Um, I’m probably the worst coffee maker in history. I’ve never tried! I didn’t even think to learn, but obviously I should’ve. I …
Don’t stress, Caden. It doesn’t matter that much. I got your “mom” to act like a concerned parent who wants to give you a reason to get out of the house after school. The manager there’s a good guy, so he’s given you a few trial shifts. Most important, Juliet goes there every single day after school, so you’ll get a lot of extra time with her. Also, it’ll make you seem responsible, which is a big thing for Nices. Your first shift is tonight. But aside from that, what do you think of the rest of the clothes? I tried to pick things I thought you’d like.
I run my hands through the clothes. Not one item is sky blue. I’m not sure how she knows me well enough to guess what kind of clothes I like to wear, or why she thinks I’m plaid’s biggest fan, but I’m grateful Kaylee took the time to say something nice. If she likes me, maybe she’ll put more effort into keeping me alive.
They’re great. Thanks so much.
No worries. Now get dressed like a big boy; I’m sure you can figure out the school uniform. I’m out!
I pull a short-sleeved dress shirt from its hanger, and then grab a white undershirt and a pair of long gray slacks. I take a pair of undies, gray Calvin Kleins with a white waistband, from the pile and make my way out into the hall.
In the hallway, Dad scratches his bloated, hairy stomach. Gross.
“Know your place,” he says. “And we won’t have a problem.”
He pushes past me, bringing with him the sharp stale scent of body odor. He walks into the bathroom and kicks the door closed behind him. A certifiable army of insults to hurl at him swarms my mind, but I force them down. He’s big and probably violent, but I’m strong, I know I am. I can handle him. Not that it would ever get to that point, because I can’t ever challenge him.
A Nice would silently go back to his room and wait. So that’s what I do.
Once I’m in my room, I place the bundled-up pile of clothes on the end of the bed and turn on the computer. It’s a laptop, sleek and gray and awesome. It boots up. I open Google and stare at the search box. It looks like I could search for anything, but I know my searches will be monitored. I have to make sure I never search for anything that could get me in trouble.
I open the desk drawer and find that it’s filled with gadgets. I pick up a phone, a Samsung, and tuck it into my pocket. Underneath a bundle of cords is an iPod in a blue case. It must be there so I can listen to the music that Juliet likes, but I’ll probably be able to load some of my own music—including, of course, Nicki Minaj’s entire discography—onto it. It’s been a while since I’ve had a headphones-in listening session in my room, so I should have one soon. Plus, like always, applying her words to my life will let me steal a little bit of her behemoth self-confidence, and confidence is what I need if I’m going to win this thing.
The toilet flushes and the bathroom door swings open. Dad walks out, still scratching his gut. It’s covered in little white flakes of God knows what. I scoop my clothes up and walk in after him.
The stench hits, so thick I can taste it. My eyes water and I cough and gag.
Harsh male laughter sounds down the hall. There’s a pause, and a woman’s follows suit, a high-pitched cackle.
I slam the door closed. Worried the stench will infect my clothes, I reopen the door and throw them into my room. Then I undress and step into the shower. A limp stream of lukewarm water trickles over my body. I squirt a splash of body wash onto my hand and rub it into my chest, creating a foamy white lather. Lifting my arms, I rub it into my armpits. I squint, marveling at the hairlessness of my underarms. Apparently, a Nice is not allowed any body hair at all.
The smell of the neon-blue gel, slightly like fruit punch but mainly like chemicals, fills my nostrils, covering the stench of shit. I tilt my head back and let the water run through my hair and down over my face. It feels pleasant, warm, and slightly refreshing.
As the foam runs down my body the smell comes back with a force. I grin. This is his attempt at intimidating me? It’s almost funny. I stifle a giggle as I turn off the taps, shutting the water off. I rub the towel through my hair so it spikes down over my forehead, then drag the towel across my chest, mopping up as much water as I can. Then I wrap it around my waist and step out of the bathroom.
In the hallway is Dad, dressed in my uniform. It’s obviously too small for him, as the shirt is strained to capacity. One of the buttons, the one beside his belly button, has burst, and the fly of the gray slacks is unzipped. He’s standing there pouting, with his wrists as limp as possible and his butt sticking out. Oh wow, Kaylee really wasn’t kidding about the slim-pickings thing.
“Look at me,” he says, his voice high-pitched. “I’m Caden. Aren’t I a pretty boy? Look at me waddle!” He shakes his bum and flails his limp wrists around. “I work out all the time, and I …”
I grip the towel around my waist. I have to ignore him. He wants me to break character, to reveal my real self, and that’s not something I can ever do. If I let my anger show, he wins, so I keep my eyes down and enter my room. I close the door and discover, thankfully, that it has a lock. I slide the latch across then drop the towel. My face is burning so hot the feeling has flowed down my neck to my chest, which feels like it’s on fire.
I run a hand through my dripping hair and take in a deep breath through my nostrils. I’m pacing in a small circle on the carpet. I did the right thing. It feels awful to let him get away with it, but it was the right call. I have to recognize that, because it’s the only way to deal with stuff like this.
My heartbeat slows to its normal tempo. I finish drying myself, then grab a pair of briefs, bright red this time, and step into them. Once I’m dressed I glance at my phone to check the time. Crap, I should’ve been out the door two minutes ago! I pull on a pair of socks, then black dress shoes. There. Done.
I take a step toward the door, then double back and grab my script from the desk. I’ll have to read it on the bus.
My fake dad’s in the kitchen now, still in my uniform, sipping from a bottle of beer. He takes a sip and eyes me. “I wear it so much better, don’t you think, Patty?”
“Shut up!” she screeches back, and she grabs the remote and points it at the TV. The green volume bar slides up. “Can’t you see I’m busy?”
“Well, I’m off,” I say with a cheery wave. I’m acting Nice because I have to, but a childish part of me wants to spite this guy. What should I call him? I was hoping to call them Mom and Dad, to get some sense of normality, but that’s obviously not in the cards now. Maybe I could call him D? That’s perfect because it does technically stand for Dad, but it also has a second meaning, one only I’ll know. “See you later, D.”