I shake my head. “No.”
Ryan presses his lips together and heads toward the entrance. I sneak a peek at his retreating form and my heart drops. Whatever messed-up moment we just experienced doesn’t change anything. Ryan goes for girls like Gwen and screws over girls like me. You can’t change destinies already written. That only happens in fairy tales.
I do feel sorry for him. Scott’s going to kill him by the end of the night. “Ryan?”
He glances over his shoulder. What do I say?
You’ve been fun to mess with, but I have to save my mom. I’m sorry that when you return to Groveton tonight without me, my uncle will rip off your balls and my aunt will serve them for dinner with a side of seaweed?
“Thanks.” The word tastes weird in my mouth.
He removes his baseball cap, runs his hand through his hair, and smashes it back into place. I look away to keep the guilt from killing me.
“I’m sorry,” he says.
I blink, unsure what he’s apologizing for, but I don’t ask for an explanation. I said my piece.
He said his. We’re even.
A teenage boy leaves the building and holds the door open for Ryan. He goes in while the other boy jingles his car keys. Thank you, fate, for lending me a hand. I tuck the cigarette into my back pocket and smile in a way that makes the boy assume he has a chance. “Can I bum a ride?”
NERVES VIBRATE IN MY STOMACH and I keep taking deep breaths. No matter how many times I inhale, I still have a hard time filling my lungs with air. Please, God, this one time, please let the asshole be gone. And please, please, please let Isaiah agree to my crazy plan once I show up with my mom in tow.
I thought about telling him about my plan beforehand, but, in the end, I knew he wouldn’t agree to Mom tagging along. He blames her for the problems in my life, but I know Isaiah. When I show up with her, begging to leave, he won’t let me down. He’ll take us—both.
The Last Stop is empty, but give it another hour or two and the bar will be filled. Even in daylight, the place is as dark as a dungeon. In his typical jeans and flannel shirt, Denny sits at his bar and hovers over a laptop, giving his face a bluish glow. Out of the corner of his eye, he spots me. “Heard your mom lost custody.”
“Yeah.”
He sips a longneck. “Sorry, kid.”
“How has she been?” My mouth dries out and it takes everything I have to act like his answer doesn’t matter to me.
“Do you really want to know?”
No. I don’t. “What do I owe you?”
He closes the laptop. “Nothing. Go back to where you came from. Anywhere has to be better than here.”
I go out the back. It’s the fastest way to Mom’s apartment. At night, the place is creepy in the shadows. During the day, the run-down apartment complex just looks sad and pathetic. Management spray-painted parts of the 1970s orange brick white to hide the graffiti. It’s a useless effort. The elementary kids paint their swear words back on the next night.
Since most of the windows are broken, the residents use cardboard and gray tape to cover the glass, except for the windows with the roaring air-conditioning units that leak water like faucets. Mom and I never had one of those. We were never that rich or lucky.
Asshole Trent lives in the complex across the parking lot from Mom. The only thing sitting in his parking spot is the large pool of black oil that seeps from his car when it’s parked. Good. I inhale again to still my internal shaking. Good.
After Dad left, Mom moved us to Louisville and we officially became gypsies, moving into a new apartment every six to eight months.
Some were so bad we left voluntarily. Others kicked us out after Mom missed rent. The trailer in Groveton and my aunt Shirley’s basement are the only stable homes I’ve ever known. The apartment near Shirley’s is the longest Mom has ever stayed in one place and it sucks that Trent is the reason why. I knock softly.
The door rattles as Mom unlocks the multiple dead bolts and, like I taught her to, she leaves the chain on when she opens the door an inch. Mom squints as if her eyes have never seen the sun. She’s whiter than normal, and the blond hair on the back of her head stands upright as if she hasn’t brushed it in days.
“What is it?” she barks.
“It’s me, Mom.”
She rubs her eyes. “Elisabeth?”
“Let me in.” And let’s get you out.
Mom closes the door, the chain jiggles as she unlocks it, and the door flies open. In seconds, she wraps her arms around me. Her fingernails dig into my scalp. “Baby? Oh, God, baby. I thought I’d never see you again.”
Her body shakes and I hear the familiar sniffling that accompanies her crying. I rest my head on her shoulder. She smells like a strange combination of vinegar, pot, and alcohol. Only the vinegar seems out of place. Part of me is thrilled to see her alive. The other part beyond annoyed. I hate that she’s high. “What did you take?”
Mom pulls back and runs her fingers through my hair in very fast successive motions. “Nothing.”
I note her red eyes and dilated pupils and tilt my head.
“Okay, just some pot.” She smiles while a tear runs down her face. “Do you want a bowl?
We have new neighbors and they’re into sharing. Let’s go.”
Snatching Mom’s hand, I push past her and into the apartment. “You need to pack.”
“Elisabeth! Don’t!”
