Very Wicked Things (2 page)

Beautiful.

But dancing wasn’t for me though because we didn’t have money. The sign on the studio door said lessons were fifty dollars a month, and I’d tried to save up all the change I could find, but I always ended up spending it on the vending machines downstairs when I got hungry.

More than hunger though, the loneliness ate at me, and on dark days when it threatened to swallow me up, I’d sneak into her vacant studio and play her music softly so no one would hear. I’d dance around and pretend I was a ballerina.

Someday
, I’d take lessons.

Someday
,
I’d get out of Ratcliffe.

The music stopped, reminding me I should check on Mama. See if she’d made it back from her night out. When I’d gone to bed at midnight, she still hadn’t been home, making it almost two days since I’d seen her. Although this wasn’t the longest she’d left me alone. Being stuck in this apartment with me drove her crazy, I know. She’d get all jittery and pace the living room with hard eyes, like she wanted to punch something. I avoided her on those days, hiding in the studio until I heard her feet thud down the wooden stairs and leave. Sometimes when she returned, she’d have a roll of cash. It gave me shivers to think of how she got it, so I never asked. But I knew what her occupation was. She crawled into strange cars with men she didn’t know; she did things for them.

“I’m alone,” I announced to the dingy apartment, after checking all the rooms and not finding her. I sat down at the kitchen table, wrapped up in my quilt, bouncing my legs to stay warm. I told myself she’d probably be home soon enough, and if she had money maybe we’d go down to Lulu’s Diner and get a hamburger. Lulu’s boasted they had the biggest burger in Dallas, and I thought about that burger a lot, about how juicy it would be, how the tomato would be fresh and the pickle tart. My mouth watered.

I prayed mama came home soon because if she didn’t, then my father would show up. He always did when she’d been gone for too long. He rarely saw me otherwise. A handsome man with black hair and blue eyes, something about him made me edgy. He smiled easily enough, probably because he’d had dental work done—
veneers
Mama called them. But, no matter how wide he smiled, his face remained hard, like granite. Nightmares about him were common, where he hid under my bed, lying on the hard floor underneath. He’d wait for me to fall asleep and then he’d jump out, wrap his hands around my neck and drag me under.

He’d do to me what he did to Mama.

Mama hated most things, but she loved to fight with him. Or perhaps she just liked his attention, no matter what form it came in.
He doesn’t love us
were her words when I asked why he didn’t live with us. When he did come to the apartment, they’d go in the bedroom and not come out for a long time. I’d watch television while her bed banged the wall to a rhythm I hated. Later they’d come out, gentler versions of themselves. But it never lasted. Mama would pull out the vodka and start drinking, and he’d slap her around. He’d curse and rail, calling her a lazy, no-good
chuchka derganaya
who deserved nothing. Never one to be defenseless, she’d scream and fight back, her fists beating at his barrel chest in vain. Most times, a black eye decorated her face after one of his visits, but he wouldn’t leave unmarked. Angry claw marks were his usual battle scars although once she’d hit him with a kitchen chair and broken one of his ribs.

I’d hide in the closet and listen to the sounds of fists meeting skin. It doesn’t make a lot of noise like you’d think it would. He’d hit and she’d grunt; she’d hit and he’d laugh. Through the slats of the door, I’d watch them hurt each other over and over. Sometimes it turned into sex, and I’d want to scream because it was sick. I should have covered my eyes, but I couldn’t, just as I never turned off the horror movies I watched late at night.

I called myself a coward for not helping her.

Why couldn’t I be more like Joan of Arc?

I’m no good for anything.

One particularly bad day last year—because mama had been gone for three days straight—my father had walked in the apartment with his key, his hands full of market bags. His keen eyes had watched me as I stared at the sack, the possibility of nourishment keeping me in the room with him, fear not allowing me to get too close. He’d never hurt me with his meaty hands like he did mama, but there’s always a first time. I had visions of him whipping off his jacket and cracking his knuckles before he went to work on my face.

On this day, he’d scooted my chess set to the side of the kitchen table, put down the bags and straightened to face me. He talked to Sarah sometimes, so maybe she’d told him mama was gone. Maybe he knew where mama was. I don’t know. Yet, he always knew when I was at a breaking point although I’m not sure why he cared. Perhaps it was guilt because I was a mistake, an
unplanned pregnancy
like they taught us in fifth grade health class.

