Falling Harder (6 page)

She’s a
sickening, unwelcome sight, but for some reason I can’t look away. I draw in a
ragged breath, trying to keep myself from being sick.

“Mom,” I begin,
“You know we can’t talk. You’re gonna get in trouble if you—”

“I can’t help
it, Trace,” she moans, swaying on her skinny ankles. “How am I supposed to stay
away from my baby? You know I’ve never been able to.”

“No shit,” I
mutter.

“I just wanted
to see your face,” she says, her voice scraping through her throat. “You get
more handsome every time I see you, you know.”

“Well, you’ve
seen me,” I say bluntly, “Now get out of here, would you?”

“Don’t talk to
me like that,” she says, “I gave birth to you, boy. You wouldn’t be here on
this planet without me. You owe me a little respect.”

“I don’t owe you
anything,” I spit. “Maybe, if you’d managed not to snort coke while you were
pregnant with me, I’d owe you something. Maybe, if you’d found a real job
instead of dealing whatever-the-fuck with Dad, I’d owe you something. If you
hadn’t tossed me to the dogs when I was fucking ten years old—”

“I never wanted
to give you up!” she screams, rabid. “They took you away from me, Trace! I
never had a say!”

“Bullshit,” I
shout right back, “If you’d actually given a shit, you would have pulled
yourself together. Look at you. You were never fit to be a mother. My life has
been total shit, going from one foster home to another, but it’s still better
than it would have been if I’d been forced to stay with your pathetic ass.”

“Don’t say
that...” she moans, “Don’t say that, baby...”

“I’m not your
baby,” I tell her, “I’m practically a grown ass man, and no thanks to you. So
next time you feel like you want to tell me how much I owe you, curb it, you
bitch. I don’t want to hear it.”

“I’m sorry,” she
wails, thick tears streaming down her dirty cheeks, “I’m so sorry, Trace. I
know I’m not worth shit. I know I never deserved a sweet little son like you. I
just wish you could forgive me. I can’t sleep at night, knowing you’re stuck in
some stranger’s house without me. It kills me, baby, it really does.”

“Good,” I tell
her, drawing myself up. Seeing her like this fucking kills me, but I don’t want
her to know it. She can’t know how much I still care about her and Dad, even if
they are miserable fucking junkies.

I dig the money
for our dinner out of my pocket and stuff it into her claw-like hand. She
blinks up at me in the dim street light, satisfied. I know that this is what
she really came for. She’s been doing it for years. When I was little, I handed
her my milk money. Now, she’ll take whatever I’ve got.

Why I still fork
anything over to her, I can’t say. Especially when I know that all her bullshit
about caring for me is just that—shit. I wish I was strong enough to tell her
to go fuck herself and leave it at that. But even after all these years, I
still want to be a good son.

“Stay the fuck
away this time,” I tell her, “I mean it.”

“Whatever you
say, baby,” she coos, clutching the money to her chest. “I love you so much,
Trace. I’ll do whatever you say.”

“Until you need
more smack money,” I reply. “You’ll never change, will you? Not until you OD or
wander out into traffic or fucking kill yourself some other way.”

“Probably not,”
she says, blankly. It’s the first honest thing that’s come out of her mouth all
night.

I turn away from
my mom to find Nadia standing there, silently. Her eyes are full of compassion,
and understanding, and something that looks a lot like love. I can’t even look
at her full in the face. I know that if I do, I’ll crack in a heartbeat. I grab
onto her hand and bring her back to the car, climbing silently into the
driver’s seat and peeling away from the pizza shop.

As we make our
way home once again, I feel Nadia’s hand on my arm. Without speaking, I loose
one hand from the wheel and let her take it in hers. We drive on without
words—the simple act of holding hands says more than enough for the both of us.

Six

Nadia

A New Home

The first month
passes slowly.

I’ve heard it
said that settling into a new home is a process, but I wouldn’t know for sure.
Truth is, I’ve never felt truly settled in any of the homes I’ve been shipped
off to. The last place in the world where I felt secure and cared for was my
parents’ home. Since my mom and dad passed away, I’ve all but given up trying
to wrestle my heart into caring about any of the people or places around me.
That is...until now.

Lord knows, the
life that Paul and Nancy have to offer is no spring picnic. But even in this
dingy row house, in this half-mad city, the insane thought keeps occurring to me
that I could get comfortable here.

It all really
comes down to one thing: I actually have friends here—not at school, but at
home. Garrick, Conway, and especially Trace, are the closest thing to family
I’ve had since my parents died. And it’s taken a little getting used to.

Having at least
a handful of people around who actually care about me has been strange. The
weirdest thing about it is that my old habits from my “previous life” are
resurfacing again. Before my parents died, I was an incredibly early riser. I’d
wake up before the sun and spend hours daydreaming and doodling and writing in
my journal. Never, in any of my homes since, have I wanted to greet the day
before absolutely necessary...but here, under the same roof as my new friends,
I find myself waking up before dawn once again.

But perhaps the
strangest thing I’m noticing these days is that I’m starting to feel...I don’t
know a better word for it than beautiful.

