Chapter 1
“You stupid fucking bitch!” his voice travels down the hallway. A glass breaks, a chair gets knocked over, a dull thud, then back to the tense silence.
I sigh as the warmth of the dream melts away like cotton candy on my tongue.
My chest aches whenever I dream of that time with Mama.
I remember her words, even though I didn’t fully understand them.
How the sunlight hit her face, how it caught in her hair, and how I thought she looked like a glowing angel.
I thought the world would always be that small.
Just us, a messy kitchen, and music we could dance to.
I didn’t know people could break. That sometimes they disappear without ever leaving.
That love can curdle and laughter can fade like smoke.
Sometimes, when I close my eyes, I go back to that moment. To her heartbeat under my cheek.
To the last time she felt like home.
As I sit up slowly, the worn spring mattress creaks beneath me. When my feet hit the floor, the cold zips up my leg and goosebumps erupt in their wake. My shoulder throbs, and my shirt is stuck to my back. I can’t help but wince as I slowly peel the shirt away from the cuts.
The air smells stale and sour with mildew.
Early morning light leaks through the duct tape and grime that cover the window, casting the room in that ugly yellow light.
The walls are yellow too, but not the nice kind like sunshine or buttercream.
It’s the kind of yellow that looks like it used to be white, before water and nicotine stains ate through it.
I stand slowly, my body aching. Some of it old, some of it new, some pains will never go away.
Most of which I don’t want to think about.
I lift my shirt and look in the cracked mirror that sits against the wall.
The bruise on my ribs is turning green around the edges.
There’s a darker purple one across my stomach, with faint finger marks along my arm.
What little clothes I have are stored on broken hangers in the closet, if you can even call it that.
Different hoodies and shirts from the lost and found, a couple were stolen.
Two pairs of jeans, and a pair of forgotten sweatpants I swiped from a bench in the locker room.
One pair of jeans fits for the most part, but I can’t button up since the button is gone, and the other I’ve been wearing for two weeks straight.
Nothing matches. None of it is really mine.
I grab a t-shirt and a black hoodie, sniffing it before pulling it on. I pull on the same jeans because I don’t really have much of a choice.
“Celia!” his voice booms throughout the small house. “What the fuck is this?”
I can’t hear Mama’s reply, but a few seconds later, a door slams.
“Did you just slam my fucking door?” Heavy footsteps pound down the hall like drumbeats in my ears, warning me of the inevitable danger.
I grab my backpack and slip out of the window before the footsteps get too close.
The walk to school takes twenty minutes. I cut through the gas station and through an alley full of broken glass from a busted window.
By the time I make it to school, I'm still thirty minutes early. I make my way to the girls’ bathroom on the far side where no one goes.
The last sink, farthest from the door, doesn't squeal the entire time the water is on.
I rinse my face with ice-cold water. Brush my teeth with a dollar-store toothbrush, bristles fried from use, and a travel toothpaste that is just about out.
The door creaks open, and I don't have to turn to look.
“You look like hell.”
I glance up to meet her eyes in the mirror. “Good morning to you too, Maeve.”
Maeve hops up on the counter beside me. She's wearing different colored socks, a hoodie that she is swimming in, and her blonde curls have been shoved underneath a beanie that has a faded middle finger patch on it.
Her eyeliner is smudged like she went to sleep with it on.
Probably did. She digs through her bag and holds out a roll of mints.
“Picked these up for you, just in case you get tired of that off-brand cinnamon flavor.”
I pocket them with a silent nod of thanks.
“Your eye is a little puffy,” she says with a shrug. “Just say the word, I’ll key his car.”
Rummaging through my busted backpack, I dig out the dollar-store concealer I managed to steal and begin patting the concealer gently over the bruising on my jaw.
“I’m fine.”
Maeve rolls her eyes like always.
I fish out the plastic comb, missing a couple of teeth, out of my bag and start trying to detangle the birds’ nest on my head. The light flickers overhead like fluorescent hell, but still better than home. I quickly give up trying to tame my ash brown hair and pull it back into a messy bun.
“Did you do the history assignment?” she asks, digging through her hoodie pocket for a stick of gum, ripping it in half, and handing me one side.
I pop it in my mouth. “Didn’t get the chance.”
She pulls hers out and hands it to me. I copy it as quickly as possible. Half of me expects a teacher to come in and bust me, but the other half knows no one will. They never do.
