Very Wicked Things
Page 3

But then he laughed, even though he’d said nothing funny. I forced myself to meet his eyes him, trying to hide my fear. I sensed he liked it when I was scared.
He’d strolled unhurriedly to the door, paused and called back softly, “I won’t forget you, dotchka.” His words had sounded like a promise.
But, I had never been his daughter.
And that incident had been months ago.
I wondered if he’d bring me food again. This time, I think, I was hungry enough to eat whatever he brought, right in front of him.
The soft music from the studio below started back up, snapping me back to the present.
I shook off those memories of my father and opened every drawer, cabinet, and hidey-hole, looking for something to eat or some change for the vending machines. I’d made the same search the day before with no luck, but I couldn’t just do nothing.
Survival drove me.
Having no luck in the kitchen, I went to mama’s bedroom again.
Jackpot. Behind a bag of pills, I discovered a roll of quarters, tucked into the very back of her make-up drawer. She might get mad and yell at me if I took it, but my hunger didn’t worry about the consequences.
Truthfully, these past few months, I’d become desperate, shoplifting more and hanging out at the park with the older kids. Perhaps I’ve given up. Because even at my young age, I recognized the truth: my somedays were killing me one dream at a time. I was never getting out of Ratcliffe. I was never going to dance.
I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror on the way out the door, doing a double take at how my jeans sagged. Just needed a belt, that’s all. I peered in closer, seeing my skinny face, touching the dark circles under my eyes. “You need a make-over,” I said aloud, thinking of the mindless shows I watched on television.
And so what if I wasn’t beautiful like mama? My movements were graceful, and my eyes were a pretty blue with hints of green around the iris. The hue wasn’t a pale color like the sky but deeper and more mysterious. Like indigo.
I twisted my hair up on top of my head. Heather-Lynn, one of the renters, called my hair color mink-brown which sounded pretty. Maybe later I’d find some pins and play with fixing it up into a bun like a ballerina. Maybe she’d be home and show me how. Maybe she’d offer to make me some of her tomato soup. It came from a can, but it was good, especially with a grilled cheese sandwich. My belly growled again.
With the roll of quarters in my hand, I walked out the door. If I thought our apartment was cold, the hallway outside was freezing. Someone had cracked a window at the end of the hall, probably to smoke. I tip-toed down the hallway and stopped in front of Heather-Lynn’s apartment and pressed my ear to her door. Eavesdropping, I’d decided, was a beneficial skill and surprisingly easy. Lately Heather-Lynn and her live-in boyfriend were fighting. Mostly about money—he didn’t have any—and men—Heather-Lynn flirted too much. I suspected he’d be moving out soon. Couldn’t say I’d miss him, but I loved Heather-Lynn.
But today, all I heard was silence.
All was clear, so I took off at a dead run and then leaped high in the air like a gazelle, spreading my legs apart mid-leap, landing with a triumphant grin. Yep, it may not have been a true grand jeté—one of my favorite ballet jumps—but in my head, it was spot-on.
Once on the first floor, I eased around the corner, my eyes automatically landing on the glass wall where I could see into the studio. Sarah stood at the barre, leading the dancers into their final cool down before they left to go home.
I got some cookies and chips from the vending machine and sat on one of the old wooden chairs that faced the dancers. Front row seats, baby. I devoured the chips in less than a minute, dragging a sleeve across my face to wipe the crumbs. Breakfast.
What school did those pretty girls go to?
Did their mamas leave them alone for days at a time?
Feeling guilty for my disloyal thoughts, I opened the Oreos, took out two and crammed them in, chewing nosily. At least I had a mama because some kids didn’t. I should be grateful for what I had.
Sarah caught my eyes and waved, her face bright like the radiance of a thousand suns. She reminded me of an Emily Dickinson poem, the one about how hope is like a bird and perches in your soul. We’d read it in class—before I quit—and I’d immediately thought of her, mostly because the bird is joyful and never stops singing, even through the coldest land.
I wanted to be that bird that never gives up, that endures; I wanted to be like Sarah.
But at this rate, I wouldn’t make it.
Because my future loomed, where, like my mama, I’d be alone and bitter and angry.
Perhaps I’d end up with a man like my father.
Perhaps I’d sell my body for money.
Perhaps I’d end up in a gutter or a dumpster or an alley.
Yet…
I looked back at Sarah. Why couldn’t I dance? What was stopping me?
Forgetting my hunger, I dropped my cookies to the floor and stood.
It’s corny, but I believe only a few moments in your life possess special magic, and I believe each person is given only a handful. Not sure I’d seen any yet. Until now.
And as the life I yearned for literally danced in front of my eyes, the dreams I’d let go came roaring back to the surface. I suddenly knew that if I didn’t plunge headfirst into this moment, this opportunity, I’d regret it forever.
In that cold hallway, my lost hope came back.
It was time to make my own someday.
I wanted to fly and now was my chance.