People have been
complimenting my looks since I was small, but I’ve never paid them any mind. My
features have always just seemed like a random collection, just like everyone
else’s. But being around Conway, and Garrick, and Trace is making me start to
reconsider my disinterest in my looks.

It takes me the
whole first month of living with the Daniels before I bring my newfound
fascination to my foster sister. One night, after Paul has forced us to retire
upstairs so that he can blast Man Vs. Food on the living room TV, I sheepishly
ask Conway for her help.

“This is going
to sound dumb,” I begin, sitting on my bed with my hands fidgeting in my lap,
“But I was wondering if you could, uh...give me some lessons?”

“What could I
possibly teach you?” Conway asks from behind her issue of Cosmo, “You’re the
smart one in the house, sweetie. If you need a tutor, you’re barking up the
wrong—”

“No. I want to
figure out the whole...girly thing.” Conway stares at me in wonder, so I sigh
and go on. “You know. Hair. Makeup. That sort of thing.”

“Are you kidding
me?” Conway asks, sitting up on her pink comforter.

“Yeah. It’s
stupid, I guess. I’m sorry for asking. Forget I—”

“It’s not
stupid! I’ve been waiting to style you since you moved in!” she squeals, all
but leaping across the room at me. “This thick hair of yours, those exotic
features and shit...this is going to be so much fun.”

“I don’t want
anything too drastic,” I tell her, “I just...I’d like to look nice. You know?”

“So who’s the
guy?” she teases, pulling me over to a beat-up vanity strewn with beauty
products.

“What do you
mean?” I ask.

“Please,” she
laughs, “There’s got to be a guy. Otherwise, why the sudden interest?”

Unbidden, the
image of Trace floats up before my mind’s eye. I’ve stopped trying to convince
myself that I’m not totally falling into stupid puppy love with him. The more I
get to know him, the more I learn about his past, the more I feel like we were
meant to end up in this place together. Nothing’s happened between us, of
course. But...that doesn’t mean I’d stop it if it did.

Still, I’m not
interested in dolling myself up for Trace’s benefit. He’s spent a whole month
getting to know me just as I am, and we get along perfectly well. I’m not
looking for a love spell, or some way to win his favor.

I’m just
curious.

“I just want to
try the whole beautification thing out,” I tell Conway. It’s the truth.

“Fine,” she
sighs, “I’ll take your word for it. But I know you’re crushing on someone hard,
whether or not this is for him.”

“How do you know
that?” I ask.

“Nadia,” Conway
says, placing her hands on my shoulders. “I’m your sister. I know.”

“I’ve never had
a sister before,” I tell her, “I guess I’m still getting used to it.”

“Well, this
should help!” she smiles, “Makeovers are, like, Sister 101. So relax. Let me
show you the mystical, magical world of mascara, my love.”

Conway goes to
work—brushing and plucking and painting. I’m concerned about how much this is
going to make me look like a circus clown, but when she finally lets me look in
the mirror, I’m floored.

The result of my
foster sister’s ministrations is...gorgeous. My eyes look subtly smoky, with
smooth cat eye swoops polishing the effect. My cheekbones are defined and rosy.
My lips are a lovely shade of cocoa. My hair is arranged in loose waves that
spill across my shoulders. The only thing that looks less than totally put-together
is my slack jawed expression.

“You don’t hate
it, do you?” Conway asks nervously. “If it’s too much—”

I leap up and
wrap my arms around the tiny girl. “It’s perfect,” I tell. “You made me
look...beautiful, Conway.”

“You don’t need
me to make you look beautiful. Or anything, for that matter,” she smiles, “But
it’s fun to mess around, isn’t it?”

“It is,” I grin.

“Now,” Conway
says, all business once more. “Let’s teach you how to dress, yeah?”

Our game of
dress-up goes on late into the night. Conway is much smaller than I am, so we
have to be a little creative with our styling. Slouchy sweaters, vintage tees,
and some of my own clothes are strewn around the room by the end of our
session.

The favorite
look we come up with is a pair of boyfriend jeans I’ve had forever and a
charcoal scoop neck top. The top is Conway’s, and fits me nice and snugly. I
don’t think I’ve worn anything so tight out in public before, but there’s a
first time for everything. Since I started developing as a young woman, I’ve been
taught to hide my body away. But I’m tired of buying into that modesty myth. My
body is nothing to be ashamed of.

Conway starts to
fade, and falls asleep a little past two in the morning. I follow her off to
dream world for a spell, but wake up just a few hours later. I smile through
the window at the lightening sky.

We’re entering
into the last weeks of fall, now. The trees are letting go of their colorful
leaves at long last, and winter will be here in no time. A little churn of
anxiety wrenches my stomach when I imagine being cooped up here with Paul and
Nancy, but I’m sure that the other kids will make up for it.

Since I’ve been
here, our foster parents seem to leave us alone for the most part...except when
they’re in a shouting mood. And I, for one, have no complaints about that. As
far as I can tell, they’ve forgotten that I’m here at all.

