From their lips to God’s ears, but sometimes God chooses not to listen. “Don’t get your hopes up. The scout today could be a one-time deal. Next week they could find somebody else to love.” I should know. That happened at the pro tryouts this past spring.
“Bullshit,” says Chris. “Destiny is knocking, HC TITLE-AUTHOR
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Ry, and you need to get your ass up to
answer.”
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Beth
I FELL ASLEEP. Either that or my dear old uncle Scott drugged me. I’m going with fell asleep.
Scott may be a dick, but he’s a dare-to-keep-kids-off-drugs kind of dick. I should know. He once brought red ribbons and a police mascot to my preschool.
I love irony.
Moonlight streams through white lace
curtains hanging from an artsy brown metal rod. I sit up and a pink crochet blanket falls away. The bedding beneath me is still perfectly made and I’m wearing the same outfit I wore on Friday night. Someone has neatly laid my shoes on the wooden floor next to the bed.
Even sober, I wouldn’t have done that. I don’t do neat.
I lean over and turn on a lamp. The crystals decorating the bottom edge of the shade clink HC TITLE-AUTHOR
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together. The dull light draws my focus to the painfully cheery purple paint on the wall.
Closing my eyes, I count the days. Let’s see.
Friday night I went out with Noah and Isaiah and put Taco Bell Boy in his place. Early Saturday, Mom tried to become a felon.
Saturday morning, Scott ruined my life.
I pretended to fall asleep in the car so I wouldn’t have to talk to Scott, but I sucked and actually fell asleep. Scott woke me, I think, and half carried me into the house. Crap. Why don’t I put a sign on my head and announce I’m a loser girl who needs help.
I open my eyes and stare at the ticking clock on the bedside table. Twelve fifteen. Sunday.
This is early Sunday morning.
My stomach growls. I’ve gone a full day
without eating. Wouldn’t be the first time.
Won’t be the last. I slip out of bed and slide my Chuck Taylor wannabes onto my feet. Time to have a coming-to-Jesus moment with Uncle Scott. That is, if he’s awake. It may be better if he went to bed. That way I can slip out without the fight.
Maybe I’ll score some food before I call Isaiah. With a room like this, I bet he buys HC TITLE-AUTHOR
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brand-name cereal.
The house has that newly built, fresh
sawdust smell. Outside the bedroom is a foyer instead of a hallway. A large staircase, the type I thought existed only in movies, winds to the second floor. An actual chandelier hangs from the ceiling. Guess baseball pays well.
“No…” A woman’s voice carries from the
back of the house. I can tell she’s still talking, but she’s lowered her tone. Did he marry or does he keep a fuck on hand like he did when I was a kid? Gotta be a fuck. I overheard Scott tell Dad once that he’d never marry.
I follow the low voices to the brink of a large open room and pause. The entire back of the house—excuse me, mansion—is one enormous wall of windows. The living room flows right into the eat-in kitchen.
“Scott.” Exasperation eats at the woman’s tone. “This is not what I signed up for.”
“Last month you were on board with this,”
says Scott. Part of me feels vindicated. He’s lost that annoyingly smooth calm from yesterday.
“Yes, when you told me you wanted to
reconnect with your niece. There is a
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difference between reconnecting and
invading our life.”
“You were fine with it when I called last month from Louisville and said I wanted her to live with us.”
The woman snaps, “That was after you said she ran away. I didn’t actually think you would find her. When you described the hellhole she lived in, I figured she was long gone. She’s a criminal. You expect me to feel safe with her in my home?”
Her words slice me open. I’m not that bad.
No, I’m not kittens and bunnies, but I’m not that bad. I glance down at my outfit. Jeans.
Tank top. My black hair falls in front of my face. It doesn’t matter. She made her decision before she met me. I bury the hurt, step into the room, and welcome the anger. Screw her. “You might want to listen to her. I’m a fucking menace.”
The shocked expression on their faces is almost worth being here. Almost. I press my lips together to keep from laughing at Scott. He wears a pair of chinos and a short-sleeved button-down shirt. It’s a far cry from the outfits he used to wear when I was a kid: gangsta HC TITLE-AUTHOR
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jeans that showed his underwear.
The woman is nothing like the girls Scott dated when he was eighteen. Her hair is a natural blond instead of bleached. She’s thin, but not alcohol-diet thin, and she looks kind of smart. Smart as in she probably finished high school.
She sits at a massive island in the center of the kitchen. Scott leans on the counter across from her. He glances at her, then talks to me.
“It’s late, Elisabeth. Why don’t you go back to bed and we’ll talk in the morning.”
My stomach cramps, and a light wave of
dizziness fogs my brain. “Do you have food?”