We’d faced-off like gunslingers that day, our identical blue eyes never wavering from the other. He’d studied me like I was an odd insect, and I returned the favor, my heart flying in my chest. We stood there nearly five minutes, assessing each other. I know because the clock hung on the wall right behind him. He ran his eyes over my faded jeans and T-shirt. I shot daggers at his finely-creased pants and silk shirt.

Worlds apart yet connected by blood.

Stuck in our frozen tableau, I recognized we were a lot alike and not just in looks. Both of us were survivors. He’d crawled out of the mud and made something of himself. I was hanging on by the skin of my teeth, but
someday
I would leave this awful place.

But what if I didn’t?

“She’s not here,” I’d said, trying to make my voice big.

He pushed one of the sacks toward me.

I shook my head and backed away.

“Don’t be stupid like your
matshuka
. Eat,” he demanded, his ringed fingers pointing at the table with emphasis. A man used to having his orders followed immediately.

My body roared with need, but I shook my head again, this time harder, the oily strands slapping me in the face.

Like a junkyard dog, I trusted no one.

He chuckled, making me shiver. “Ah, a girl with backbone. I like it,” he said in his lilting accent.

Just leave
.
Let me eat.

Finally, he turned to go but spun back around, making me jump. His eyebrow lifted. “You can come with me if you want?”

Chills raced down my spine. He’d never once offered to take me with him. Not one time. I swallowed, sensing danger.

“No,” I said. “She’ll come back.” My hands clenched. “I can take care of myself anyway.” Hadn’t I been doing so?

He leveled his eyes at me, and they gleamed.
Was it with pride? Or anticipation?
Whatever.

“Your mama? She’s a junkie and a drunk. She will die in the gutter.” His body shifted closer to me, and I eyed the kitchen utensil drawer, calculating how fast I could get there and wrench it open. My hands twitched, and I prepared myself to run for it. We had exactly three knives, two were crappy, but the steak knife…

But then he laughed, even though he’d said nothing funny. I forced myself to meet his eyes him, trying to hide my fear. I sensed he liked it when I was scared.

He’d strolled unhurriedly to the door, paused and called back softly, “I won’t forget you,
dotchka
.” His words had sounded like a promise.

But, I had never been his
daughter.

And that incident had been months ago.

I wondered if he’d bring me food again. This time, I think, I was hungry enough to eat whatever he brought, right in front of him.

The soft music from the studio below started back up, snapping me back to the present.

I shook off those memories of my father and opened every drawer, cabinet, and hidey-hole, looking for something to eat or some change for the vending machines. I’d made the same search the day before with no luck, but I couldn’t just do
nothing
.

Survival drove me.

Having no luck in the kitchen, I went to mama’s bedroom again.

Jackpot.
Behind a bag of pills, I discovered a roll of quarters, tucked into the very back of her make-up drawer. She might get mad and yell at me if I took it, but my hunger didn’t worry about the consequences.

Truthfully, these past few months, I’d become desperate, shoplifting more and hanging out at the park with the older kids. Perhaps I’ve given up. Because even at my young age, I recognized the truth: my
somedays
were killing me one dream at a time. I was never getting out of Ratcliffe. I was never going to dance.

I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror on the way out the door, doing a double take at how my jeans sagged. Just needed a belt, that’s all. I peered in closer, seeing my skinny face, touching the dark circles under my eyes. “You need a make-over,” I said aloud, thinking of the mindless shows I watched on television.

And so what if I wasn’t beautiful like mama? My movements were graceful, and my eyes were a pretty blue with hints of green around the iris. The hue wasn’t a pale color like the sky but deeper and more mysterious. Like indigo.

I twisted my hair up on top of my head. Heather-Lynn, one of the renters, called my hair color
mink-brown
which sounded pretty. Maybe later I’d find some pins and play with fixing it up into a bun like a ballerina. Maybe she’d be home and show me how. Maybe she’d offer to make me some of her tomato soup. It came from a can, but it was good, especially with a grilled cheese sandwich. My belly growled again.

