To the last time she felt like home.
As I sit up slowly, the worn spring mattress creaks beneath me. When my feet hit the floor, the cold zips up my leg and goosebumps erupt in their wake. My shoulder throbs, and my shirt is stuck to my back. I can’t help but wince as I slowly peel the shirt away from the cuts.
The air smells stale and sour with mildew. Early morning light leaksthrough the duct tape and grime that cover the window, casting the room in that ugly yellow light. The walls are yellow too, but not the nice kind like sunshine or buttercream. It’s the kind of yellow that looks like it used to be white, before water and nicotine stains ate through it.
I stand slowly, my body aching. Some of it old, some of it new, some pains will never go away. Most of which I don’t want to think about. I lift my shirt and look in the cracked mirror that sits against the wall. The bruise on my ribs is turning green around the edges. There’s a darker purple one across my stomach, with faint finger marks along my arm.
What little clothes I have are stored on broken hangers in the closet, if you can even call it that. Different hoodies and shirts from the lost and found, a couple were stolen. Two pairs of jeans, and a pair of forgotten sweatpants I swiped from a bench in the locker room. One pair of jeans fits for the most part, but I can’t button up since the button is gone, and the other I’ve been wearing for two weeks straight. Nothing matches. None of it is really mine.
I grab a t-shirt and a black hoodie, sniffing it before pulling it on. I pull on the same jeans because I don’t really have much of a choice.
“Celia!” his voice booms throughout the small house. “What the fuck is this?”
I can’t hear Mama’s reply, but a few seconds later, a door slams.
“Did you just slam my fucking door?” Heavy footsteps pound down the hall like drumbeats in my ears, warning me of the inevitable danger.
I grab my backpack and slip out of the window before the footsteps get too close.
The walk to school takes twenty minutes. I cut through the gas station and through an alley full of broken glass from a busted window.
By the time I make it to school, I'm still thirty minutes early. I make my way to the girls’ bathroom on the far side where no one goes. The last sink, farthest from the door, doesn't squeal the entire time the water is on. I rinse my face with ice-cold water. Brush my teeth with a dollar-store toothbrush, bristles fried from use, and a travel toothpaste that is just about out.
The door creaks open, and I don't have to turn to look.
“You look like hell.”
I glance up to meet her eyes in the mirror. “Good morning to you too, Maeve.”
Maeve hops up on the counter beside me. She's wearing different colored socks, a hoodie that she is swimming in, and her blonde curls have been shoved underneath a beanie that has a faded middle finger patch on it. Her eyeliner is smudged like she went to sleep with it on. Probably did. She digs through her bag and holds out a roll of mints.
“Picked these up for you, just in case you get tired of that off-brand cinnamon flavor.”
I pocket them with a silent nod of thanks.
“Your eye is a little puffy,” she says with a shrug. “Just say the word, I’ll key his car.”
Rummaging through my busted backpack, I dig out the dollar-store concealer I managed to steal and begin patting the concealer gently over the bruising on my jaw.
“I’m fine.”
Maeve rolls her eyes like always.
I fish out the plastic comb, missing a couple of teeth, out of my bag and start trying to detangle the birds’ nest on my head. The light flickers overhead like fluorescent hell, but still better than home. I quickly give up trying to tame my ash brown hair and pull it back into a messy bun.
“Did you do the history assignment?” she asks, digging through her hoodie pocket for a stick of gum, ripping it in half, and handing me one side.
I pop it in my mouth. “Didn’t get the chance.”
She pulls hers out and hands it to me. I copy it as quickly as possible. Half of me expects a teacher to come in and bust me, but the other half knows no one will. They never do.
Maeve and I have been friends for years. Most kids didn’t want to hang out with the kid who wore the same dirty clothes for weeks at a time. Maeve offered me her juice box one day at lunch, and we’ve been like sisters ever since.
Maeve fidgets with the string on her hoodie and chews her gum as Icopy the homework. This is what friendship looks like when you're surviving. A half-used assignment. A mint. A place to brush your teeth without being touched.
“You know you can always stay at mine, right? My mom already said it’s fine. I have blankets and pillows to make a cot for you in my room, or you can sleep on the couch.”
Maeve says this at least once a week without fail. I love her and her mom for being there for me, but I never take them up on it.
