Page 8 of Mr. Edwards
Chapter 3
Carlee
(10 years old)
Rolling over in bed and clutching my middle, I groan into my pillow. The constant spasms that accompany an empty stomach are unfortunately my norm, but it doesn’t make it hurt any less. My head throbs to the point I’m struggling to sleep. It’s not the first time I’ve felt like this, you think I’d be used to it by now, but I’m not.
I’m four days into spring break, and my mother, Roxy, has been MIA for two of them. The first few days she was holed up in her room, sleeping off a three-day bender. When she finally rose from the dead, she showered, slathered on a full face of makeup, clad herself in one of her sexiest dresses, and headed out to do it all over again.
Most kids look forward to school breaks, but not me. At least I’m guaranteed a meal at the cafeteria.
Tossing back the threadbare blanket that covers me, I rise from the paper-thin mattress that lies on the floor of the small two-bedroom trailer I share with my mom. Unlike her, I don’t have a bed frame. For as long as I can remember, I’ve been stuck in the far back corner of this shitty trailer. Out of sight, out of mind, I guess.
I make my way into the tiny combined kitchen/living/dining space, opening the pantry. It’s not the first time I’ve done this over the past few days. I sigh… it’s still empty. I knew it would be, but it didn’t stop me from hoping food would somehow magically appear.
A girl can dream.
Glancing up at the clock on the wall I see it’s just after 1:00 am. It’s not the first time my mom hasn’t come home when expected. She said she’d bring back food, but her empty promises don’t mean much to me anymore. She breaks them often.
Grabbing the lone cup that sits beside the sink, I turn on the cold-water faucet, ignoring the loud protest of the creaky old pipes as I pour myself a tall glass of water, chugging it down. Unfortunately, it doesn’t fill the empty void in my stomach, but it’s something at least.
Pacing back and forth like a caged lion, I eventually head to my room and tug open the bottom drawer of my dresser. If she won’t come home, then I’m going out to look for her. What choice do I have?
I pull out a pair of my mom’s old sweats. They’re a little big, but at least they fit. It’s been a long time since I’ve gotten any clothes from Goodwill. I’ve outgrown most of what I own, and even though these pants are faded and worn, I’m grateful to have something that doesn’t feel like it’s cutting off my circulation, or about to bust at the seams. I’m sick of getting teased by the kids at school for the way I dress, I can’t help it that I’m poor.
Slipping my legs into the pants, I roll the waist a few times to keep them from falling down. The T-shirt I’m wearing is also one of my mom’s old ones; it sits just above my knees because I’ve yet to have a growth spurt. I’ve always been tiny for my age. I’m not sure if it’s from lack of nutrition or just my genetic makeup.
The streets are eerily quiet, well except for the noise the sole of my right shoe makes whenever I take a step forward.The slap, slap, slapping sound of the loose rubber connecting with the concrete, echoes in the silence.
It’s over a mile from the trailer park to the strip club, where my mom works for extra cash to supplement her welfare payments. I’ve done this walk a heap of times, but today seems more difficult. The lack of food has made me weak.
For normal folks, I’m sure the thought of a ten-year-old girl wandering the streets alone in the middle of the night would be shocking…unheard of, but for kids like me, it’s nothing out of the ordinary. I’ve been looking after myself for as long as I can remember.
I come from a single-parent home—well if you can call it a home—my mom’s mostly absent, and even if she’s present, she’s not. She’s either drunk, high as a kite, or screwing some random dude. Whoever they are, none of them stick around long. They’re originally taken in by her beauty, but it doesn’t take long for her ugliness on the inside to shine through.
It’s still dark out when I arrive at Juicy Lucy’s, that’s the name of this wonderful place. It just screams class, right? In hindsight, I guess it’s fitting my mother would frequent this dump. She may scrub up alright in the looks department, with a seemingly endless supply of men, but classy is not a word most would use to describe her—crazy-ass bitch, a drunk, junkie, or whore are just a few of the names she’s been called over the years.
The men she meets here are the wrong kind. She’s never going to get her shit together hanging out with this crowd.
I dart between the vehicles in the parking lot as I sneak toward the front of the building. I shouldn’t be here; the last time I came, Roxy beat me so bad I couldn’t get out of bed for two days. She’s warned me not to show my face around here again, but I guess I’m a glutton for punishment, I have nothing to lose.
If she doesn’t kill me, starvation certainly will.
The strip club lies at the end of the main street in the seedy part of town. The once bustling strip mall is now littered with long-forgotten businesses and boarded-up storefronts. Only a pawn shop and a dingy old laundromat remain. It’s where the thieves, drug dealers, and prostitutes now reside. These streets are haunted by the undesirables. It’s a scary place for some, but I’ve lived much worse.
I resist the urge to rub my hands along my arms to warm my frosty skin as I come to a stop beside an old red pickup truck. It’s early April, but evenings still get chilly. I’m not opposed to the cold. California is one of the warmer states in the US, but our winters can be brutal, especially in our shitty run-down trailer, with a leaky roof, no heating, and not a warm blanket in sight. The weather has nothing on hunger though. I’d gladly walk through a snowstorm, or a desert for that matter, as long as my stomach was full.
Crouching down, I push the loose strands of my long, blonde hair back inside the baseball cap I’m wearing. I’ve tucked it up so I look like a boy. I’ve learned from previousexperience, that I’m less likely to gain attention if I do. A young girl in this area is easy prey.
The hat is the only thing I have left of my dad. I don’t remember much about him, but I do recall he was always wearing this. Roxy threw all his belongings onto the dirt outside our trailer within hours of him being hauled away by the cops, leaving a free-for-all for the scavengers nearby. I was quick to pluck it off the top of his discarded clothes, hiding it in my room. One day when he gets out of prison and returns for me, I know he’ll be happy I saved this for him.
My head moves from left to right as I take in my surroundings. The strip club is a large, box-shaped, brick building that was painted jet black somewhere during its history. The color makes it almost disappear under the dark backdrop of the night sky, only illuminated by the hot-pink neon sign that flashes across the front facade.
There’s no sign of my mother anywhere. I don’t even know if she’s inside, but I know better than to march up to the door and ask for her. When her boss first found out she had a kid, thanks to me showing up here, he gave her earlier stage times so she could be home at a decent hour to care for me.What a joke. All it got me was an ass-whooping.
My eyes are locked on the bouncer that mans the front door. He’s a different guy from the last one. He’s younger and not bad-looking, I wonder if Roxy has gotten her claws into him yet. She has a few good years on him, but I doubt that would be a deterrent.
He glances around briefly before dipping his head to continue scrolling through the phone that’s clutched in his hand. I use the distraction to move closer. Staying hunched over, I dart toward the side of the building. Thankfully the drowned-out music coming from insidelessons the annoying sound of my busted shoe as I bolt toward the alleyway. I need to get my hands on some tape because getting a new pair of shoes is highly unlikely.
