re always rescuing. I see that. Just don’t get confused about what you’re getting back. That kind of guy doesn’t take a girl to dances. He doesn’t take care of her at all. He just takes. Takes advantage, takes whatever she’s willing to give and then takes off.”

  I focus back on Brandon. “You’re wrong about him.”

  “Am I? Has he asked you to homecoming?”

  I bite my lip and shrug, pretending I’m not bothered by it.

  “I don’t see you two walking hand in hand down the halls. I don’t hear him stepping up and telling people you’re his girl. So what exactly are you two? Cuz I know he’s been hanging around your house. At least when he’s not hooking up with Sasha Taber.” His face crinkles up, like he’s wincing on my behalf and I’m tempted to wave my imaginary magic wand and bestow a case of explosive diarrhea on him. But I can’t dispute anything he’s said.

  “Look, I just came over here to ask you to homecoming.” Brandon picks up the rose and brushes the petals against my cheek. “Because it’s no secret. Having you on my arm, as my date, would make me the happiest and luckiest guy on the planet.”

  My friends sigh and swoon, and that’s when we hear, “Hey.” Taz could cut down a redwood with that voice.

  Uh-oh.

  I glance up. He is right on us, and I’ve never seen him this wild. Flared nostrils, a hint of bared teeth and a slight vibration running through his body. I wouldn’t be surprised if he suddenly split the seams of his brand new clothes and grew fur. Without a tranquilizer gun, Brandon is in trouble.

  My ex stands up, makes a point of placing the flower on the table and bending in too close, lips right against my ear when he says, “How about I pick you up at five o’clock?”

  Taz stays silent, but his eyes go crazy.

  I get to my feet, needing to insert myself between two boys who are basically peeing on me from each side. Putting out a hand, I don’t quite dare touch Taz but feel the heat, tension and rage radiating off his skin.

  “Brandon has asked me to homecoming.” I hesitate, then can’t help myself from making the colossal mistake of adding, “I’m thinking of accepting because I don’t have a date. Is there anything you’d like to ask me first?”

  While I’m not playing fair and feel a bit ashamed … my heart rises up on its toes and whispers Pretty please.

  I watch the struggle. He so wants to speak. The words are all over him, filling him, flooding him, rushing into his mouth and rolling over his tongue. And then I see the exact moment he can’t make himself do it. I see Taz the boy morph into Taz the animal. He curls a fist and punches Brandon in the face.

  CHAPTER 53

  TAZ:

  Big Brother told Tia to keep the front door locked. I heard him, heard her promise, but I stroll right in without knocking. I swear to Christ, she’d lay down the welcome mat for a bulimic werewolf on a full moon.

  I grind my teeth to the gums, way more aggravated than I should be. Here’s why.

  The Prick put his hands on my girl in the lunchroom. He asked her to the dance. He made her feel special in ways my punkass can’t manage. The timing of his shit-eating grin couldn’t have been worse. My effort to restrain myself turned into swollen knuckles and blood spatters across my shirt. I punched him four times before his teammates pulled me off. One problem solved, a whole bunch of new ones created.

  I got sent to the office, told to wait for V for Vivian to call me in. She never did. I sat there for an hour, until the Dumpling-secretary took a phone call, said a lot of uh-huh’s with her eyes on me and finally handed me a slip. I’m suspended and expecting to get dragged back to juvie at any second.

  So why aren’t I halfway to Detroit by now? Because I’m standing just inside the West house, in the slight stink of too many shoes, buzzing with enough stress to light up a whole city. I should have at least knocked, usually knock, would rather knock, but whoever answers always gives me the eyeroll and reminds me to just come in already. Except for Tulip, who I’ve learned is not supposed to answer the door but does anyway, then tries to smuggle me into her room without telling anybody. I really don’t want to repeat that Candyland clusterfuck. There is no point to that game.

  I knot my fingers to hold them still but let myself rock from foot to foot. What if I scared Tia by going ballistic? What if the homecoming dance is a dealbreaker? What if she realized my ugly on the outside hides nothing but an uglier monster underneath? I knew this fantasy couldn’t last, but I’m dumb enough to be greedy. I want more, longer. Please, please, please, just a little longer. So when I hear a soft voice, completely out of tune but brave enough to tackle Van Morrison, it calls me into the kitchen.

