The Guardian (24 page)

T
WENTY-EIGHT

“Get up.”

I squeeze my eyes tighter, then open them, blinking. “What?”

My mom stands in the doorway,
arms crossed, scowling,
her
lips pressed in a hard, angry line. “You’re not going to
lay
around all day doing nothing.” She enters my room and marches to the blinds, twisting them until they’re fully open.

“I haven’t been lying around all day,” I mumble. “
Unless you think I sleep in my bathing suit.”

She ignores this. “Well, since you have nothing better to do than go to the beach and nap, you can take the dirty clothes to the
laundromat
.”

I groan. I hate doing laundry.

“While you’re there you can ask if t
hey’re hiring.”

“I’m looking for a job,” I remind her.

She crosses the room. “It looks like you’re looking real hard. I’ve already taken on extra shifts to cover for you. As it is I’m going to have to find something else or we aren’t going to make rent ne
xt month.”

“Well, we’re used to that,” I reply, rolling my eyes.

“This time was supposed to be different,” she snaps. “I was counting on you.”

“It’s always supposed to be different, Mom. When are you
gonna
learn?”

“It
was
different . . . until you got your
self
fired
.” Her voice grows louder, angrier with every word.

“It was an accident,” I point out. “It was a crappy job anyway.”

“It was an honest living!”

“That we
never
seemed to be able to live off of!”

She exhales a loud sigh, shakes her head. When she f
inally speaks, her voice is calmer. “There aren’t many opportunities out there for people like us, Genesis.”

I despise how she lumps me into the same category as her. Because there’s no way I’m going to let myself end up like her. I will never be forty and
waiting tables. I’m going to be better than that. “Why don’t you just ask Mike for help? He seems to be coming around a lot lately.”

“My personal life is none of your business.”

Instinctively, my hands curl into fists, jaw tightening. She judged Seth bef
ore she even knew him, then she demanded he never come over again. I force back a sarcastic laugh. “So it’s okay for you to interfere with
my
personal life, but I can’t ask about yours.”

“That’s different. I’m your mother. I have a right to know.”

I roll off my bed and pull open my dresser drawers, searching for clean shorts and a t-shirt. “We’re equal,” I remind her. “Equal paychecks, equal responsibilities . . .”

“Don’t even go there again,” she interrupts, voice clipped. “I still haven’t forgiven
you for the way you treated me.”

I slip a new shirt over my head, covering my bathing suit top. “I don’t recall asking for your forgiveness,” I point out. “I don’t even think I’m sorry.”

“Take the laundry and get out,” she demands.

“I’m glad I have your
permission,” I call out, heading down the hallway. “Because that’s exactly what I’m going to do. As soon as I have the money I’m leaving.
For good.
Good luck getting the electricity turned back on when I’m not around to hand over my tip money.”

She shuffle
s around the kitchen, yanking open doors and slamming them shut. “You wouldn’t last a month without me!”

“Actually?
I think I could do better.”

As I slide my feet back into my flip flops, I notice the plastic laundry
bin
blocking the hallway, overflowing.
The smell of chicken fingers and French fries lingers in the air, sucking me straight to Ernie’s kitchen. I lean over and hoist it up. My shoes slap against my feet as I head through the living room toward the front
door,
bin propped against my hip. I rele
ase the lock with my free hand and drive it open with my foot.

“I’ll bet he’s married,” I say as I walk out.

The screen door bangs shut, separating us. I smile, making my way down the driveway, feeling every rock and shell beneath the thin soles, satisfied
.

T
WENTY-NINE

The sun has just dipped below the horizon when I return. Moose is gone. Mom is at work. I carry the laundry basket inside, setting it on the living room floor as I enter. I grab the clothes that are mine and take them to my
room, kicking the door shut behind me.

The house is silent.

The light of dusk glows faintly through the window, washing my room in grays and blues, shadowed.

Uneasy in the darkness, I walk over to my light switch and flip it on.
Nothing.
I flip it down,
then
up again.
Nothing.
I flick it a few more times.

“Great,” I mutter. “Fabulous.” And this is supposed to be the
good
season. I feel a spark of anger simmering beneath my skin and I want to scream. This was never supposed to happen again. It’s
always
nev
er supposed to happen again. I smooth my hair with my hands, pulling it into a short ponytail at the nape of my neck.

My mind swirls dizzily as thoughts tangle together.

This isn’t possible. It’s Saturday
.
The electric company is closed. Why would they s
hut off power on a weekend?

I move to the window and peek through the blinds. Already the streetlamps shine, spotlighting the pavement. Just up the street, one house has its porch lights on. The interior of the home beside it is lit.

It’s just us.

I trudge to my dresser and open the bottom drawer. A half a dozen candles roll with the momentum. I reach for a candle and a holder,
then
fish around for a matchbook.

“What sucks,” I murmur, lighting the match and holding it against the wick, “is that not
only does this not surprise me whatsoever . . . I’m actually prepared.” I wave the match until the flame goes out. A copper glow fills the room. A stream of smoke wafts to the ceiling. I inhale deeply and lay the spent match on top of my dresser. For some
reason, the room appears dimmer with the candle lit.
 

