Page 14

Too bare.

I grab the sweatpants draped across my desk chair and pull them on quickly, though I hate the rough material against my skin.

My hair is another problem. I run both hands over the fluffy blond strands on top, pressing them down. I shaved the sides two nights ago in the bathroom after Mom fell asleep, carefully sweeping every clipped hair into a grocery bag so no one would find the evidence.

Wade noticed anyway, and he asked whether I was trying to look like a lesbian.

Mom had laughed so hard she spilled her drink.

I freeze as the hallway creaks and heavy footsteps pass my door, heading toward the bathroom. A moment later, the shower starts, and I let myself take a breath because at least I’ll only have to deal with Mom when I go to leave.

For a moment, I consider staying in my room until she goes to bed. I don’t have work until noon, and there are protein bars in my backpack to hold me over for a few hours, but then I remember the fabric delivery arriving at the thrift store today.

Mrs. Alvarez said she’d set aside anything damaged for me before throwing it away, but only if I came before her shift ended at ten. She found out I sew after catching me trying to steal a pincushion a few years back, and instead of banning me from the store or calling the cops, she’d pressed it into my hand, acting as if I’d already paid for it.

Ever since then, I haven’t stolen anything from there, and in return, Mrs. Alvarez sets aside scraps for me. When I spoke to her on Tuesday, she told me there might even be velvet coming in today.

Real velvet, not the stiff costume kind that catches on dry fingers.

To reach the store before ten, I need to catch the 7:15 bus, which means I need to leave this room. Like right now.

I pull on socks, forcing myself to move slowly, so the floorboards don’t complain. My sneakers are beside the bedroom door, permanently unlaced because tying them takes too long when I have to leave quickly.

I pause with my hand on the knob and listen. The shower’s still running, which is good. And I hear the unmistakable click of Mom’s lighter, which could be good or bad.

I steel myself for whatever she’ll throw at me, and open my bedroom door.

The hall smells like stale beer, damp carpet, and the sweet chemical perfume Mom sprays over everything when she doesn’t want to clean. Broken glass still sparkles beneath the radiator from whatever shattered during last night’s argument. I step over it, making a mental note to sweep it up after work.

If I don’t, Mom will forget, and then she’ll step on it later and somehow that will be my fault.

She sits at the kitchen table wearing her black work pants and a red polo shirt, although the plastic name tag has been removed and tossed beside the overflowing ashtray. Her dark hair is twisted into a messy knot, exposing the roots she keeps meaning to dye, and the mascara smudged beneath both eyes.

A bruise darkens the inside of her left wrist.

“What?” she snaps when she notices me looking.

“Nothing,” I murmur.

“You’re staring.”

“I wasn’t.”

Her eyes narrow, and I immediately regret answering. Denying something is too close to arguing.

I lower my gaze and walk to the fridge, hoping that there’s at least one piece of fresh fruit left.

“Were you home last night?” she probes, watching me suspiciously.

“Yes.”

“I didn’t hear you when I left,” she says, tone full of accusation, even though I don’t have curfews or rules about where I need to be.

It doesn’t matter to her. She just wants a fight.

“I was asleep,” I answer softly, opening the fridge door and smiling in relief at the apple I find by itself in the drawer.

She drags on her cigarette and studies me through the smoke. “You working today?”