  I find Princess Barbie with the refrigerator door wide open, all the stuff from inside piled on the counters, a bucket of soapy water on the floor next to her. She’s on her knees, leaning in and scrubbing, her ass swaying back and forth in a nice steady tempo. I watch for a second, while her singing sets me off a little. Can’t she hear herself?

  Easing up on her, worried she won’t be happy to see me, I get anxious and blurt “hey” way too loud.

  She shrieks, whirls around and knocks over the bucket. This isn’t Princess Barbie. I’ve never seen this woman before, but I know exactly who she is and oh fuck.

  I jump backward, slip in the soapy water and land hard on ass and elbows. Both dogs come running and barking while the West mom calls, “Stop, stop, stop.” I scramble to get away. From the dogs. From her. And she switches to “Don’t, don’t, don’t,” but neither me or the mutts pay any attention.

  New dog latches onto my pant leg and tugs, really putting on a show. Old dog slides through the water, bashes into my chest and stomps my balls. I make the sound of a babysitter in a horror movie and don’t realize I’m under the kitchen table until I attempt to stand up. Bashing my head so hard I see brilliant constellations, I drop right back down.

  Fuuuuuuck! That hurt.

  Mom hesitates, then crawls under the table with me. Grabbing both mutts by their collars, she drags them back, so they’re draped like ratty fur blankets over her lap. She’s swimming in a blue plaid flannel buttoned into the wrong holes, the sleeves rolled to her elbows and one pink and one purple sock on her feet. Her blonde hair sits in a frayed ball on her head, loose strands dangling as she angles her very pretty chin ten degrees to the right. I know that head tilt. I’m so screwed.

  “Are you alright?”

  No. I’m held hostage by a cage of chair legs and even more, by her dark blue eyes. A feeling I’m familiar with digs its claws deep into my belly and rips me open. I hemorrhage panic. I can’t do this. Can’t, can’t, can’t. I don’t belong here but a frantic search shows me no way out. Shit, shit, shit.

  “Let’s start again. I’m Elise West.” She offers the identical smile her kids all wear and a slender hand for me to shake. I suspect her smile is permanent, and I’m confident I’m not special. I bet she looks at everyone like this.

  Her hand floats between us. Fuck, shit, fuck. I swallow the taste of chalk mixed with old milk and jut my hand out there, too fast, too hard, bad aim and stab her palm with my fingers. Gah.

  “It’s good to finally meet you, Gibson.”

  Now would be a great time for me to say something. Anything. But with her two hands sandwiching my one, my tongue is paralyzed.

  My eyes bump off hers and land on the crumbs and food scraps scattered across the floor. Thing One and Two swept the kitchen the other day. There was lots of swordplay, a broken broom and bloody lip but not much clean up. They missed a half dozen Cheerios and brown lump of something.

  “I’ve heard a lot about you,” she tells me.

  Wonder-fucken-ful. She’s the wife of a cop. I don’t need to glance up to see the buzzards circling my head. I’m still wearing the yellow eye socket from getting suckerpunched by the Asshat and faded bruises from the Prick and Balls thu
mping. I worked a full shift, so I’m dirty and sweaty, and after a ride from Mutt, I’m a little bit stoned and probably smell like weed. It could be worse, but I can’t think how and doesn’t matter. I’m guessing Mom’s not gonna let me leave until she’s sure I’m never coming back.

  “We need to have a little chat,” she says.

  Chat? Great. I’m sure I’ll excel at that. Tugging my hand away from her, I’m quick to sit on it, hoping to prevent myself from doing something extra super stupid.

  “I know what you’re thinking.”

  Doubt that. I’m thinking I’d rather stick my dick down the garbage disposal than whatever’s happening here.

  She breathes a laugh. “Relax. This isn’t an interrogation. No bright lights. No cattle prod. Just tell me about yourself.”

  The silence goes on and on. I am the instrumental version of conversation. The West Mom’s better with quiet than her daughter. We sit for nearly a minute while I wonder if that’s a breakfast sausage or cat turd on the floor. I haven’t eaten yet today. Might be worth the risk.

