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Awkwardly, I pat her back with one hand, while the other hangs limply at my side. After a moment, I carefully extract myself from her arms and take a large step backward.
Glancing around I try to look at anything but the weeping girl in front of me. “You’re already packed?” I ask when I spot the pile of suitcases and boxes by the front door.
“Yeah,” she says, clearing her throat and wiping at her eyes. “My flight is in two hours.”
“Okay. Well safe travels, I guess. I hope everything works out for you at Brown.”
“Thanks.” Lurching forward she grabs my hand and squeezes. “Good luck, Ali,” she says earnestly, then releasing me she darts toward the front door as a fresh bout of tears falls down her cheeks.
Sighing, I stare at her back as she opens the door and lets two uniformed movers in. Instead of watching them collect her stuff, I turn and head back to my bedroom. Flopping down onto my bed, I grab my shitty cell from the wooden crate that doubles as a bedside cabinet and search for roommates wanted ads.
After thirty minutes of fruitless scrolling, I decide to get dressed and head down to the university to see if there’s any flyers on the notice boards. That’s where I saw Monica’s ad for this place and, hopefully, it’ll be where I find somewhere new I can move into in the next couple of days. If I have to, I can probably bunk down in the break room at the bar I work at, or worst-case scenario I can find somewhere to sleep rough for a few nights.
I’m no stranger to living on the streets. After I left my aunt Darla’s house with nothing but a bus ticket and a hundred bucks in my pocket, it took me twelve months of sleeping rough and at homeless shelters to scrape together enough money for the first and last month’s rent on this room. Being on the streets isn’t something I ever want to do again if I can help it, but if I have no other options then I’ll do what I have to do.
Not bothering to shower, I drag my dark-brown hair into a ponytail and pull on baggy ripped jeans, and a T-shirt I found at goodwill that I cut down to make a crop top. Pushing my feet into the Docs I rescued from a dumpster about a year ago, I shove my cell and my tips from last night into my pocket and grab my keys from the hook by the front door on the way out.
I was born and raised in Georgia, but according to my mama on the days when she was sober enough to want to talk to me, my daddy was from Alabama. When I was born, I looked so much like him that she named me after the state he came from in some fucked-up homage to good ole George from Alabama—the guy who didn’t even stick around long enough to tell Mama his full name.
For a while, I toyed with the idea of changing my name. I thought about calling myself something normal, like Amy or Jennifer, but the more I thought about it, the more I couldn’t picture myself as anyone but Alabama Delany.
Closing and locking the apartment door behind me, I stomp down the stairs and emerge onto the sidewalk. Columbus State University is a thirty-minute walk from here, so I push my knockoff air pods into my ears and hit play on a playlist to help pass the time.
I could ride the bus, but if I’m going to be homeless in a few days, I can’t waste money on a ride when I can walk. Distracted, I stride down the sidewalk, admiring my scuffed, comfortable Docs. But I know better than to lose track of my surroundings. I know not to allow the veil of sunlight and daytime to stop me from remembering that danger doesn’t only hide in the shadows.
With the music pumping into my ears and the bright morning sunshine beaming down on me, I don’t even realize anything is wrong until I’m pinned against a wall by one guy, while another lurks menacingly behind him.
Both guys are clearly tweaking, their sallow appearance, rotting teeth, and scabbed faces giving them away as junkies. But despite his general rotting corpse looks, the guy who is holding me in place is strong, his grip firm and unyielding.
Grabbing his arms, I try to free myself, bucking and twisting against his hold, kicking out and frantically trying to get away. But when the barrel of a gun presses against the middle of my forehead I freeze.
I don’t know whose hands go through my pockets, taking my shitty, broken cell, my tips money and even the knockoff air pods. But I’m just grateful that’s all they take as the guy holding the gun slowly peels it off my head before they both turn and run, leaving me alone, unbroken and alive.
Unable to move, I stare at the brick wall ahead of me in the alleyway, breathing in the disgusting, trash-filled stench of the grimy dumpsters that are keeping me hidden from the people passing by. Those junkie assholes could have killed me or raped me, and a part of me is grateful that all they did was take the cash in my pocket and my shitty cell phone. For a second, I almost feel sorry for them, and a wry laugh falls from my lips. Of all the people they could have dragged off the street to steal from, and they picked me.
Pushing off the wall, I take a moment to make sure my limbs are steady enough to support me before I step back out onto the sidewalk. Despite the fact that I’m fine and in one piece, I can still feel the echo of the terror-filled tremor that’s running through my veins, buzzing beneath my skin. The urge to cry bares down on me, but I don’t give into it. I’ve been attacked before. I’ve been scared before. I’ve been broke and without a cell phone before. Reminding myself that I’m alive, I shakily exhale and start to walk.
The notice boards at the university are a bust. It’s mid-semester and almost all the flyers are for intramural soccer, study groups, and volunteering. Cursing, I look around for any flyers taped to poles, but there’s nothing but ragged scraps of paper, like the janitors have ripped everything down.
Sighing, I glance up at the clock on the building across the quad. I need to be at work for the afternoon shift in an hour, so I head back to my apartment and change. The sports bar I waitress at has a uniform for all the staff, which consists of cheerleading uniforms with heeled high-top sneakers for the women, and tight red wrestling singlets with sneakers for the guys.
Honestly, we all look ridiculous, but the customers love it, and at least my boss is an equal opportunity perve. The guys look just as slutty as the women. Jumping in the shower, I wash quickly, then dress in the tiny fitted crop top, skirt, and matching bootie shorts. Pulling out the hairdryer I convinced Monica she’d lost on her last trip home to see her family; I blast my hair with it. Once it’s mostly dry, I pull it into a high ponytail again and curl the ends into big bouncy ringlets, spraying them with enough hairspray to keep them looking perky for the rest of the night. Sliding an obnoxiously large bow into the front, I lift my head and look at my reflection in the bathroom mirror.
My hair is dark, and without the curls it usually looks a little limp. My cheeks are a bit too sunken, the result of missing one too many meals when money is tight. My eyes are dark and always seem to look either sad, or furiously angry. My lips are bee stung and full or, blow job lips as I regularly get told by the drunk idiots at work.
Running my eyes over the reflection of the stupid costume, I sigh. The top is tight, even though I don’t really have enough boobs to fill it. The tiny skirt hangs so low you can see my concave stomach and bony hips and it’s short enough to display all of my pale, thin legs.
But despite the dark circles beneath my eyes that are barely hidden with a layer of concealer, and the fact that I’m skinny enough to look like I could do with a few good meals. I look young, innocent, and kind of hot.
Shaking my head, I turn away from my reflection and go back into my bedroom. Crouching down, I lift up my mattress and pull out the tin I keep my cash in. It’s not the most advanced method of money storage, but it’s much better than putting it in the bank.
Prying open the lid, I feel my heart start to race when I take in the bare metal and single sheet of paper.
I’m sorry, I’ll pay you back. Monica xo
“That fucking bitch,” I hiss angrily, lifting the scrap of paper and finding five, hundred-dollar bills folded together. “That fucking bitch,” I snarl again. There was over five grand in here and she took it. She fucking took it all, except for five hundred fucking bucks.
No wonder she was crying this morning. She left, knowing that I was going to be kicked out of our apartment, and that she’d stolen all the money I had to be able to pay for anywhere new.
