But it sounds good.
I slide out of bed. Together, we tiptoe downstairs with nothing but moonlight and streetlights to guide us. It’s not until we’re in the kitchen that she finally turns on the dim light over the sink.
“Can I help?” I ask.
“Yeah, get the almond milk out of the fridge,” she instructs. I watch as she gets out a grater and two large blocks of chocolate from the cupboard.
“Old school,” I say.
Sarah smiles. “There’s never been a mix that’s as good as the real thing. That’s what my gran says. She taught me how to make it. You mix milk and dark chocolate together, add a tiny bit of sugar and some vanilla. You’ll see. Girl, you’ll be spoiled rotten after this.”
I don’t think I’ve ever been spoiled before, so I’m kind of looking forward to it.
“Where are you going when you get out?” I ask. Obviously, she can’t go back to where the stepbrother lives.
“Gran’s. She lives in Hartford. You’ll meet her if you’re here Tuesday night. She always brings me dinner and we eat together.”
“What about your grandfather?”
She grates chocolate into a pan. “Dead, I guess. She doesn’t really talk about him. I don’t think he was a good man.”
“Are there any?” I ask with a snort, but the minute I say it, I think of Jamal.
“I think so,” Sarah replies, reaching for the other block. “There has to be, right? They can’t all be fuckwads.”
I guess not. I watch her work. “Why are you being so nice to me?”
She shoots me a crooked smile. “Don’t trust niceness, do you? None of us do. So how else are we going to trust it if we don’t show it to each other? Doesn’t cost me nothin’ to be nice to you. I’m going to be real nice to you and tell you to stay away from those messed-up girls.”
I know who she means. “What’s wrong with them?”
Measuring vanilla, she gives me a pointed look. “They’re messed up. Not like you and me messed up, but serious. One of them was top girl for her pimp and shopped for other girls for him. Dude, she was bringing in twelve-year-olds.”
“That’s not right.”
“You know it. I ain’t trusting no pimp-ass bitch. Bad enough men pimp us, we can’t be pimping each other too.”
“Does it get easier?” I ask. “Right now, I don’t know if I should stay or run, be straight or high.”
Sarah puts water in another pan and sets the one with the chocolate in it on top of the stove. “It does, but you have to do the work, y’know? There’s no getting high and then trying to live straight.” She turns on the burner. “It’s a lot easier to believe you don’t deserve better and run back to what you know.”
Her words are like a magical truth to me. All I can think is that if Krys, who hasn’t seen me in years, and Jamal, who doesn’t know me at all, both think I’m worth taking a chance on, why can’t I take that chance too? Two years ago, I had plans for my life that involved more than getting pills and not getting killed.
“I want better,” I say.
“I know, I can see it. That’s why I’m making you hot chocolate instead of pretending to be asleep.” She smiles. “I’m glad they put you in with me. You remind me why I need to keep workin’ too.”
“You might change your mind after a few more nightmares,” I joke, but I’m not really joking.
“No,” she says, adding the milk to the pot with the melting chocolate. “I don’t think I will. You might ask for a transfer when I have one of mine though.”
I nod toward the stove. “I guess you’d better give me the recipe.”
She grins at me as she begins to stir. I grin back.
chapter four
Narcotics Anonymous. Is it really anonymous when you all live together? I mean, we all know each other’s stories, for the most part. Some of us are more open than others. I’m not one of the open ones, but I like to listen. Makes me feel good about myself to hear about the shit lives of other girls.
At least Mitch wasn’t into the hardcore stuff. He liked to give us stuff that made us feel good or want to party. Then pills to bring us down easy. No heroin or crack. Though, I guess drugs is drugs, right?
I’ve been at Sparrow Brook for almost three weeks, which means I’ve been clean a little longer. Sarah says she found it easy to be straight in here, but for me, not so much. The first two weeks were hard. Being around all these hot messes made me want something to take the edge off, bad. But the difference is I wanted pills—I didn’t need pills.
