He reaches out and the back of his knuckles sweep down my cheek. My foot comes up automatically and I kick him hard in the chest, sending him reeling backwards. He must be drunker than I figured, because he crashes against the trunk, spilling over a vase with dead flowers left over from Jill’s funeral last month.
The baby starts screaming in the other room and I see the rage in Jason’s eyes. “You fucking bitch!” he snarls, trying to get up.
But I’m out of there. I bolt for the door and pull it open, but he’s behind me, slamming it shut again. His drunken slowness has no dampening effect on his rage. He spins me around and punches me in the cheek, good enough to see stars.
My rage is out of control. “I hit back, motherfucker.” I grab his shoulders and bring my knee right into his balls.
He steps back just enough to let me turn and open the door again. I push on the screen and step outside, thankful that I had the good sense to never take my backpack off.
There’s a woman across the grassy area shoving a key into her door. She turns and I close my eyes and grit my teeth.
Jason appears behind me, but he must see the same thing I do, because he says nothing, just slams the door closed behind me.
“Shannon?”
How is it that I’ve lived here for one month and everybody seems to know my name?
I ignore her. She’s a cop who just moved in two weeks ago. But she parks her squad car on the street, not back in the alley. So I see her getting in and out of it all the time when she comes home during a shift.
“Shannon?” she repeats.
I make for the little path that leads to the alley next to the laundry room, but she catches me by the leather jacket and I spin around and shrug her off. “Don’t touch me.” I growl it.
She lets go. “Is everything OK?”
“Does everything fucking look OK?” I snarl it this time. But I don’t wait for an answer because my face is stinging from the hit I took and I’m pretty sure it’s red and getting ready to bruise. I take off down the alley, walking as fast as I can without running.
Eighteen had better improve fast. Because if this is what it’s gonna be like for the rest of my life, then what is the point?
Chapter Six
I don’t have many options. I could go to the arcade across the street from the high school. That’s only two blocks away and the guy who runs it, Mark, another friend of Jason’s, is cool. He always gets me high when I go there and it’s slow.
Why are all Jason’s friends so nice and he’s such a raging asshole?
But all the kids from school hang out at the arcade in the evenings and I don’t want to see anyone right now. So I go to Phil’s. It’s a dumb move because if Jason wants to go looking for me that will be the first stop.
But again, limited options.
So I trudge up the alley, my Chucks soaking wet as I splash through the leftover puddles, and cross West Street. Phil’s car isn’t in the driveway, so I know he’s not home. But I knock on the door anyway. Desperate times and all.
The locks disengage and I have half a second of excitement about being wrong, but then I look up into the face of Taking Back Sunday.
Jesus Christ. No breaks, huh?
“Hey,” he says. “Cage the Elephant. Nice jacket. Didn’t have that on this morning.” I hear lots of rowdy voices inside as I wonder if he saw who was wearing this jacket this morning.
“Is Phil here?”
Sunday shakes his head. “Mexico for a few days. I’m watching the dog.”
“Oh,” I say, surprised. “I’ve never seen you here before.”
“Ditto. He’s my cousin. Want to come in? We’re passing a joint.”
I sigh, look over my shoulder at the street, and then shrug. He moves aside and opens the door, and I slip past him, my jacket brushing against his arm.
Everyone stops talking for a moment as I log their faces. I recognize most of them. A group of kids from school who also hang out at the arcade. I realize now that I’ve seen Sunday before. But these are not my people, not that I even have people here, and I’ve never really talked to them.
“Shannon,” a tall girl standing in the kitchen says. She’s got short jet-black hair and her eyes are thick with black eyeliner. “Miss Bad Day, huh?”
I squint my eyes at her. “What?”
“Danny,” she says, nodding to Sunday, who is now standing next to me. “He told us about your epic tantrum in the office this morning. Way to go, bitch. I hear the fucks were flying and everyone was too afraid to stop you.”
“Who—”
“That’s Rocky,” Sunday says. “And that’s Greg, and Tim, and Matt.” Sunday points to the three guys passing the joint in the small living room.
“Wanna hit?” Greg asks. He’s got light, curly brown hair that ends at the top of his shoulders and a kind face.
I shake my head and look around, feeling more helpless than I have in a very long time. “Can I use your bathroom?” I ask Sunday.
“You know where—”