“What the hell?” The place is trashed. Not like normal trashed. This is beyond dirty dishes, mud-caked floors, and fast-food wrappers on the furniture. The cushions of the couch lie on the threadbare carpet, both ripped open. The coffee table could now be used as kindling. The insides of Mom’s small television lie exposed near the three-foot kitchen.
“Someone broke in.” Mom shuts the door behind her, locking one of the dead bolts.
“Bullshit.” I turn and face her. “People who break in steal shit and you don’t have shit to steal. And what the hell is that stench?”
I dyed Easter eggs with Scott once and our trailer smelled like vinegar for days.
“I’m cleaning,” Mom says. “The bathroom. I got sick in there earlier.”
Her words hit me hard. Puking can mean an OD. My worst nightmare for my mother.
“What did you take?”
She shakes her head and nervously laughs.
“I told you, pot. A little beer. I’m barely buzzing.”
Ah, hell. “Are you pregnant?”
I hate it when she has to think for an answer.
“No. No. I’m taking those pills. It’s good you found a way to have them sent to me in the mail.”
Kneading my eyes with my palms, I gather my wits. None of this matters. “Get your stuff together. We’re leaving.”
“Why? I haven’t received an eviction notice.”
“We’re gypsies, remember?” I say, trying to lighten the mood. “We never stay still.”
“No, Elisabeth. You have the gypsy soul, not me.”
Her statement stops me short and I wait for her to explain. Mom sways from side to side. Whatever. She’s high and I don’t have time for this. I step over the shredded coffee table. “Isaiah offered to take me to the beach and you’re coming with us. We’ll lay low until I turn eighteen next summer and then we’ll be home free.”
“What about Trent?”
“He beats you. You don’t need that asshole!”
I spot a couple of plastic shopping bags in the corner. Those will do. Mom owns few items worth packing.
“Elisabeth!” Mom kicks the remains of the coffee table as she bolts after me. She grabs my arm. “Stop!”
“Stop? Mom, we have to go. You know if
Trent comes back and finds me here…”
She cuts me off and runs her fingers through my hair again. “He’ll kill you.” Her eyes pool with tears and she sniffles again. “He’ll kill you,” she repeats. “I can’t go.”
My entire body bottoms out like a fast sobering from a high. “You have to.”
“No, baby. I can’t go now. Give me a few weeks. I got some business to take care of and then we’ll leave together. I promise.”
Business? “We’re leaving. Now.”
Her fingers curl in my hair and tighten, yanking to the point of pain. She leans down and places her forehead to mine. The stench of beer rolls off her breath. “I promise. I promise I’ll go with you. Listen to me. I have to clean some stuff up. Give me a couple of weeks, then we’ll go.”
The doorknob wiggles and my heart kicks into high gear. He’s back.
Mom grips my hand painfully. “My bedroom.” She drags me through the apartment and loses her balance as she trips over the pieces of broken furniture. “Go out the window.”
Bile rises in my throat and I begin to shake.
“No. Not without you.”
Leaving Mom here is like watching sand run out of an hourglass while I’m chained to the wall, unable to flip it back over. Someday, Trent will go too far and it won’t just be a bruise or a broken bone. He’ll take the life out of her body. Time with Trent is an enemy.
“Sky!” Trent shouts when he enters the apartment. “I told you to keep the door unlocked.”
Mom hugs me tightly. “Go, baby,” she whispers. “Come and get me in a few weeks.”
She rips the cardboard off the glass and I jump back when a hand shoots through the already open window. “Give her to me.”
Isaiah pokes his head in and both of his hands latch onto my body. I stop breathing and realize one way or another, one of these guys is going to kill me.
Ryan
I SNAP MY ARM FORWARD. With a thump, the ball hits outside the orange box taped onto the black tarp bag that serves as a target. My mind’s not in it today and I need it to be.
Placing my pitches is the priority. If Logan calls inside—I need to hit inside. If Logan calls outside—I need to hit outside. If he calls straight down the plate—I need to smack that mother too.
I keep thinking about Beth. She looked so damn small and lost that I wanted to gather her in my arms and shield her from the world.
Definitely not a reaction I ever thought I’d have with Skater Girl. I slap my glove against my leg. I’ll find out what’s going on with her at dinner. Silence will no longer be accepted.
I roll my shoulder in an effort to find some life in it, but I come up empty. I’ve pitched for the past hour and the muscles in my arm are as useful as jelly.
The training facility isn’t much, just a warehouse with green turf carpeting and an air conditioner welded to the ceiling. The unit buzzes overhead and every few seconds a bat cracks.
My coach, John, pushes off the metal wall.
“Good, but you’re still throwing with your arm. Your power and consistency are going to come from your legs. How’s the arm?”
Tired. Beth must hate this place. A warehouse full of guys hitting balls into nets and pitching into bags. Part of me is disappointed. She hasn’t stood once to watch.
“I can throw a couple more if you want.”
“Have you been resting your arm like we’ve discussed?”
