Page 43 of Dizzy

Dizzy did mention the laundry.

I don’twantto do laundry, but the quiet makes me jumpy. Makes my brain veer toward memories I’m working really hard to block. Walls closing in. My throat raw from screaming.

I haven’t seen the washing machine in my travels. There has to be one in a house this nice. I knew a girl in elementary school who had a house like this. I lived for sleepover invitations. I thought her parents were millionaires. The invitations dried up in junior high. The kids who lived in town went to one school and hicks like us went to another.

Her laundry room was in the basement.

I bop on downstairs, fully expecting another theme. Instead, there is anarchy. An overstuffed L-shaped sofa covered in blankets, stuffed animals, and a camouflage sleeping bag. A coffee table with pop cans, deflated bags of chips, a lollipop without a wrapper, candy wrappers.

The floor is a mine field. A race car set with loop-de-loops. Action figures. A castle. Lacrosse sticks. Bright orange plastic rifle. Wooden slingshot. Miniature catapult. A bop bag. Balls. Soccer ball, basketball, tennis balls, ping-pong balls, kickballs, footballs, Nerf balls.

There’s a toy chest and bright-colored tubs on racks, but best I can tell, they’re empty.

The curtains are pulled tight, and the lights are dim. It takes a second to make out Carson. He’s lying on his stomach in the middle of the debris, controller in his hands. He hasn’t bothered to move anything, so he’s kind of half lying on a board game, his upper body resting on a giant stuffed tortoise.

“You gonna play?” he asks.

“I’ll start the laundry first. Is it down here?”

“Yeah, down the hall. When you get back, the other controller is somewhere on the couch. Just dump the other stuff on the floor.”

No, I won’t. And I ain’t cleaning this room.

Not for money.

Not fornothin’.

And if the laundry room looks like this, I’m gonna bolt, money or no money. Screw the Steel Bones Motorcycle Club. There are fates worse than death.

But not really.

I sigh. I’m stuck.

When I left Dalton, I swore no more kids, no more constant drudge work, no more takin’ care of ungrateful folks who literally would not notice if I died. And here I am. Wading through the debris of Hurricane Unsupervised Kids.

My fingers itch to put it to rights. But I’m not gonna. Sooner or later, Steel Bones is gonna lose interest in me. I’m very forgettable. And the moment they get bored—sooner if I can figure out a way—I’m out of here.

I pick my way through the crap, heading down a narrow corridor. The laundry room is at the end. I breathe a sigh of relief when I flick the light on. There are overflowing hampers, but the clothes are sorted. There’s nothing on the floor. There’s a stocked shelf with all sorts of detergents.

I check the door to make sure there’s no lock before I shut it, blocking out the pew-pew of gunfire and explosions coming from the family room.

This is probably the cleanest room in the house. Thank goodness. The Laundromat in Dalton is filthy. It reeks of cigarettes ‘cause the good townspeople figure the county smoking ban can go fuck itself. There are cobwebs in the corners, and Lord help you if your sheets drag the floor as you’re folding them.

Up in here, there’s a huge front-loading stainless steel washing machine and a perfectly matching dryer. They’re almost as tall as I am.

You could do two regular-sized loads in ‘em at a time.

There’s a load in the dryer. I pop it open—kid’s clothes. Psshh. They could’ve gotten triple this in if they’d tried.

I snag an empty basket and unload. There’s a clear table for folding and an ironing board hanging from hooks on the wall.

The room smells like dryer sheets. There are small, high windows that allow in some sunshine. Heat’s blasting from the vents, so it’s cozy warm. This is my favorite room in the house. All I need is music. Lord, I miss my phone.

I dump the rumpled clothes, shake ‘em out, and fold. There’s a pair of gray sweats. Probably Parker’s. I try ‘em on. They hit me mid-calf, but they fit around the waist. Way better than Sharon’s fat pants. I also find a long-sleeved raglan T-shirt with red arms and the Bud logo. My boobs are gonna stretch it out, but it covers my midriff.

The folding takes no time at all. I throw in a white load, hoping I add the right amount of detergent. I’m used to powder, not liquid.

I’m reading the bottle when I hear Dizzy’s deep voice from the family room.

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