I roll out of
bed and toss my new favorite outfit back on. All the makeup that Conway applied
to my face is still pretty much intact, and I decide to leave it for the time
being. I like catching glimpses of myself in the mirror, surprising myself with
this newfound look.

Quietly as ever,
I tiptoe down the stairs to the first floor. Blue light illuminates the living
room, and I spot Paul and Nancy slumped against each other on the threadbare
sofa. This is their daily ritual. In a couple of hours, they’ll wake up
hungover as hell and stumble back upstairs for some sleep.

They both work
pretty irregular hours, my foster parents. Nancy cleans other people’s houses,
though god knows she never seems to make time for her own. Paul does something
with cars, though he’s pretty vague about it. He either sells them or fixes
them...or maybe he washes them, beats me. I pad past them into the kitchen and
turn on the overhead light.

These are the
most peaceful hours of the day, for me. I switch on the coffee machine and brew
myself a cup of dark espresso roast. I’ve taken to hoarding my own beans so I
don’t have to drink whatever instant bullshit Paul and Nancy are so fond of. As
the coffee brews, I sit down at the oilcloth-covered table and open to a fresh
page of my journal.

I keep the book
on me at all times, and never write about my literal life. When I write, it’s
about the places I travel in my own imagination, the things I’m dying to see
and experience. I help myself to a glorious cup of coffee and spend the morning
putting my thoughts down onto paper. I feel the edges of something a lot like
happiness in this grimy pit of a home. I guess miracles do happen, once in a while.

The glaring
digital clock above the stove creeps toward six in the morning, and I close my
journal with a sigh. Time to start whipping up some provisions for the troops.
Trace, Garrick, and Conway should be rolling out of bed sometime soon for
school.

I grab a
dilapidated frying pan and start to melt some butter—it seems like a scrambled
eggs kind of morning to me. I crack open a couple of shells and tend to my
friend’s breakfast, sending the toaster into overdrive along the way. The
smells of a good breakfast rise into the air, and I know they’ll be enough to
rouse my friends soon.

Like clockwork,
I hear Paul and Nancy begin to shuffle from the living room, up to the second
story. Heavy footsteps pass the kitchen, but as I listen closely, I only hear
one set of feet start up the stairs. I focus on my cooking, tamping down the
sudden unease in the pit of my stomach. I can feel something on my skin,
something crawling and dirty. Cautiously, I peer back over my shoulder. The
world seems to curdle around me.

Paul is standing
in the threshold of the kitchen, staring straight at me. His eyes are hideously
bloodshot, and even from here I can smell that he’s sweating straight vodka.
His rumpled clothes strain against his bulky, uneven mass. He’s a mess of a man,
but he’s never scared me before. Not until now.

“Well shit,” he
rasps, crossing his veined arms across his chest, “Look at you.”

“Good morning,
Paul,” I say crisply, turning my eyes back to the stovetop. “Why don’t you go
up and get some sleep before work?”

“Don’t tell me
what to do in my own home,” he snaps. “I do whatever I please, here. Whenever I
please.”

I can
practically feel his eyes rake up and down my body as he speaks. I grip the
handle of the frying pan tighter, involuntarily. Paul’s barely said three words
to me since I’ve gotten here, and I don’t like where this particular
conversation is going.

“Paul,” I hear
Nancy moan from the second story, “Get your ass up here. I can’t find the
ibuprofen.”

My foster dad
grunts in acknowledgement of his wife and walks slowly away. I feel my body
relax as he departs, and glance anxiously at his steel-toed boots as they make
their way up the stairs. What the hell was that all about? And why do I feel so
unclean, after talking to Paul?

I drive the
lingering nervousness out of my mind and set the breakfast table, doling out
eggs and toast for the others. As I’m fetching a carton of orange juice from
the fridge, I hear the basement door swing open. I straighten up, unconsciously
fixing my hair. From the darkness of the narrow hallway, I watch Trace emerge.
His sleepy eyes snap open as he takes in the sight of me. I feel a little
flutter of glee, and have to fight to keep a grin off my face.

“Hey,” I say
lightly, “You sleep OK?”

“What?” Trace
says, staring at me unabashedly, “Oh. Yeah. I, uh...”

“There’s
scrambled eggs,” I tell him, sitting down at the table and helping myself to a
piece of crisp toast. “Come on, eat up.”

He walks toward
the table as if in a trance. Trace doesn’t even bother trying to pry his eyes
away from me. A warm, satisfying pressure makes itself known within my core as
he drinks me in. I let myself delight in his company in a way I haven’t dared
before. I decide, in the moment, that I’m through pretending I don’t have
feelings for him. What’s the point of acting like I don’t spend most of my
spare moments thinking about him?

“Did you,
uh...do something different with your hair?” he asks, sitting down.

“Yeah.”

“It...you...look
nice,” he stammers.

I smile at him
warmly, thankful that he’s as bad an actor as I am. Trace and I tuck into our
eggs and toast, silent in the early morning hours. If I try really hard, I can
imagine that it’s only the two of us here in this house. I imagine what it
would be like to share a home with Trace, share a life with him. The delicious
daydream transforms our humble breakfast into one of the best meals I’ve ever
had.