“Hi, Grammie,” AliceLynn said. “I finished my math.”
“Let me see it,” Mama said, touching the girl’s re-structured braids. She leaned over AliceLynn’s shoulder and pointed out a few things she needed to correct. “Go work at the big desk in the living room, sugar. I need to talk with your auntie.”
AliceLynn glanced at me. I waved her off, pissed all over again that even a kid could sense the dysfunction in the room. I rinsed out the empty glass and stuck it in the dishwasher. “Mama, you need to get a new upper dish rack. That hard water has really eaten through this—”
“Come over here please,” she said, her voice flat. I closed my eyes for a split second, opening them when I caught myself praying for strength. Old habit, I mused, taking a seat across my steely-eyed mother.
She slid an envelope across the table. “I’ve made the necessary appointment and called in an excuse to school for tomorrow. Here’s the money. Put it out of sight. We’ll have to leave early in the morning. You shouldn’t eat anything after ten tonight, the nurse said.”
I stared at the envelope, then up at her. “Mama, you don’t have to do this. Antony’s gonna …” I stopped when the sum total of her words sank in. “You’re taking me,” I blurted out this astonishing fact.
“Of course I am. I’m not about to let my daughter undergo minor surgery without a parent present. And your poor daddy … well, let’s just say he didn’t sleep a wink last night, and he needs his rest. The brewery expansion demands all his attention right now, and since it pays the bills around here …”
She tapped the envelope with a fingertip by way of reminding me that two hundred dollars was not an easy thing to conjure up, especially not for this particular reason.
“Okay,” I said, taking it and holding it in my lap, willing myself not to cry and failing. “I’m sorry, Mama.”
The chair made a loud screech as she stood, tenting her fingers on the table in front of her. I pondered them—nails utilitarian short, skin rough from years outdoors, and yet more years tending her houseful of babies and toddlers one right after another—and tried to recall the last time she’d touched me when it wasn’t in anger or punishment.
Daddy doled out the whippings for all my brothers but Aiden, the youngest and biggest suck-up. Mama had bestowed her fair share of smacks to my behind. Never with anything but her palm, though. It wasn’t intended to cause real pain, but be a correction … like a bark collar, I’d overheard her say to her friends once while they were playing cards on the lower patio.
A surge of pure hatred filled my chest, travelling up my throat and forcing words out of my mouth I wished I could take back the second I uttered them. “I guess you don’t want me to make the same mistakes you did, huh?”
She raised a single eyebrow, her lips turning down at the same time. “I don’t consider much of anything I did to be a mistake, Angelique. But when I did make one, I paid for it plenty.”
I glared at her, not understanding, and not really wanting to. To dig too deeply would be painful, similar to gouging out a scabbed-over, nasty wound that would never stop bleeding. She glared back. Our usual routine. But she blinked first, a rare occurrence.
Her face seemed so old then, and I wished I could rush over and hug her. But that was not our usual routine and never had been. I stood, holding onto the abortion money, relieved and yet oddly sad. Mostly disappointed in myself for giving her another excuse to hate me.
“I would advise you strongly to get out of my sight right now, young lady. Just because I took cash from my savings and am going to drive you to the clinic tomorrow does not mean I approve of why I have to do any of it.” I nodded and headed for the hallway. “Oh, and Angelique, I told Bobby’s mama. We agreed this is best for you both.”
I whirled, pulse racing. “You had no right to do that.”
“Oh, honey, I have every right in the world. I am not in the business of making a decision about another woman’s grandbaby without consulting with her.” She made a point to stare at my midsection then up at my face. “You’re such a selfish girl. Your Daddy and brothers spoiled you rotten. But someday, I hope, you’ll understand that the universe doesn’t revolve around you. Now go on, git. I have work to do.”
Chapter Three
New York City
Three Years Later
I blinked up at the strange ceiling, confused and fuzzy-headed … until I remembered how I ended up here. The person next to me groaned and rolled over, engulfing me in a gagging fog of old booze and stale pot.
I sat up, rubbing my face, pondering the looming summer. After three years of slogging through classes and trying to impress instructors and other prima donnas at the performing arts college, I was sick to death of it. It was all a stupid racket. Only the rich bitch east coast girls ever got the good roles, the connections, the leads in the really great shows.
So I’d dropped out, kind of unofficially. Not going to class had freed up an awful lot of time to find a real dance job.
I disentangled myself from the various arms and legs and stood up, stretching my back and hips. I was sore as hell from the off-off Broadway modern piece of crap I’d managed to scrounge up. These guys wanted contortionists, not dancers. But I wasn’t exactly in a great negotiating position, so I signed on, desperate to avoid having to go home for even a few weeks of Love family-inflicted torture.
I stumbled across the room and found the bathroom, which, of course, stank of shit and mold, with streamers of old, rotting paint hanging down the wall. I wiped off the toilet seat with paper towels I found among the empty wine bottles, and after taking care of that business, I washed my hands, then sniffed my skin. I reeked of pot and stage makeup, and honestly couldn’t recall how many guys I’d let fuck me the night before.
After eyeballing the dismal state of the shower, I rooted through a cardboard box under the sink for anything resembling cleaning supplies. After a few swipes at the shower’s disgusting, mildew-encrusted interior with ancient cleanser and a hopefully clean washcloth, plus the hottest water I could conjure, I climbed under the anemic shower trickle.
I cleaned myself, using all of what remained of a bottle of hand soap, keeping my body parts close so I wouldn’t touch the fiberglass walls. I got out, cursing and drying off with the few remaining paper towels, although most of them stuck to my skin in damp little splotches.
“Yo,” a new-to-me guy said, wandering in and pissing into the toilet without a single glance in my direction.
“Hey,” I protested, trying to cover myself. He grunted, finished, flushed, turned, and wandered out, buck naked, and sporting the most amazing physique I’d seen in a while. Which was saying a lot, since I’d screwed my way through most of my male classmates at the high-level dance school and moved on to a few females out of boredom.
I sighed, disgusted with myself for coming here, drunk and high as a kite after the Sunday matinee and evening combination. I hated the assholes running the show. But got along great with the other dancers. I bit my lip and followed Mr. Hot Ass and his super-compelling rear view into the big room. It had two mattresses, a table covered with empty bottles, pizza boxes and salad bowls, an enormous flat screen TV, and a few rugs.
It smelled like the inside of a whorehouse in August, but I’d gotten used to that. I kept following the man into the tiny kitchen with equally filthy surfaces and an overflowing garbage can. “How can you live in this?” I asked, sliding up behind him and molding my naked front against his back. His dick was long and rock-hard by the time I gripped it, tweaking his nipples with my other hand while my body revved up.
“I don’t live here,” he said, turning and pushing me until my butt hit a table. “God damn, you’re hot.” He breathed into my ear, setting me on the table and draping one of my sore legs over his shoulder. “Wanna fuck you, baby,” he said, his eyes glassy from whatever we’d taken the night before.