  “I need to know more about who is spending time around my kids,” she prompts.

  “I’ll go.” There. Two words. That should make her happy.

  “Why would you do that? I don’t want you to go. I want you to prove my daughter’s right about you.” Her eyebrows pinch together. “You don’t think you can? I think you’re already doing it. Otherwise, my kids wouldn’t be trying so hard to keep you.”

  New dog sneezes violently enough to give himself a concussion then paws at her leg for attention. I wonder if he and I are in the same race for a spot in this household. I don’t pee the couch but would definitely hump Princess Barbie’s leg.

  “My husband is the officer who arrested you for shoplifting,” she remarks, neatly separating me from my last hope.

  I’ve soaked up the entire world’s supply of shame. There isn’t a drop leftover for anyone else. It’s all mine. I’m literally dripping with it, feel it sliding greasy fingers over my scalp and down my back. This is so fucken awful I have ass sweat. Seriously. I’m sitting in my own juices, drenched in anxiety, swamped with nerves, saturated in awkwardness. Oh wait. My pants are soaked from the tipped over bucket. Please someone punch me in the face. It would hurt less.

  “He told me you ran away from several foster families, that you preferred living under a bridge and stealing bologna. I’ve been thinking about what would force a child to give up a roof and risk the elements and starvation. I’ve decided that for you to be put in that situation, someone or maybe everyone failed you.” She shifts and unfolds her legs, settling in while I calculate whether my shoulders and hips would fit between the chair legs. Maybe I could wiggle out like a rat.

  “You didn’t seek out your mother,” she goes on. “Maybe you didn’t know where to look? I’d like to think that’s it. But here’s my problem. In my heart, I know your mother should have found you. Even more, you should never have been lost to begin with. So I decided to call your Mom directly.” She taps her bottom lip with her index finger while I nearly asphyxiate on my own breath. “We know each other through the school. My oldest son and his friends spent more time in her office than I’d like. Have you ever wondered why your mother came back here?”

  She doesn’t seem to expect an answer. New dog flops onto his back, makes pig snuffles and his back paw paddles when she starts rubbing his belly. Old dog finally gets jealous and nudges his nose under her other hand.

  “Your mom got herself out of a really bad situation, put herself through college, worked her way up from teacher to principal. Then accepted a job here, when she could have gone anywhere. Maybe to be close to you, to keep an eye on you. Maybe she wants another chance. No matter what, I hope you realize, none of the things your parents have done are in any way your fault.”

  No to everything she just said and nice try. I’ve heard it before. She should ask my parents. They’ve both made it crystal and unanimous. All me.

  “You know that right?” she finally pushes.

  I know I have never been what either of my parents wants, that just the sight of me pisses them off, and if they both took a week to drown in quicksand, I’d feel bad it was too quick for them to really suffer.

  “Ouch,” she says with a soft laugh. “Those eyes of yours have a lot to say. I bet they’re enough to keep everybody from looking too closely.” She’s looking too closely. Her stare is steady and deep. She is the embodiment of patience while I am chaos zipped inside a skin suit.

  “Do you know what I see? A boy who is too thin, wearing bruises of different shades, blood on his shirt and carrying burdens too heavy for him. I see a wariness that speaks of hard-earned secrets, and I’m thinking there’s a lot you don’t talk about, have never spoken of. I feel the need to remind you, every day is new. Understand? Every day is new. Even when we dread them, every single sunrise is a possibility. Hope is what gives us strength to look ahead.”

  I pick up each word like pennies off the sidewalk, saving them for later, as if they’ll buy me something I can’t afford. This woman I’ve never met before, who sits under a kitchen table, on a dirty floor in spilled wash water, gives me more than any adult ever has. Even if it’s just her full attention for no other reason or motive than one human being showing kindness to another, I’ve erupted in goosebumps.

  “You’re fighting the whole wide world,” she tells me. “But you don’t scare me. Not even a little.”

  Her eyes soften at the edges, and I’m half expecting a stream of dark blue to spill down her face, spread across the floor and carry us both away.

