Total pages in book: 51
Estimated words: 50311 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 252(@200wpm)___ 201(@250wpm)___ 168(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 50311 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 252(@200wpm)___ 201(@250wpm)___ 168(@300wpm)
“Because I saw you yesterday. Picking up change in the lot. Thought maybe you needed a friend.”
I cross my arms. “I don’t need anything from anyone.” I don’t know if I’m aggravated because of my distrust or because more than anything I’m embarrassed.
He nods like he understands. But he doesn’t. No one does. Still, I take the dollar. “Thanks, though, I was missing it.” I lie.
“Anytime,” he says before he does the strangest thing. He hands me a piece of paper with his number scribbled on it.
“In case you ever want to talk.”
He walks off like it’s nothing. But for me? It’s everything. Because for the first time in a long damn time… maybe even ever.
Someone saw me.
Failing to get my mother out of her slump, I go about my afternoon. Frankie doesn’t come and sometimes I swear he does this so she feels the beginning of withdrawal and craves him more. She thinks he is some kind of savior. He’s not a saint, he is the damn devil.
Evening comes, I walk across the street for my shift at the gas station. As soon as I turned eighteen last month, I applied to work here. Thankfully the manager was willing to give me a chance. The night shift sucks but I need money to keep the hotel paid for until we can get an apartment again.
The parking lot is mostly empty, except for a couple of vehicles at gas pumps, and one old Buick that hasn’t moved in three weeks. I tug my hoodie tighter as the wind picks up, the kind that carries dust and forgotten dreams.
Gary is inside behind the counter, reading some crumpled magazine he keeps stashed under the register. He barely looks up when I walk in. Just grunts and slides over to the time clock. He’s older, probably in his fifties. Always sloppy in appearance, not that I can say much given my clothing is always a mess. But I’m clean. I shower every day. I’m not so sure Gary does. He has a beer belly that his rumpled t-shirts barely covers.
“Clean the coffee station,” he says. “And the men’s room.”
“Sure thing,” I mutter. Knowing I do this every night.
The bell above the door jingles behind me as I head to the back. I fill the pot, wipe down the counters, scrape dried creamer off the tile. This job isn’t glamorous. It barely pays. But it’s the only thing keeping me and Momma off the streets.
At 2 a.m., I take my break. I sit out back behind the dumpster, legs crossed, eating a granola bar I stashed in my hoodie pocket. I pull out the paper Little Foot gave me and stare at the number. I think about texting him. Just to see if he meant 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.