“I miss pot,” says Treena, one of those girls I wanted to join up with when I first came here. We’re not supposed to mention drug names, especially not in a way that makes them sound yummy. Feeding the addiction is not a good thing.
A couple of other girls make noises of agreement. I roll my eyes. She did this last week too, got everyone riled up.
“Oh, I’m sorry. Did I offend your delicate white feelings?”
Fuck. Here we go. Treena’s been sniffing around a fight with me for the last few days. I’m not sure why. I don’t think she needs a reason other than she seems to think that white girls and brown girls aren’t supposed to like each other. I guess no one ever taught her that we’re all the same with our faces pressed into a pillow and our asses in the air.
Lucky bitch.
“No,” I reply. “But maybe let Sarah finish talking before you start shootin’ off that fool mouth of yours.”
“You think ’cause you talk like us that you one of us? You ain’t, little snowflake.”
A few of the girls laugh, but the rest are silent and tense. The woman leading the meeting, Vesta, sits up a little straighter. “Girls, this doesn’t need to escalate,” she cautions.
Yes, it does. I don’t need a frigging degree to see how angry and hurt Treena is. She kind of reminds me of Daisy that way. Violence is Treena’s answer to cutting or pulling out hair.
My scars itch.
I don’t stand up because I’m a good person, offering myself to her as some kind of douched-up sacrifice. I stand because I’ve been wanting to punch someone—anyone—in the face for a long fucking time. I curl my hands into fists.
Treena comes at me. Girls start yelling and cheering. Sarah shouts at me to stop.
I let Treena take the first swing. She hits me in the side of the head. Stupid cow. It doesn’t really hurt, not nearly as much as when I slam my knuckles into her nose. Oh, that satisfying crunch. Mm-hmm. Warm blood on the back of my fingers.
Someone gasps. Someone else hollers gleefully. Vesta shoves tissues into Treena’s hands and takes her away to get medical attention. Bitch is probably going to get taken to the doctor. Everyone wants a trip outside.
I wipe my hand on my jeans.
“That was stupid,” Sarah tells me.
“Felt good though.” I’m smiling and I can’t stop. Eventually, she smiles a little too.
Treena’s girls don’t bother me. They don’t know what to do with their top girl gone. A couple of other girls congratulate or thank me, even. Others stay quiet as they leave the room. I guess the meeting’s over.
“You’re going to lose privileges,” my roommate tells me as we head back to our room. I’ll face consequences in the morning.
“It was worth it.” Seriously, I can handle no TV or even no group activities. I probably will lose access to the horses too, but that’s okay. I feel lighter than I have in … I don’t know how long. That punch—that one fucking punch—opened a window inside me and let the sun in. It’s almost poetic.
“What if it messes up you going home?” Sarah asks once we’re in our room.
I glance over my shoulder at her. “What?”
“Will that punch be worth it if it fucks up your chances of being able to live with your aunt?”
I don’t have to think about it. “No.”
The other girl shakes her head. “You gotta be more careful, Lex. You act out like that again, and they’re liable to send you to a facili
ty—a real one. Not a nice one like this.”
From the tone of her voice, I know that she’s been in one of those “facilities” before. I don’t know what to say.
“Yeah, thought that might shut you up,” she remarks, but there isn’t any meanness in her voice. “Next time you want to hit something, there’s a punching bag in the basement.”
“There is?”
Sarah’s expression is pure exasperation. “Yeah, where all the gym equipment is?”
Heat fills my cheeks. “I haven’t been down there since orientation.”
“Pfft. Bitch.”
She means because I haven’t put on weight. Well, I have, but I’m still skinnier than I probably should be. My hip bones stick out, and I can feel my ribs just under my skin. Mitch liked us thin. Said we photographed better, so we looked sexier when he put our pictures up online.
I think he liked us frail and weak. Unable to run. How can I know how awful he is and still miss him sometimes? To me, that’s real weakness.
If there is a God, I hope he makes me not feel that way someday. As for the rest of it …
I turn to Sarah. “Show me that punching bag.”