In the next moment, something slams shut at the back of the house.

My stomach plummets. I freeze, listening.

Nothing.

I lean forward and blow out the candle. The room plunges into darkness. I feel m
y way along the dresser until I reach the door. I grasp for the handle, hand trembling,
then
lock it. I jump back, the sound of my slowing heartbeat reverberating in my ears. I gulp, suffocating on air.

Maybe Mom came home early.

But I know the driveway i
s empty.

Maybe it’s some kind of draft.

A shiver rolls through me. I hug myself tightly.

I take a few deep breaths, working to calm my racing nerves and rapid pulse. Hands shaking, I reach for the matchbook on my dresser. My fingers quiver as I rip out a
new match.
Just as I’m ready to strike . . . another rumble.
A slam.
A rumble.
A slam.
What sounds like drawers, rattling, open and
shut.
Open and shut.

My knees weaken, wobbling beneath my weight.

Someone’s in the house.

I release the unlit match and
the book and catapult across my bed. I unlatch the lock of the window and push it up. It doesn’t budge. “Shit. Come on,” I choke. Tears sting the corners of my eyes, blurring my vision. “Come on. Come on. Come on,” I beg, whispering. A wave of warmth washe
s over me. With one final surge of strength, the window opens. I stop, scrutinizing the darkened room.

“Are you here?” I breathe.

No answer.

I force the screen out of its track. The twigs on the overgrown bushes claw at my legs as I lower myself to the
ground, leaving tiny, superficial scratches.

I sprint across the lawn, stopping once to glance at the house. It’s dark.
Lost in the shadows.

The shops and restaurants lining The Strip light up the night sky, giving the illusion of mid-day. Cars race in bo
th directions. I bend over, holding the cramp piercing my side, beads of perspiration spotting my forehead.
 
 
 
 
 

A car horn beeps behind me. I jump, startled.
A carload of guys pass, whistling and cat calling.

“Assholes,” I mutter. I hate this street. I h
ate these people. I hate this town.

I jog to Ernie’s, the only place I know to go. My
calves
burn, constricting with every step.

When I finally reach the parking lot, it’s empty. The building lights are out. A chill ripples through my veins. The restauran
t shouldn’t be closed. Not at this hour. My flip flops smack against the asphalt of the vacant lot as I move to the side of the building, where Mom usually parks. Moose is gone.

Perfect.

I step into the bark of the landscaping and peer through one of the
tinted windows. The kitchen lights are on.

Maybe Stu is still here. He might know what’s going on, where I can find Mom.

I pound on the front door, banging with my fist, and watch through the glass, expecting to see Stu pop out from the back at any mome
nt.

Nothing.

I tug on the handle, anticipating resistance. But it opens.

I enter the darkened building. The streetlights and traffic cast strange shadows inside the dining room. They
dance, moving, swallowed by the darkness. The place is clean, floors swept, chairs flipped upside down on the tables. The smell of bleach permeates the air, caustic, sharp.

I cover my nose with my fingers.
“Stu?”
I call, voice wavering. “Ernie? Is anyone h
ere?”

Nothing.

Who would’ve left the kitchen light on? And the front door wide open?

“Is anyone here?” My voice cracks.

A low moan.
A groan.
The sound like ice on my skin.

I swallow hard. My heart pounds in my chest, hammering its way through my rib cage
, blood roaring in my ears.

“It’s Genesis. Is anyone here?”

I maneuver slowly around the tables, footsteps light, and pass into the kitchen. “Hello?” I whisper.

Another groan.

“Stu?”

I scramble closer, crashing to the floor beside him. Blood pours from
his nose. His eyes are swollen black and red, unrecognizable.
 

“Oh my God.”
I force my lungs to fill, lightheaded and unsteady.

I reach for a dishtowel and place it carefully against his nose to stop the bleeding.
“Stu?
What happened?” I breathe. “Who did
this? Were you robbed? Why is the restaurant closed? Where’s my mom?” The questions tumble out one after the other. Stu doesn’t answer any of them. Already the blood pools around his head.

“I’m going to call for help, okay?”

I stand, knees wobbling benea
th my weight, and stagger toward Ernie’s office.

When I pull open the door . . .

“What’s up, Genesis?”

I jump back, stomach clenching in fear, heart fumbling a beat.

“Shit,
Arsen
. What’s going on? What happened to Stu?”

A bitter smile twists his lips. “
There was a little
accident
,” he explains, expression smug.

“Did you call someone?”

“Maybe.”
He pauses, wicked eyes dancing.
“Maybe not.”

I try to push by him, but he remains fixed in the doorway. He leans his arm across the frame and laughs. My eyes trave
l past him, and I realize: he’s not alone.
Two guys.
And a girl.
A girl in shorts and a tank top, hair bright red, a tattoo sleeve crawling up her arm, the images seeming to move.
 
I step back, muscles quivering with effort.