For two days, I sleep and draw, nibbling the crackers and cheese, drinking all the bottles of water until they’re gone and I have to refill them from the tap.
On the third day, I’ve got a pair of Mikey’s headphones on while I draw. Morrissey’s singing sweetly at me when I hear a dull pounding. I slip the headphones off, my heart thumping wildly, as the door swings open. Mikey? Is he back already? I scramble to my feet.
The woman at the door is tall, her lean hands grasping each side of the doorframe. Her hair is white and straight, just past her ears. I’m wearing overalls, but my arms are bare in my short-sleeved T-shirt, so I tuck them behind my back. I’m disappointed it’s not Mikey—my heart slows back down.
She squints down at me. “Blind as a fucking bat. Forgot my glasses in the house. Michael texted me. He wants to know if you’re okay. In case you haven’t figured it out, I’m the lady who owns this place.”
There is a rough edge to her voice, some type of accent I can’t place. She has the kind of lined face that people call etched. The kind that looks beautiful and intimidating and slightly creepy. I always wonder what these women looked like as children.
I nod cautiously. I’m always careful around new people, especially adults. You never know what they’re going to be like.
“Michael didn’t say you were mute. You mute?” Turquoise rings on her fingers clack against the doorframe. “So you okay, or not okay?”
I nod again, swallow.
“Bullshit.”
She moves quickly, reaching around me to grab my wrists. She flips my arms so the raised lines are visible. Instinctively, I stiffen and try to pull my hands back, but she tightens her grip. Her fingertips are tough with calluses.
She makes a growling sound. “You girls today. You make me so fucking sad. The world hurts enough. Why fucking chase it down?”
The breath through my nostrils is bullish, panicky. Fucking let go careens inside my head like a pinball and shoots from my mouth. I’m surprised by the sound of my own voice and she must be, too, because she opens her hands and lets my arms fall away.
I rub my wrists and consider spitting at her.
“A girl with teeth.” Her voice is weirdly satisfied. “That’s in your favor.”
The edge of the door brushes my shoulder; in my head I slam it in her face. I step away from her so that I don’t make that happen in real life. Who is this bitch?
“I’m Ariel. Here.” She presses a piece of paper to my chest. “I have a friend down on the Avenue. She’s got a shop. She needs some help. Tell her I’ll take her for appletinis on Friday.”
Halfway across the scrubby yard, she turns, shading her eyes. “You get a job, Michael’s friend. You find a place for yourself. You don’t stay here longer than two weeks.”
