Page 1 of Baby Duke

Chapter One

Roe

My mother once told me that blue skies will always follow a storm.

She lied.

After my mother's untimely death, there was storm after storm after storm, not a blue sky in sight.

I lived through my father's drunken aggressions, his drug-fueled disappearances, and his cheap, stinking hook-ups. I lived through empty stomachs, vermin-infested homes, and cold, dark showers when the power bill was forgotten. I attended school filthy and hungry, wearing the same clothes all week.

At 13, I stopped going to school altogether. I started drinking and smoking. I lost my virginity to a 40-year-old drug dealer in exchange for a joint I barely got a hit from before my fellow misfit acquaintances finished it off.

At 15, I was practically living on the streets. Anything to get away from my crack-head of a father. It wasn't long after that I had my first stint in Juvie.

The years that followed were a train wreck of home, homelessness, and juvenile detention. That's where I am now. My fuck-up father was supposed to collect me two days ago, but no one could find the asshat. He's probably on an extended holiday himself. And by that, I mean an all-out bender of a spaced-out drug haze. So, my extended stay has turned extra extended.

I'm lying on the thin, lumpy mattress; my feet kicked up against the mustard-yellow wall, when keys rattle against the door. Fucking,finally. If this isn't news of my dad, I'm going to raise all hell in this shit show.

Feigning indifference, I remain in my obnoxious pose on the bed, even going as far as blowing the prohibited, crazy-grape gum I had been chewing into a fair-sized bubble. Honestly, that one was a ripper, and I'm not too proud to say I am quite pleased with myself. I never was one for blowing bubbles with my gum. Usually, I succeeded in little wimp-ass midget balls that squeaked like a tight fart when they popped.

I give myself a lazy grin and maneuver the gum back into my mouth for another round. By this stage, there is some bitch in stilettos with an intoxicating amount of spicy perfume on, standing beside a plump man in white, who looks like a marshmallow, beside my head.

"Rupert, my man! You finally here to take me out of this shit show, then?" I say, making my voice unreasonably loud just for the assistant warden. My eyes flicker to the polished Barbie doll at his side. Her face is caked with makeup in a failed attempt to preserve her youth. "Who's this skank?"

Rupert frowned. "You forget your manners, Rowena. You know to call me Mr. Breigh."

"And I recall asking you to call me Roe, Rupee. Manners go both ways," I reply, letting my feet fall. I sit up on the mattress. I freakinghatemy name. Who the hell names their daughter anything with a synonym for "penis" in it? Mature Barbie has kept a serene smile on her thin, purple-painted lips. Gross. Anyone over 21 has no business wearing purple lipstick.

Mr. Breigh sighs as if I am a lost cause. I probably am. Scratch that, Iam.

Clearing his throat, Mr. Breigh finally gets down to business. "Rowena, dear, I'd like to introduce you to our psychologist, Mrs. Dupree'."

"I don't need no fucking shrink, Rupert," I hiss. "Where's my fucking dad? I was meant to get out of here days ago."

Mature Barbie takes this as her opening. She sits on the bed beside me (the fuck?) and takes my hand. I pull it back and fold my arms across my chest.

She smiles in apparent acceptance. "Roe, honey-"ok, she used my nickname, she couldn't be all bad"-It's about your father. He was found dead in his apartment 3 weeks ago. He overdosed sweetheart."

My breath hitches in my chest and I feel a sickening, burning sensation in my gut. My dad died? Three fucking weeks ago? A chasm in my chest that had been haphazardly sown shut after my mother died suddenly splits open again. I clutch at my chest in desperation as air refuses to reach my lungs. Wait, why am I panicking? I hated the lazy fucker. He ruined my life. He was supposed to be there for me once Mom was gone, but he shriveled into a dirty, old, miserable prune instead; nothing like the father I had laughed and played with in my earlier years.

I barely feel the gentle squeeze of arms around me until a tender hand runs through my hair. Belatedly, I realize my mother used to do that.

Blinking rapidly, I come back to the here and now. Mrs. Dupree's hands are ice cold, digging into my scalp and upper arm.

"Don't touch me," I whisper hollowly. She frowns at my rebuff. I clear my throat as she withdraws. "My old man's dead, huh? Good riddance."

"Denial is perfectly normal, honey," Mrs. Dupree' says sweetly. "Would you like to tell me what you're thinking about?"

"No," I reply shortly, then think better of it. "Actually, yes. How the hell am I going to get out of here now?"

Rupert, the puffy marshmallow, steps forward. "Not to worry, Rowena, your auntie Katherine has volunteered to take you in."

I snort. "I don't have an aunt."

"Now, I know your family was estranged," he continues, unhindered, "but your aunt is the only family you have left. It was either that or foster homes until your eighteenth birthday- "

"But that's barely three months from now!" I protest, "I've been self-reliant for years!"

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