* * *
After several brief visits, I go to Krys and Jamal’s for an actual weekend. In another couple of weeks—if Sparrow Brook thinks I’m ready to leave—I’ll be living with them. After punching Treena, I’ve been on good behavior. Turns out breaking her nose really wasn’t worth the punishment. I was bored stupid, and after a while, looking at her swollen, bruised face wasn’t even satisfying.
Jamal takes my bag into my room. I follow him but only so far. He sets the bag near the closet. “I’ll let you get settled,” he says, and leaves me there alone.
The room is the same as it was when I first saw it, except the bed set I liked and wanted that day at the mall is on the bed. Krys went back and got it.
My hand trembles a little when I touch the quilt. It’s so pretty. I blink as the pattern blurs before my stinging eyes. None of that shit. It’s just a bed.
“Do you like it?” My aunt’s voice comes from the doorway. “I think it really makes the room.”
I nod. “Thank you.”
“Here. This is for you.” She comes into the room and hands me a small box.
I frown. “Aunt Krys, you really don’t—”
“I wanted to. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable, Lex. I just … I just want to give you everything you deserve.”
I swallow, try to think of the right words. “He bought me a lot of gifts.” I can’t say his name in front of her. Not yet.
Her face blanches, leaving nothing but freckles and horrified eyes. “Oh, sweetie.”
“I know it’s not the same, but … it’s overwhelming.”
For a second, I think she might cry. She shakes her head slightly. “I hadn’t thought of that. I’m sorry. Do you want me to save it for another time?”
I glance down at the box in my hand. It would be a rejection if I said yes, and she looked so excited when she gave it to me. “No. I want it.”
She watches me as I open the lid. Inside, on the fluff, is a gold wire bracelet with a couple of flat disk charms hanging from it. One says, YOU DESERVE TO BE LOVED, and the other reads, YOU ARE BRAVER THAN YOU BELIEVE, STRONGER THAN YOU SEEM, AND SMARTER THAN YOU THINK.
I run my finger over that charm. “Why does this sound familiar?”
“Winnie the Pooh,” my aunt replies. “I used to tell you that when you were little. You used to get me to read the books to you, remember?”
I don’t, but there’s hope in her voice I can’t bring myself to squash. “Thank you,” I whisper, and I slip my hand through the bracelet. Mitch bought me a lot of things, but never something as thoughtful as this. Mom never bought me anything so nice.
I turn to my aunt. I feel awkward and disjointed. A light touch on her shoulders, a brief nearing of my body to hers. Her hand gently touches my back, and I know she understands. How can she understand?
“Jill tells me you’ve discovered a love of kickboxing,” Krys says, lightening the mood.
“Yeah?” God, she knows about Treena, doesn’t she? She must, but she hasn’t mentioned it. I lost privileges for it, had it written up. They had to have told her.
“I like it too. I have a Wavemaster in the basement if you want to use it, but I thought maybe we’d take some classes together—if you want.”
Another nod. I can’t handle all of this, I don’t think.
“Hey.”
I look up, meet her gaze.
“You’re going to be okay.” She says it with a confident smile.
“How do you know?” I challenge. A pulse behind my right eye is making my lid twitch.
“There’s an old saying: That which doesn’t kill us makes us stronger. Have you heard that before?”
I nod. “I don’t feel very strong.”
“Honey, you’re here. Sometimes that’s all the strength you need.” She smiles again. “Why don’t you unpack? I was thinking tacos for dinner. You like those?”
“Yeah. I can help.”
“Unpack first. Take a few minutes to yourself.”
And then I’m alone. I glance around the room. How is this real? At our old apartment, my room was half this size. My bed was a twin that sagged in the middle and had a spring that poked me in the side if I didn’t position myself just right. The walls had been stained by cigarette smoke and age, and forget having a desk. I’d been lucky to have a dresser with drawers that stuck.
Was it any wonder Mitch had been able to seduce me away? That’s what my therapist, Dr. Lisa, said he’d done. He’d seduced me. It’s a nice way of saying I let him buy me. How else was he going to justify selling me?