With the roll of quarters in my hand, I walked out the door. If I thought our apartment was cold, the hallway outside was freezing. Someone had cracked a window at the end of the hall, probably to smoke. I tip-toed down the hallway and stopped in front of Heather-Lynn’s apartment and pressed my ear to her door. Eavesdropping, I’d decided, was a beneficial skill and surprisingly easy. Lately Heather-Lynn and her live-in boyfriend were fighting. Mostly about money—he didn’t have any—and men—Heather-Lynn flirted too much. I suspected he’d be moving out soon. Couldn’t say I’d miss him, but I loved Heather-Lynn.

But today, all I heard was silence.

All was clear, so I took off at a dead run and then leaped high in the air like a gazelle, spreading my legs apart mid-leap, landing with a triumphant grin. Yep, it may not have been a true
grand jeté
—one of my favorite ballet jumps—but in my head, it was spot-on.

Once on the first floor, I eased around the corner, my eyes automatically landing on the glass wall where I could see into the studio. Sarah stood at the barre, leading the dancers into their final cool down before they left to go home.

I got some cookies and chips from the vending machine and sat on one of the old wooden chairs that faced the dancers. Front row seats, baby. I devoured the chips in less than a minute, dragging a sleeve across my face to wipe the crumbs. Breakfast.

What school did those pretty girls go to?

Did their mamas leave them alone for days at a time?

Feeling guilty for my disloyal thoughts, I opened the Oreos, took out two and crammed them in, chewing nosily. At least I had a mama because some kids didn’t. I should be grateful for what I had.

Sarah caught my eyes and waved, her face bright like the radiance of a thousand suns. She reminded me of an Emily Dickinson poem, the one about how hope is like a bird and perches in your soul. We’d read it in class—before I quit—and I’d immediately thought of her, mostly because the bird is joyful and never stops singing, even through the coldest land.

I wanted to be that bird that never gives up, that endures; I wanted to be like Sarah.

But at this rate, I wouldn’t make it.

Because my future loomed, where, like my mama, I’d be alone and bitter and angry.

Perhaps I’d end up with a man like my father.

Perhaps I’d sell my body for money.

Perhaps I’d end up in a gutter or a dumpster or an alley.

Yet…

I looked back at Sarah. Why couldn’t I dance?
What was stopping me?

Forgetting my hunger, I dropped my cookies to the floor and stood.

It’s corny, but I believe only a few moments in your life possess special magic, and I believe each person is given only a handful. Not sure I’d seen any yet. Until now.

And as the life I yearned for literally danced in front of my eyes, the dreams I’d let go came roaring back to the surface. I suddenly knew
that if I didn’t plunge headfirst into this
moment
, this opportunity, I’d regret it forever.

In that cold hallway, my lost hope came back.

It was time to make my own
someday.

I wanted to fly and now was my chance.

The hinges on the wooden door squeaked when I opened it and walked in the studio. The little girls stopped their exercises and openly gaped at me. I hadn’t even brushed my teeth or my hair in days, but it didn’t matter. I made my way to her, a fire burning in my chest.

“I want to dance,” I said fiercely, stopping in front of Sarah, close enough to see the fine lines that feathered out from her eyes. “I’m tall and skinny. I can do fifty push-ups. I can outrun a grown man. Even my gym teacher says I’m flexible, just like a rubber band.” I stretched my ams up high, leaned over backwards and did a backbend kick over. Hey, it wasn’t ballet, but it was a pretty cool move.

My shirt had ridden up, so I tugged it down. “Can’t pay you, but I can take out the trash. Maybe do your laundry in the basement? It’s creepy down there, but I’m brave.” I held my breath for a moment. ”Wanna teach me?”

Sarah let out a tiny puff of air, as if I’d surprised her. She opened her mouth to speak, but paused as if she was thinking and reevaluating. This was the most I’d ever said to her at one time.

“Please,” my voice thickened. “I’ll give it everything. You’ll never have a better student than me. And I already know ballet.” I didn’t mention that I frequently picked the lock to her studio and made full use of the facilities. I didn’t mention that I’d stolen numerous ballet DVDs from the library. Juvie was probably in my future.