1
LENNON
Ican’t feel my feet. Not like they are asleep, pins-and-needles numb, but like they’re not even attached anymore. I think it happened around the ninth hour of my shift at Sonny’s Diner. Still, I keep moving, like a fucking machine, wiping down counters that are always dirty, sending the same dishes through the dishwasher again and again because there are no customers left to serve, and it’s all I can do to stay awake.
The air is thick with the smell of grease and burnt onions, seeping under my skin, in my hair, and up my nose. Some nights, I think I’ll never get it out, no matter how hard I scrub. Maybe it’s seared into my lungs and a part of me now. Maybe I’ll still be smelling fryer oil when I’m eighty and alone. But if it wasn’t for this job, Dad and I would be sleeping on the street, so I suck it up. Nobody ever died from a little stink, right?
Frankie, the cook, slurps coffee from a mug with a crack running down the side. “Are you done yet, Len?”
I toss my dirty rag at him. “Almost. Give me ten more minutes in this hellhole, and you’ll be sweeping me up with the fries.”
He grins, showing off the yellow teeth that aren’t missing yet. “It’s always dead after ten. Are you sure you’re good at getting home?”
What he really means is… do you need a ride? Do you want me to walk you? Like I’m twelve. I shake my head, yanking off my apron, feeling the muscles in my back pull tight, one knot after another. “Nah. I can walk. The fresh air will do me some good.”
That’s a lie, and we both know it. I have no extra money for a cab, and the bus stopped an hour ago. What other choice do I have? Frankie studies me for half a second, like he’s debating whether he wants to argue with me, but he knows better. “You’re too stubborn, Len. Get home safe.”
I clock out and wave goodbye. “Yeah, yeah. See you tomorrow.”
I’m out the door. The night is wet, dark, and cold.
I zip up my jacket, shove my hands deep in my pockets, and keep my head down. The city at night is unforgiving. Cars pass by, with their windows up and music thumping. The neon sign above the pawn shop buzzes and flickers, reflecting eerie green shadows on the sidewalk.
Somebody’s yelling across the street. I don’t look. I never look. Rule number one is never make eye contact; don’t make yourself a target. I know every crack in this stretch of sidewalk, every busted streetlight, and every broken window. My reflection follows me past every dirty storefront, haunting me with pale skin, tired eyes, and hair stuck to my forehead. I look like a ghost, or maybe something meaner.
When I finally reach the apartment building, I pause, taking in the cracked glass, the broken buzzer, and the peeling paint. Home sweet home. If you want to call it that.I shoulder the heavy door open and am immediately hit with the smell of old trash and cheap lemon disinfectant. My keys jangle as I take thestairs two at a time, avoiding the sticky spot on the third landing. Someone’s dog is barking behind 4B. I can hear the Miller twins fighting again. I catch “fucking laundry,” and then there’s a crash.
I reach the fourth floor and stop. The wreath of fake flowers I hung up back in the spring is still there, now covered in a thin layer of dust. I take a second, resting my forehead against the door, letting myself breathe and all the bullshit from the day melt away before I step into what’s waiting for me on the other side.
The lock sticks, as always, so I have to wiggle the key just right and, at the same time, shove my shoulder into it until it finally opens. I walk in, and the living room is lit up like a crime scene. Someone left the TV on, and it’s an infomercial with someone slicing tomatoes using a knife that’ll apparently “change your life.”Yeah, whatever.
I drop my bag by the door. “Dad? Are you home?”
Nothing.
All at once, ugly memories start flooding back. It’s never a good sign when he's home.Note to self: don’t show him my tips.It makes me sick, the way his eyes light up whenever he sees money. You can see the wheels turning in his head, plotting ways to double or even triple the amount. But he seems to forget one thing… he’s a natural-born loser.
Noise from his bedroom grabs my attention… cursing, shit breaking.
“Dad, I’m home.”
What the heck is he doing?
I take off my shoes, wincing as soon as my bare feet hit the cold linoleum, making my way to his partly open door. “Dad?” I tap against the wood before slowly easing the door open. “What’s going on? Why are you home?”
He doesn’t have to say a word; I can tell by the look on his face that something is very wrong. The way he’s wringing his hands, sweating profusely, and the wild, desperate look in his eyes.
“Lennon… I…” He drags his fingers through his graying hair. Something about that desperate gesture sparks dread inside me.
“What’s wrong? Are you sick? Do you need to lie down? Because at this moment, Dad, I really need to believe what’s going on right now is something as simple as that. That you’re only acting this way because you’re not feeling well.”
“You need to go. You’ve got to get out of here,” he says while shoving me out of his room and down the narrow hall.
When we enter my tiny bedroom, he flings open my closet door, wrapping his arms around a bunch of blouses and dresses, yanking them from their hangers and throwing them onto my bed. “I need you to get some things together, now. Pack, Lennon! Fast!”
“What? Why? I don’t understand. Are you kicking me out?”
“No, Len, I’m not kicking you out.” He looks down at his cheap watch. “Christ, I lost track of time. I didn’t know you’d be home this early. I’ve got to get you out of here.”
