These Things About Us (3 page)

“Oh.”

“Would you mind? I'd like to get back to bed.”

“Oh, yes, sorry. Sorry.” I twirled around and awkwardly waved at him before slipping out the door and into my room as quickly as possible.

I spent most of the night staring at the ceiling, trying to figure out what time it was in Arizona. My phone was still dead – London had weird sockets that didn't work with my charger – and I still sucked at math, which made my watch pretty useless in this regard. Finally, around four, my body decided that it would be okay to fall asleep now. Well, my body didn't take my new neighbor into regard.

I heard the voices outside my door first, the low murmur that was Trace and a high-pitched, giggling companion. Not too long after that, I decided that earplugs were desperately needed. But I was not going to complain. I was not going to annoy Trace more than I already did. I was not going to be a pain in the ass. If he wanted to hook up with loud girls, he could hook up with loud girls. None. Of. My. Business. None at all. I would just press a pillow over my head and pretend that I didn't still hear them through the earplugs.

Alex wanted me back by three, so we could fill out some paperwork. I still hoped that I might be out of here by then. Living under a roof with a crazy man wasn’t exactly my idea of fun, but I’d have to come to terms with that if I couldn’t find Mom today.

I had called the last remaining number from the phone book about five times already but still nobody answered. Which meant I had no further clue, which meant I was most likely homeless for another night unless I worked for my accomodation.

The subway was a puzzle I wasn't keen on taking on, so I rode the bus again, going back to the last specific address I had. The one on my list just above where it says 'Moved to Clapham with Aaron'.

I liked the old houses, and on any other occasion I would've taken the time to appreciate the ornate carvings on some of them and the way the stone crumbled off others, but I couldn't spend too long on the beautiful doors and tall windows. I had a tight deadline.

Yesterday, I'd only been able to talk to the neighbors. Maybe I could get a hold of the new residents. Maybe they had the new address for forwarding mail. I crossed the street and almost got run over by a black car. Stupid traffic rules. Couldn’t everybody just drive on the right side of the road? I ran my fingers through my curls and jogged up to the right house.

You had to knock on the door, using a big iron handle because they didn't have a door bell installed. I had to remind myself that there was no time to marvel at the antiquated way of life. I took a deep breath and brought the door knocker down hard. Once, twice, three times.

“Please, be home,” I whispered, kneading my fingers behind my back.

The door swung open and a girl with the biggest grey eyes and dreadlocks in all colors of the rainbow grinned at me. “You're not the mailman girl, are you?” She knotted her arms in front of her chest and poked her tongue into her cheek.

“Uhm, no. Is this your place?”

“Oh lord, please do not tell me, you're here about the noise? I swear to Mother Nature that it's not us. It's those bastards from the house on the street out back.”

“I'm not here about the noise either. My mom used to live here...”

“Oh, you're here to grab the last box? Come in.”

I could tell her the truth, but the image of the box popped into my thoughts and the idea of having something that belonged to my mother clawed itself into my mind. She left something and it could be mine in a matter of minutes.

I stepped up and the girl closed the door behind me, dozens of bangles jingling on her arm.

“I'm Sabrina.”

“Tony,” I replied and outstretched my hand.

Sabrina swapped it away and pulled me in for a short, but very tight hug. I couldn't help checking if my purse was still in my pocket afterwards. There had been a time when I knew exactly when somebody wanted to steal from me, but my little tricks were fading from me. They left along with the other things that made
Antonia
an unbearable person to be.

“Come on up.” She waved me to the stairwell and jogged up in front of me, “Jon just made vegetable lasagna. It's delish. You have to try it. I'll be right there with your stuff. Get comfy. We love having people over.”

Something was terribly wrong with all these people here. I didn't mind being treated uber-friendly, but this was just taking a spin towards crazy.

She pushed me into a high-ceilinged kitchen that smelled of herbs and something similarly earthy. I tried to ignore that smell, tried not to notice the penetrating odor of Jon as he pulled me into a hug, too. He looked like Jesus in a wide white linen shirt, his dark hair falling to his shoulders and a beard framing his jaw. I doubted Jesus was stoned, though.

“I'm Jonathan,” he whispered, “You can call me Jon. Or Moon Shadow.”

That guy oozed weed.
Calm down, calm down,
I reminded myself. I wouldn't get upset because a stranger was on drugs. This was okay. Nobody expected me to share a joint with Jon. I just had to wait for Sabrina.

 “Tony.”

“Cool. Do you want lasagna, Tony?”

I looked at the cheesy goodness on the table. Most likely there were some special, secret ingredients in that, and they were not legal in this country.

“I'd love to, but I just had a burger on my way here,” I lied.

“Tony, did you know the romans just ate until they threw up and when their stomach was empty again, they continued eating. You can eat as much as you want to, here. The toilet is on the third floor.”

“I'm not really into bulimia.”

Jon spread his arms in a 'suit yourself' gesture and plopped down in a chair just when Sabrina came carrying a small box. My stomach sank to my feet. It was a tiny shoe box. What if all there was in it was a pair of pumps? What if all there was in it was Christmas tree decoration? You couldn't put much in a freaking shoe box. It wasn't even big enough to hold documents.

“Here you go.” Sabrina pushed the box into my arms. It was fairly light. It definitely didn't contain much.

I plastered on a fake smile. “Thanks.”

I had ruined my chance to ask for the address for a pair of old shoes or yellowed postcards. If I asked for an address now, they would go stoner-paranoid on me. The dutiful daughter picking up her mom's stuff is supposed to know the address. I couldn't use the police getting involved in this. In the end, I’d be shipped back to the United States.

“Are you staying for the lasagna?” Sabrina smiled, flashing a piercing under her upper lip.

I shook my head.

