Page 10 of Brazen Being It

But I don’t.

Because people like him don’t really help girls like me. They feel sorry for us. Maybe they want to save us. But nobody stays.

When my shift ends at five, I walk back toward the motel, my steps heavy. The sky’s turning that soft blue just before dawn, the kind that makes everything look washed out and worn. I get to the room and twist the door knob slowly. That is the thing about this old hotel. The door locks are old school with a regular key, not one of those fancy key cards. She left the door unlocked. My chest tightens in fear. I’m half afraid of what I’ll find.

Inside, Momma’s awake. Barely. She’s sitting up now, blanket wrapped around her like a cocoon, her eyes hollow.

“Frankie came,” she mumbles.

I’m sure he did in more ways than one. She can’t pay him in money, he keeps too much of his cut of bringing her clients. He uses her body as much as the men who pay him to have access to her. It’s disgusting. But she doesn’t listen. My stomach knots. “When?”

“While you were gone. He brought me something. Told me I’m beautiful.”

“What time, Momma? How long ago?” I need to know how long until the withdrawal starts again. We are stuck on this cycle that she refuses to break.

She gives me a snarl. “I don’t look at the clock. Don’t be so hateful to Frankie. He takes care of me.”

I don’t say anything. Because I want to scream. I want to punch a hole in the wall. I want to cry. Instead, all I do is nod. I’ve argued with her before about him, about our situation, about everything and nothing. In the end, I can’t reach her.

Momma lays back down, smiling like she’s high on life. I know that look. That numb, floaty smile that means she’s checked out for the rest of the day. I pull off my hoodie and jeans and lie down on the second bed. I stare at the ceiling fan and count the slow, lazy turns.

One.

Two.

Three.

The paper with Little Foot’s number is still in my pocket. Taunting me.

I pull it out and lay it on the nightstand. Just in case. Because as much as I tell myself I don’t need anyone…There’s a small, fragile part of me that wants to believe I might be wrong. Finally, I give into the fatigue of the night shift and sleep for a few hours.

The next day blurs by in waves of silence. I clean up around the room, not because I care but because I can’t sit still. I scrub at the crusted sink, organize the handful of toiletries we’ve scraped together, pick up the empty bottles and wrappers that always seem to multiply overnight. It doesn’t help. The air still smells like old cigarettes and despair.

Momma barely moves. She’s quiet now. Too quiet.

Around noon, I sneak across the lot to the vending machine outside the office and press my ear against the glass. It buzzes low, steady, like it’s breathing. I slide in the last of our change for a water bottle and a pack of crackers.

Breakfast, lunch, and dinner.

I sit on the curb, legs stretched out, letting the sun warm my face while I nibble the crackers slow. It’s not hunger that eats at me. It’s fear.

Because I know what’s coming.

Frankie doesn’t just show up to say hello. He shows up when he wants something. And if Momma isn’t good for it, he comes after me. He’s never touched me—at least not yet—but I’ve seen the way he looks at me. The kind of look that sticks to your skin long after he’s gone. It is coming, I feel it.

The kind of look that makes you wish you were invisible.

Back in the room, I sit at the little table and stare at my phone. I haven’t called anyone in weeks. Haven’t had anyone to call. No friends left. No family. Just Momma and Frankie’s shadow creeping in from every corner. I pay for the phone under one of those pay as you go things, but it’s a flat fee for unlimited usage.

Usage that doesn’t happen regularly. In fact, outside of getting called into work when someone calls out, I don’t actually talk to anyone on it.

I pull out the paper with Little Foot’s number again. It’s crumpled now, worn soft from how many times I’ve held it. Pick it up, put it in my pocket, take it out, put it on the nightstand, all over and over on repeat.

I don’t think. I just dial. The phone rings twice before he picks up.

“Yeah?” His voice is low, scratchy, like he’s been smoking or maybe just woke up.

“It’s me,” I say, and realize too late I didn’t say who.

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