Maeve and I have been friends for years. Most kids didn’t want to hang out with the kid who wore the same dirty clothes for weeks at a time. Maeve offered me her juice box one day at lunch, and we’ve been like sisters ever since.
Maeve fidgets with the string on her hoodie and chews her gum as I copy the homework. This is what friendship looks like when you're surviving. A half-used assignment. A mint. A place to brush your teeth without being touched.
“You know you can always stay at mine, right? My mom already said it’s fine. I have blankets and pillows to make a cot for you in my room, or you can sleep on the couch.”
Maeve says this at least once a week without fail. I love her and her mom for being there for me, but I never take them up on it.
“I can’t,” I mumble, handing her back her assignment.
“You can,” her voice is sharp, “you just won’t.”
“She needs me.”
Maeve scoffs, “She needs rehab, and your stepdad needs a one-way ticket to a shallow grave.”
I flinch at her words.
“Sorry,” she mutters, “you know I just hate seeing you like this.”
“I know.”
The silence stretches, loaded with all the things we know the other will say.
“She was better before,” I whisper. “Before him.”
Maeve’s eyes soften as she nods. I sling my backpack over my shoulder just as the bell rings
“Well, no matter what happens, you know I’ve got you.”
I smile back at her and squeeze her arm.
“If you change your mind, though, just come. No questions, no explanations needed. I’ll leave my window unlocked.” She nudges me gently.
I nod. I won’t go, and she knows it.
At lunch, Maeve hands me the extra sandwich her mom always makes for me. Peanut butter and jelly, a little squished, wrapped in wax paper.
“Tell her thanks,” I mumble, taking a bite.
Maeve shrugs. “She already knows.”
I take my time eating only half, drinking water from the bottle I always refill at the water fountain. I wrap back up the other half and stash it in my hoodie pocket for dinner.
After the last bell, I head to the gym, and Maeve meets me outside.
The locker room is always empty this time of day, and, if I time it right, I can shower before any of the girls come back.
Maeve keeps a look out for me, pretending to scroll on her phone and bobbing slightly to the music playing in one ear.
I shower fast. The water is barely warm, and I use cheap soap that leaves my skin feeling dry. I inhale sharply as the water and suds run down my back, the cuts burning into me. Mumbling a curse, I push through the pain.
When I come out dressed, hair still dripping, Maeve tosses me my hoodie.
“Eight minutes,” she says, “new record.”
“Thanks.” I smirk, pulling the hoodie back over me and tying my hair back.
“You know I’d pay good money to see you fight someone for being in here.”
I giggle. “We don’t have any money.”
“True.”
We head out together, wet hair clinging to my neck and making my hoodie damp. No matter what I do, I always feel like there’s a thin layer of grime on my skin.
The sun’s low by the time we leave campus, long shadows casting their marks over the cracked sidewalk. Everything has a hazy film like weak tea. My boots scuff the pavement as we walk, our shoulders brushing sometimes.
“So,” Maeve drags the word out. “You’re turning eighteen next week.”
I make a noise that’s not quite a groan but not really a response, either.
“I was thinking,” Maeve continues undeterred, “we could do something fun. Maybe go to an arcade, sneak into a movie, break into the pool again.”
“We never even got in the pool.” I smile at the memory.
“No, but I nearly broke my ankle hopping the fence, so I think it still counts.”
I sigh, “I wish I could, but –”
“You can.” She bumps her shoulder against mine. “School will be out, you’ll be free for the weekend, you could sleep over. Come on, Iz, we’ll wear dumb clothes and pretend we’re not from this shithole for a night.”
“I can’t, because my birthday is on Friday.” My voice is quieter now, “You know how he gets when he gets paid.”
Her mouth flattens into a tight line. “Right.”
We walk in silence for a bit.
“Let’s go to the mall during the day. I just need to make sure I’m back before him,” I concede.
“I’ll take that. I just don’t want you spending your birthday alone.”
The farther we walk, the uglier the houses get. The grass gets patchier and changes colors. I tug my sleeves down over my hands, shoving them in my hoodie pocket.
“If I showed up with a baseball bat, would you let me swing it?”
“Depends on who you aim it at.” I chuckle when she shoots me a look.
“You know exactly who,” she deadpans.
Truth is, I hate my birthday. It’s never been about cake or candles or making wishes. It’s just another night I hope to survive unscathed.
“Maybe next year.” I sigh.
“Just saying, my window is always unlocked.”