  “I asked around about you, but I was talking to all the wrong people. So I checked with the right people. I asked each one of my kids, and they told me some interesting stories.” She grabs my foot, waggles it and I spiral into a series of ticks. “Now I need you to be completely honest. Can you do that?”

  In an alternate universe, I participate in this conversation. In this one, I demonstrate the oral skills of a wet mop.

  “Gibson?” There’s no edge to her voice. No frustration. I swear she’s an endless source of calm. Things One and Two have probably worn her down. I’ve heard them ask Tia the same question eighteen times in a row. I counted. She never gave in, never changed her answer, but I gave serious thought to pulling out their tongues with a pair of pliers. “Will you at least look at me?”

  Don’t be a coward. Fucken look at her. C’mon, c’mon. When my eyes finally cooperate, her smile grows impossibly wide.

  “OK, here we go.” She clears her throat, shimmies her shoulders and sits up straighter. “Tell the truth, the absolute truth and nothing but the truth. Do you cheat at board games?”

  I hesitate because ... WTF? Then slowly shake my head.

  “Right answer. Do you deliberately step on ants?”

  This must be where Tia gets her weirdness. It makes me like Mom even more. I bite my lip and offer another shake.

  “Very good. For another ten points ... Do you return your grocery cart to the corral?”

  I nod.

  “Now for the win. Think carefully. Do you ever, EVER put empty milk cartons back into the refrigerator?” She dips her chin and gives me the hard stare.

  Um. Before I can lie to her, she waves her hands, laughs and says, “Don’t tell me. Don’t ruin it!”

  I’ve finally figured out why her name’s familiar. She reminds me of Beethoven’s Für Elise, a melody so gentle it drives me to tears when I’m alone, and I bet big bad Officer West would gladly move mountains for this woman.

  Leaning back on her elbows, Mom chews on the inside of her cheek for a second and then says, “I think you’ve toughed it out long enough on your own. As long as you don’t mind chaos, are willing to sacrifice all privacy and understand that one for all actually means nobody ends up with a very big piece, we’ve always got room for one more. You’re welcome here, Gibson.”

  She just throws it out there, a life raft offered as casually as a pool t
oy.

  “You aren’t alone. If you boil this conversation down to four words, that’s the message, OK? You. Are. Not. Alone. And if I could ask one thing of you, I’d like you to talk to someone. You need to talk. Let the bad go to make room for the good. I’m always here, always available to lend an ear, but I can also recommend a professional. Someone who will help you. Will you think about it?”

  I actually think about it, about what would happen if I told her the truth, what I’d gain and what I’d lose. There’s no winning here. My secrets are the kind that devastate and destroy.

  Mom looks as if she’s going to push it, not let me get away with silence, but the moment’s gone when Thing One and Two peer under the table. There’s grass in their hair, smudges on their faces and they smell like cold air and mud.

  “What’re you guys doing under there?”

  “Plotting world domination,” Mom replies.

  “Cool.” They maneuver until they’re sitting all pressed up on either side of her like a pair of turtles fighting over a scrap of sunshine. “Can we help?”

  “Well I don’t know.” Her arms naturally curve around their little bodies to snug them even closer. She takes turns rubbing at their cheeks with her thumbs, and I am mesmerized by the way they tilt their faces toward her gentle hands. “What skills do you have?”

  “I can burp the alphabet,” says Thing Two. I’m starting to be able to tell them apart.

  “I can lick my own elbow.” Thing One demonstrates. I’m impressed.

  The front door slams and as footsteps head our way, tons of footsteps, way too many footsteps, Mom calls, “In here!” and I cringe.

  “Why’s the floor wet?” Theo’s voice.

  “This is too much wet,” says Tia. “Even for Ingrid, right? I mean, there’s bubbles in it. Can a dog pee bubbles?”

  “I caught him chewing on a bottle of bubble bath yesterday,” answers Baby Barbie.

  The three squat down. Tia’s eyes immediately pick me out, as if I am the true north of her compass, and the curve of her perpetual smile spreads and deepens. My relief is instant and epic, lungs functioning at full capacity for the first time in hours. This girl is why I’m still here. For a chance to look at her, I’m willing to squirm in the mix of seven people, two dogs and oh shit, here comes the cat, all crowded into a makeshift clubhouse.