Krys and Jamal aren’t trying to buy me, I remind myself. There are good people in the world. I have to believe that, otherwise I’m as bad as the rest of them.
There are velvet hangers in the closet—so my shirts don’t slide off—and special hangers for pants and skirts. The drawers on the dresser move smoothly and are lined with cream-colored paper. In the bathroom, I set my small makeup bag on the counter along with my skin care products. My own freaking bathroom.
I laugh. Just a little. Is it happiness, or am I about to lose my shit? I can’t tell. Instead of waiting to find out, I go downstairs to the kitchen, where Krys and Jamal are making dinner. I watch them for a second. Jamal sings along with a song on the radio that I don’t know as Krys laughs and dances.
Is this normal? And what the fuck is it going to do to me?
“Can I help?” I ask.
“Yep!” Jamal says. “Come mash these avocados.”
And just like that, I’m helping. I’ve never made guacamole in my life. I would have, if I’d known how simple it was.
“Seriously,” I say a few minutes later. “This is all there is to it?”
My uncle tosses some cilantro into the bowl to go with the onion and garlic he added before. Then, he squeezes lime juice over it. “Pretty much.” Then, he throws some tomato and diced-up peppers in as well. “Stir that all up, please.”
By the time we have everything ready, my stomach is growling, which is good, because we’ve got enough food to feed everyone at Sparrow Brook, I think.
We eat at the kitchen table. It’s all so good that I eat until I feel like I’m going to puke. I have no regrets.
We go to the living room afterward. Jamal turns on the TV and calls up a screen with movie posters on it. “Pick which one you want to watch,” he says.
“The Autopsy of Jane Doe, Get Out, or Happy Death Day?” They all sound crazy.
He nods excitedly. “Since you’re new to the genre, I’m thinking either of the last two. They’re all fairly current. The last few years, anyway.”
I pick Get Out and hand it back to him. He arches a brow. “You didn’t even read the descriptions. Did you just pick this one because it’s got a Black guy in it?”
Heat fills my face, and he starts laughing.
Krys whips a dishtowel at his leg. “Don’t tease her, Mal.”
My uncle stops laughing, but he’s still smiling. I guess I didn’t offend him. “Okay, we’ll start with this one, but I’m going to make you watch the others too.”
“I’ve been made to do worse,” I retort with a hint of a smile. His face falls, and I realize what I’ve said. “That was supposed to be a joke.”
Jamal smiles again, but it doesn’t look quite right. “Ten bucks says you’ll be a fan before the end of the night.” He turns to get a drink from the kitchen. Krys touches his shoulder and gives him a loving look. I’ve watched people have sex, but this exchange between the two of them seems more intimate than any other I’ve seen. I can’t look away.
“I didn’t mean to upset him,” I say, when it’s only my aunt and me. I scratch my thumbnail along the skin of my wrist.
She catches my hand, stopping me from drawing blood. “You didn’t. The situation you were in upsets him.” She turns my other hand over in hers. We both look at the red marks I’ve made. “I used to pull my hair out. It didn’t leave the scars that cutting does, but I had a bald patch I had to cover up.”
“You did?” She nods. “Why?”
She strokes her thumb over the welts. “A long time ago, I was at a party and some boys decided to have some fun with me. I didn’t think it was fun. Let’s get you some cream for that.”
My chest feels like my heart is trying to squeeze out between my ribs. I leave the room with her, stupid and silent. I don’t know what to do or what to say. I stand by the bathroom sink and let her rub the antibiotic ointment on my wrist like I’m a little kid who can’t do it myself. It feels nice.
“Let’s go watch that movie,” she says when she’s done. “Jamal’s already watched them all.”
“Why would he watch them again?”
She looks at me like I’m an idiot, but not in a mean way. “Because he wants you to like them. And him. He wants to have something in common with you.”
Well, I don’t want to like him. I don’t want to trust him and be disappointed when he comes into my room at night.
But what if he doesn’t? What if he really is as nice and decent as he seems? What if he protects me rather than hurts me?
What Unbreakable Looks Like Page 5