I spent a lot of time sketching last night when the sounds of my roommate trying to navigate our little apartment were too much. Buck likes to complain about the walls being thin enough to hear a mouse fart in the next room, and he’s not wrong. A sketchpad falls off the bed when I sit up, and with it goes a couple of pencils and a piece of charcoal. There are still smudges on my fingers which ended up on my pillowcase and probably on my face, though I can’t see myself from where I’m sitting in the little bedroom. The room is as cheerful as I can make it with the little bit of money I have, but it’s home. And as difficult as Buck can be to deal with, he is still a mile and a half better than living with Mom.
The memory of sharing a home with her makes me shiver. It also makes me hurry through getting ready for class. I will do everything in my power to keep from being the same kind of person Mom turned out to be. Hopping from man to man, looking for something she either can’t or won’t bother giving to herself.
If I have to suffer through going to school with people who hate me and aren’t afraid to show it, I’m going to get something out of it. I’m breaking the cycle, which means finding a way to pay attention in class and pull good grades. Making it there on time is sort of the first step.
Sure enough, gazing in the bathroom mirror, there are smudges on my face which I wash off after tying my hair back. It can sort of be a pain sometimes, like if Iaccidentally roll over the wrong way in bed and yank my head back when I try to get up, but otherwise, I can’t imagine cutting it short. It’s part of who I am, I guess.
The rest of the apartment is still silent by the time I dart across the narrow hall from the bathroom back to my bedroom. It’s silent in here, anyway. I can’t say the same for the rest of the apartments around us. Somebody’s listening to a game show next-door—the TV is up so loud, I could play along with the contestants if I had the time to do it. There’s a baby crying somewhere downstairs. That’s another reason why I like to be quiet when I can. I don’t want to keep the baby awake. What a shame Buck is incapable of being quiet.
Buck, who is now asleep in the living room, sprawled out on the faded sofa. He took his shoes off, at least, and one foot is propped up on the arm so I can see a hole in the toe of his sock. That’s nowhere near his biggest problem, but it’s sort of a symbol of who he is. How he is. Clearly, he decided to continue drinking after he got home. A quick scan of the room shows me four empty beer cans on the coffee table and another two on the floor.
Make that three. My foot finds the last one and crunches it, and I freeze, wincing. The last thing I wanted was to wake him up. He’s not a bad-tempered person in general, but nobody’s in a good mood when they’re hung over.
And I did wake him. He snorts loudly, stirring himself until he’s sitting up partway and blinking hard like he’s trying to bring the dim living room into focus. “What? What happened?” he mumbles thickly.
“Nothing.” I hold up my hands. “I didn’t mean to wake you up. I’m sorry.”
He snorts again, his eyes only half open as they find me in the shadowy room. With the curtains pulled, it’s no wonder I ended up stepping on a can.
“Oh. Don’t worry, darlin’.” Instead of dragging himself to bed, he collapses onto the couch again.
Most people would see his rough exterior—the mullet, the trucker cap he wears, and assume he’s a certain type of person. Somebody to avoid, somebody who could be in trouble. As far as I’ve seen, the only person Buck is a danger to is himself. He doesn’t make the best decisions, but he’s also a sweet guy. Right away, as soon as we met, I read him as the funny, decent person he is. I know when I get home today, he’ll have cleaned up after himself, and he might even leave me a portion of whatever he makes himself to eat.
Not that I haven’t known my fair share of creeps and assholes. They were part of my early education, for sure, a part I remember with disgust as I jog down four flights of stairs rather than risk my life in the death trap of an elevator. I would rather smell mouse piss for a minute than step foot in that thing.
Just like I would rather live in a tiny apartment I can’t afford on my own than spend another minute living with my mother. Years of dealing with the revolving door of boyfriends and acquaintances and one-night stands wasn’t even the worst thing she put me through, though it was pretty damn close. Buck is nothing like those men, especially the one who…
No. I’m not thinking about that now. Instead, I need to think about whether my rusty old Beetle will start this morning. I’ve had a string of good days withher… which, of course, means a bad day has to be around the corner. That’s just the way my life goes.
Today is not a bad day—at least, not yet. “Thank you, baby,” I whisper while the engine purrs. Okay, it’s more like a rasping cough most of the time, but she gets me where I need to go.
All I can do is pray I don’t have class with Briggs today. I can deal with the other assholes, since they’ve never invaded my personal space the way he did yesterday. I knew deep down inside he wouldn’t actually hurt me, at least not out in the open with people walking around and everything. I don’t have any friends around campus, but I doubt there are many people who would stand around and watch without at least saying something if Briggs tried to hurt me.
Or maybe that’s just what I need to tell myself, or else I’ll never get up the courage to step foot on campus again.
The worst I get in sociology class is a handful of narrow-eyed looks once I settle in at the far corner of the back row. Once class starts, and there’s no sign of my tormentor, I can breathe a little easier and actually pay attention to what the professor is saying.
I have psych this afternoon, with a ninety-minute break between classes. Since I skipped breakfast, it only makes sense to stop at the cafeteria for lunch, as much as I hate the idea of being a sitting duck for any assholes who decide I’m not allowed to eat a meal in peace.
As soon as I enter the large, busy space through a pair of glass doors, I regret my decision. Maybe it would be a better idea to bring something with me from now on and find someplace quiet and secluded. Maybe the library. Seeing all these people and hearing their voices means so many more chances of being taunted. There’s only so much I can ignore.
“I’m surprised she can afford the food,” a girl announces as I walk past, grabbing a tray on my way to the salad bar. Okay, that’s not even close to the worst thing I’ve ever heard.
“She probably sucked somebody off for it.” More laughter, and this time it stings. Just because my mom is who she is, that automatically makes me a slut in their eyes. Because none of them has the intelligence to think we might be two different people—which we are. I don’t think there’s ever been two people more different than me and the woman who raised me. I guess that’s where the differences come from. I saw her and decided I wanted to be anything but.
After making a salad and grabbing a cookie to go with it, I head over to the cashier to pay. I must be too deep in thought to pay attention because the deep, nasty voice over my shoulder comes as a surprise. I’ve only just set my tray down on an empty table when I hear, “Shit. I think I lost my appetite. You mean they let her around the food?”
Briggs.Shit. My insides quake and everything around me goes brighter. Sharper. It must be the adrenaline flooding my system. Fight or flight. I know better than to fight, since I’ll never win. There’s nowhere to run. Nobody will protect me.
I’ve barely processed what I heard when something hits the backpack over myshoulder and knocks it onto the floor. The already weak zipper bursts open and everything that used to be inside comes spilling out onto the floor.
“Can’t even afford a decent backpack.” One of Briggs’ stupid friends wheezes with laughter, like he just told the funniest joke ever. “Probably holds everything she owns, too.”
I can barely hear them over the laughter all around us. Because evidently, nobody here has anything better to do than laugh at somebody else’s misery. It’s not only books that went flying. My wallet, Chapstick, keys, scrunchies, sketch pads. All I can do is scramble around, hoping to grab the important things before somebody else does. I don’t know if I could handle fishing my keys out of a toilet.
At least Briggs and the rest of them walk away while I shove my things into the bag. My face is burning and my eyes sting with tears I can’t shed. They’re already laughing hard enough. I don’t think I could stand listening to them laughing at my tears, too.
“Fucking assholes.”
