Traffick (15 page)

even the smallest thimbleful

of remorse for that at all?

My guess is the only thing

she's sorry about is having

cut her life in half. I suppose

it's a little sad that she'll die

before her thirty-fifth birthday.

Wonder if the kids even know

she's dying. Wonder if they'll miss

the mother who's been nothing

but a negative presence in their lives.

She never auctioned off my sisters.

Mary Ann would tell me if it happened

to her, not that I can do one damn

thing to change it. And now a big

old knife of guilt rips through me.

Running away accomplished zilch,

especially considering where Alex

and I ended up. It was totally selfish,

and what if it only opened the door

to one of the kids being traded

for cigarette money? I could probably

forgive the fact that Iris was a sex

worker, but making one out of me,

and profiting from the rapes

that ground my childhood into

oblivion? What do I say when

I see her? “Hey, Iris, I'm home.

I'd like to tell you I'm sorry

you're dying, but that would be

a lie. Could you hurry the process,

please?” And how much do I confess

to Gram? I haven't said a word to her

about why I ran off. Do I want her

to hate her daughter as much as I do?

That's what I'll do, like every

girl here, pretty much. One day

feeds the next, and the routine

grows exponentially more boring.

I never really learned how to deal

with routine. We've always moved

around a lot, never put down roots

in a town or school, Iris chasing

dreams with penises, one after

another. You can't keep friends

like that, which is why I'm so close

with my sisters and brothers.

Alex was the first outside person

I'd ever truly connected with. God,

I miss her. But I guess she's moved

on with her life, totally independent

of me. For all the texts I've sent her,

she's only bothered to answer a few.

I try one more time now.
HEY GIRL.

STILL PUKING IN THE MORNING?

BEEN THINKING ABOUT U AND

HOW WE MET. DID I EVER TELL

U I NEVER HAD A REAL FRIEND

BEFORE U? MISS TALKING TO U.

NOT THE SAME SWAPPING

STORIES WITH STRANGERS.

HEARD SOME GOOD ONES

THO. WELL,
SO BAD THEY'RE

GOOD. ALWAYS THOUGHT

I WAS STREETWISE, BUT I

NEVER REALIZED JUST HOW

DIRTY THOSE SIDEWALKS

CAN BE, SPECIALLY FOR KIDS

EVEN YOUNGER THAN U AND

ME. PEOPLE WANT TO CLOSE

THEIR EYES TO WHAT'S GOING

ON JUST OUTSIDE THEIR DOORS

OR ONE BLOCK OVER. HEH. NOT

LIKE I'M TELLING U SOMETHING

U DON'T ALREADY KNOW.

DO ME A FAVOR? TELL ME

SOMETHING I DON'T KNOW.

LOVE YOU. TALK TO ME!

I leave it there, with the less-

than-subtle plea to stay connected,

if only virtually. Despite it all,

how can she toss “us” away so

easily? Did she totally forget me?

I guess this is the downside

to loving someone. When they cut

you loose, pretend like you don't

even exist, how do you say goodbye?

Into my pocket, go on inside.

It's Saturday—no homework, so

most of the girls are busy doing

crafts, which House of Hope

sells online to help finance

their programs. Next Thursday

is Thanksgiving. The cornucopias,

scarecrow wall hangings, and pumpkin

and turkey candles were finished

in September. We've been working

on Christmas decorations since

I've been here. I'm not really

the crafty type, but pasting sequins

on glass ornaments is easy enough,

and it's better than hanging out

in my room. I slip into a chair

next to Brielle, one of the few girls

I've bothered to get to know. I'm leaving

soon, so have done my best to avoid

making friends. But there's something

special about her, and you can't

always silence attraction. “You've

got glue stuck to your head.” It clings

to the burnished copper waves

like ice. Brielle tosses her hair

back over her shoulders, looks

at me with striking gray-blue eyes.

Good thing it's Elmer's, huh?

But remind me to wash it before

I try and brush it. Hard enough

to keep my ends from splitting.

Her ends are perfect. Her hair

is definitely a vanity, but that's

not a bad thing. Every girl here

struggles with self-confidence,

which is how pimps and other

masters of violation maintain

control—by beating it out of us,

verbally and/or physically.

“Are you kidding? I'd kill for hair

like yours. If I try to grow mine

out, I kind of resemble one of those

dogs with fur like a mop, which

is why I keep it cut short.”

She laughs, and I love the way

it sounds. Gentle. Sweet. Pure.

I think those dogs are cute, but

I happen to like your hair short.

Of her laughter touches a place

inside me. Half of me wants to

hug her. The other half tells me

to run before I get hurt again.

But I'm just so, so lonely. I need

to feel like somebody cares,

and not because they're related

to me, which, with the obvious

exception of my mother, means

they pretty much have to care.

Of course, I'm probably totally

wrong to think Brielle might be

interested in hooking up with me.

I've caught her staring a few times,

and when I smile at her, she always

smiles back. Is that meaningful?