“Too bad. Listen, we're organizing this really cool party for next weekend. Basically everyone is invited. Here's my number. Text me if you're interested and I'll tell you when and where to show up.”

That was so not going to happen, but I smiled and took the scrap of paper from her. She sported a marijuana leaf tattoo on her middle finger.

I had to get out of this hellhole, get away from the heavy smell and Jon and the memories that I still had under control, wrapped up and stashed away. Far away.

“Thanks,” I breathed, “I'll see you around. It was so nice meeting you.” I scurried for the door.

Sabrina followed me to the stairs, called after me, “Say hi to your mum, she's such a nice lady.”

I couldn't let her keep me. I had my mother's things. I had something. She probably had no idea where my mother was or how I could reach her. Otherwise she would have sent the box, right? Nothing was keeping me here for one more second.

On the bus ride back to The Dirty Dungeon, my fingers cramped around the box, while I spent half an hour inhaling and exhaling on the count of four. If I hadn’t been in public, I could have done some more breathing exercises, but these were enough to steady my legs until I reached my room and set the box down on my bed. My composure didn't even crumble the least bit when I changed from my cardigan into a plaid button down and tight black jeans, one of the last pieces of clothing I still had from
then
. The pants had studded pockets front and back and were ripped over my knees. I hoped they were convincing enough in terms of being able to deal with
pissed prats
. God knew my beige flats weren't intimidating.

Finger-combing the mess that was my hair into a low ponytail helped a little, too. Now, I looked more like sixteen instead of fifteen. I’d take what I got.

Alex didn’t hide his surprise at my somewhat edgier appearance, then gave me a wide grin and two thumbs up, before showing me around. It was a very basic bar with an old cash register and zero computer input, and I didn’t even have to do much besides waiting tables and heating food. Someone would always be behind the bar, taking care of the drinks.

I filled in a form and we made the arrangement that I could keep the tips, and my payment for the work itself was the room upstairs. It was the best deal I’d made in a long time.

“Are you good to go, then? We’re opening in ten minutes.”

“I’m okay.” I unfolded the black apron and tied it around my waist, following Alex out of the office.

“Wow, last night, I thought the whole shirt and no trousers thing was hot but clearly I have never seen you as a working girl. Tie that bow one more time. Please.”

Wesley’s grin was crooked thanks to the swollen lip with a purple bruise spreading over his jawbone. You saw worse on TV every day, and he didn’t seem to hurt a lot, but the sole certainty that this wound was my doing – indirectly – made nausea explode in my stomach.

I swallowed back the bile. “Very funny.”

Alex crumpled his forehead at us, and I guessed he wouldn’t stop staring unless this situation – mostly his son’s state and words – was explained.

“And I wore pants,” I added quickly.

“I didn’t see any,” he chuckled.

Oh, God. Hadn’t he sold me as the waitress who Trace would not sleep with? Did he really want me kicked out for his amusement now? My face was burning. His father had to think I was a total tramp, losing pants on my first night here.

“I did. The shirt I sleep in is just really big, okay?”

“Okay.”

Thank God, finally Alex chimed in again after clearing his throat, “What happened to your face?”

Or not ‘thank God’.

“Shagged a girl, she had a boyfriend, he wasn’t happy. Whatever. I’m off.”

I wished my hair was open. It was easy to hide behind a curtain of curls and pretend you didn’t just witness a big fat lie being told to a parent. I busied myself with cleaning a glass that had a bright pink lipstick stain, avoiding Alex’s eyes. I felt his heavy gaze.

“Listen, Darling, I don’t mind helping you. I actually prefer to know a young woman safe under my roof instead of on the streets, but I’m always a father first.”

“I’m sorry.” Alex knew that Wesley’s bruises were no angry boyfriend’s doing. Of course he knew I was responsible. “I don’t know why your son hates me. Trace that is, not Wes. Wes is really nice. But Trace took his hatred for me out on Wesley, sorry.”

“Trace did that?”

“Oh. You didn’t-”

“I was about to ask you not to shag either of them.”

“Oh. Oh, no. You don’t have to, I mean, uhm, I wouldn’t ever. No. Just…” I shook my head rapidly.

“Okay.” Alex chuckled. “Now that that’s sorted, how about I open the door and you pick the first CD?”

Anything to steer away from a conversation about my sex life. I rushed over to the black stereo system. All of the CDs were very classic rock mixes, so old even I knew the bands simply because everyone knew the bands. I pulled a CD with a blank cover from low in the stack. The CD itself was blank, too. It might hold no songs at all but I was willing to try my luck with that instead of choosing a particular band and then be judged by my taste in music. Or the lack of it.

I pushed the disc in and listened to the spinning before the bass and the violins kicked in. My head was a moment away from bobbing frantically with the unknown beats, when a hand reached around me and the music was stopped.

“Not that one,” Trace murmured.

I jumped. He was closer to my ear than I’d even noticed. Not that I’d noticed him creeping up on me in the first place. It was stupid, really, because he smelled strongly like soap and a darkly deep, male smell, that could make you forget that this chest heaving against my shoulder was that of a lunatic. I couldn’t help brushing against him, when I staggered to the side.

“Sorry,” I choked and watched amazed as he carefully handled the disc in his fingertips and firmly closed its casing, putting in another CD with as much attention. It was hard to imagine those same hands bashing in Wes’s face, but I’d witnessed it. “Wesley lied for you, to your Dad. He looks terrible.”

Trace cocked his eyebrow at me and hid the blank CD in the drawer beneath the stereo. “Am I supposed to feel bad?”

“Yes.” I couldn’t believe I had to explain basic humanity to this guy. “He’s your brother. You don’t just go around and punch people who love you. You don’t go around punching people period. Unless they’re really big, giant douchebags who did some very bad stuff.”

He smirked. “Very bad stuff, huh?”