We both turn our attention to glue

and sequins and ribbon and beads,

but as we work, I slide my leg

over so it's barely touching hers.

Nonchalantly, of course. Game

on. Her move. It comes swiftly.

She tucks her shin behind my calf,

shimmies it softly up and down.

Exquisite little shivers trill

through my body. Man, it's been

a while since I've experienced

anything even close to this.

When I first got together with Alex,

I questioned whether it was sexual

identity or just the need to be held

tenderly by someone. I think I just

found the answer, cleared up

any sense of confusion. I still can't

be sure it doesn't have a lot to do

with the way I've been mistreated

by men, and maybe one day I'll change

my mind, so for now I'll just consider

myself bi, leaning toward women.

Right now I find myself leaning

toward the girl on my right. “Want

to take a walk later?” I ask, sure

despite our tangled legs that she'll

say no. “It's gorgeous outside.”

No.
The word deflates my happy

bubble. But then she qualifies,

Not later. Let's go right now.

I'm feeling claustrophobic anyway.

Our craft supplies, clean the table.

There aren't a whole lot of rules

here at House of Hope, but respect

for others is required, and this qualifies.

We can take off if we want; the doors

are unlocked during the day and

only bolted at night against danger

outside them. Brielle and I sign out,

so the staff understands we're gone.

Should we not return, the proper

authority will be informed,

but very few girls who leave

don't come back. For most, there's

nowhere better to go. Right now,

a test-the-waters stroll is in order.

“See? Isn't it great today? I think

November must be the best month

in Vegas. Still warm, but not melt-

your-makeup hot.” We start along

the sidewalk, and before very long

Brielle reaches for my hand.

Our fingers link, and we don't care

who sees.
Do you wear makeup?

I've never noticed it before.

“I used to wear it all the time, but

there's no reason to here, you know?

Besides, it reminds me of a place

in my life I'd rather not revisit.”

We are beyond sight of the House

of Hope windows. Brielle stops,

turns so we're facing each other.

I understand. I've got one of those

places, too. But I think it's good

to talk about it. My grandpa always

used to say that keeping secrets

chews you up from the inside out.

I'll tell you about my place if you

tell me about yours. But first . . .

Her kiss, like her gentle demeanor,

is so different from Alex's—soft,

sweet. Tempting. It doesn't last long—

not close to long enough—but we are

very aware of traffic, some of it

slowing to gawk. One guy even beeps

and yells encouragement. Brielle

pulls away, face slightly red.
Sorry.

Hope that was okay. I just wanted

you to know how I feel. Was it okay?

I love that she cares enough to ask

permission rather than expecting

me to respond the way my body

most definitely has. “It was more

than okay. It's been a long time

since I've kissed anyone. The last

person I was with quit kissing me

before she tore us apart. Thank you.”

She shakes her head, and her eyes

insist she does not understand.

“Thank you for showing me

there is still beauty in the world.

All I've seen for most of my life

is ugliness. So, okay. Let's walk

and I'll share my story with you.”

We tour the neighborhood, finally

come to a park with shade trees

and a playground that seem out

of place in Las Vegas. By the time

we settle at a picnic table, sitting

very close, and comfortable that way,

Brielle knows the circumstances

of my arrival at House of Hope. When

I finish, she boosts herself up on

the table, facing me and putting

my eyes level with the full curves

of her breasts. She leans forward

until her eyes are even with mine.

God, that so sucks. I can't believe

your mom is that evil. And I'm

sorry your girlfriend left you like

that.
She kisses me again, and this

time there's no one watching,

no reason not to escalate into

the red zone, all the way to

breathless. “Holy crap. You're hot.”

She smiles.
Ditto. So, fine. Guess

it's my turn for confession. I didn't

know my dad, either. But my mom,

she was pretty cool. She worked hard

to take care of me, but then she got

sick. I was fifteen when she died,

and they sent me to foster. The first house

was okay, pretty nice, really, but they

decided they didn't want to take care

of teens so I got moved. I don't know

how people like Rick and Claudia

manage to pass background checks.

Is about what I expected. Seems

Rick had quite a thing for teenage

girls. When he got too friendly,

Brielle told him she was a lesbian.

One night he decided to “fix her

little problem,” and to help convince

her he brought a gun into her room,

forced it into her mouth and gave

her the choice. Suck the thirty-eight,

or suck him. Then he proceeded

to do his best to “turn her.” Acutely

aware that the pistol was nearby,

Brielle didn't fight, but she ran

away later that night and was on

the street for a couple of days

when a proactive cop picked her

up before one of Vegas's numerous

pimps could. Her caseworker

believed her tale, and she ended up

at House of Hope, better off than

many girls in similar situations.

Unlike me, she'll be here at least

a year, until she turns eighteen.

Which complicates things.

Rarely have I allowed

myself to tumble

for someone, but it

appears I've taken a

hard

stumble, and finding my feet

again is proving difficult.

It's not that I don't want