All Out of Pretty Read online

  “Okay, okay. Back to your books, girlie.”

  I snatched the papers. She didn’t have to tell me twice.

  When I burst through my front door later that afternoon, the first thing I noticed was that Gram had strung the lights on our Christmas tree. They blinked a cozy hello between the branches.

  I tossed my backpack on the couch and yelled, “Love the lights!”

  The TV was droning in the kitchen, so I figured Gram was in there getting dinner started. Maybe she’d forgotten all about that “Ayla talk” we were supposed to have. If so, I wouldn’t be the one to remind her.

  “Guess what?” I called, slipping off my shoes. “Ben actually spoke to me at the student council meeting today. He asked if I was doing Quiz Bowl next semester. Which I might, if I can squeeze it in…”

  Technically, Ben had asked a whole group of us about the Quiz Bowl thing, not just me. But I still considered it progress. When Gram didn’t respond to my news, though, I figured she wasn’t in the mood to hear about it. Boys were always a hit or miss topic.

  I unpacked what I needed for homework and headed toward the kitchen, balancing a mountain of textbooks. Ugh. Maybe I should have taken a lighter course load.

  Halfway down the short hall, I noticed a stream of clear liquid pooling between the kitchen floor tiles. I frowned, confused. After another step I spied a silver pot flipped upside down, and my heart flipped too.

  “Gram?”

  As I rounded the corner, my books spilled from my arms in a waterfall of flapping pages. Gram was in the kitchen, but she wasn’t hovering over the stove or watching CNN on the small countertop television like usual. She wasn’t sitting at the table with the photo album open, waiting to have our talk.

  She was lying on the floor in a heap, silent and crooked and cold.

  Chapter 3

  Now

  The blackness of the parking lot swallows Ayla as she gestures impatiently for me to get out of the Buick. “We’re gonna go in Judd’s car,” she says.

  I climb out of our makeshift home, clutching the two bags I keep close at all times—my school pack and a small duffel stuffed with every article of clothing I own in the world—four tops, two sweaters, a pair of jeans, and a long black skirt. The skirt I planned to wear to Gram’s funeral. The funeral I didn’t get to attend.

  “We’ll come back and get the Buick tomorrow.”

  I watch Ayla lock our car and stuff the keys inside her purse. I always watch the keys.

  “It’s too far to try and follow in the dark,” she adds as we walk to where Judd is leaning against the lamppost. I’m so weary that my shoes keep catching on the crumbling asphalt. If I had the energy, I’d call Ayla’s bluff. There is only one reason we can’t drive the Buick—it’s out of gas.

  I shuffle along three steps behind where Ayla is swerving and clinging to Judd’s arm. Either she’s drunker than I thought or she’s putting on a good act. Men always want to feel needed, she’s told me many times.

  Judd’s car is black, with dark tinted windows, but still nicer than I expect from the looks of him. I sit in the backseat and stare outside, trying to memorize the turns and street names. It’s too hard, too much. My brain is foggy, and I’m so hungry. As if on cue, my stomach lets out a loud rumble.

  Judd’s snaky eyes find me in the rearview mirror. “I’ve got plenty of food for you, girl. Don’t you worry.” He says it like he’s some kind of hero, like I should jump into a song and dance of gratitude. I’ve only been living this way for a few months, but already I know not to trust any man who acts too eager to help us. I turn back to the window, silent.

  My right hand slides over my left wrist, squeezing the silver beaded watch strapped there. The watch is the one thing of Gram’s I took when we left Indianapolis. It’s all I have left of her. That and the Buick, which I hate leaving behind. Already I feel stranded. Tears prick the corners of my eyes, but I wrestle them into submission.

  Still, I know Judd sees.

  His house is small, dirty, and remote. But at least it’s warm. And as promised, there’s food. I swallow over my parched throat as Judd shows us around. The kitchen is the only room I care about. I want to jump inside the bag of chips laying on the counter, but I wait until the grand tour is complete. Judd tries smiling again and points to a steep, narrow stairway off the hall. “There’s a bedroom up there for you, girl. Real nice.”

  I don’t return his smile. “My name is Andrea,” I say tersely.

  The awkward grin melts off his face. He turns away slowly and says, “Like I told you, there’s plenty of food in the kitchen. Help yourself. Your mama and I are gonna…dance.” Judd laughs and slips his hands around Ayla’s tiny waist, then slides them down her leather-clad butt as she shimmies into his bedroom. I hear her laugh with him, see the dented door close. And as I snatch the bag of chips and reach greedily for the fridge handle, I almost feel sorry for her.

  After shoveling salami into my mouth, I load up my arms with two cans of soda, the chips, a brown banana, a jar of peanut butter, and half a loaf of bread. I want to eat away from the sounds of them. The stairs Judd pointed out are barely wide enough for me, but that’s okay because my hands are full and there’s no railing anyway. I lean against the wall and slide up slowly, into the dark.

  The door at the top creaks when I push it gingerly with my toes. The first thing I see is the moon, bright and welcoming, wrapped like a present inside a hexagonal-shaped window. I instantly love that window.

  The moonlight is bright enough for me to see a dusty twin bed. Dumping my spoils onto it, I search the sloping walls for a light switch. There’s one near the door, but when I flip it, nothing happens. Then I find a single bulb with a string dangling from the low, unfinished ceiling, and pull it hard. The light flickers on, but the string breaks off and I’m left holding it, slack in my hand.

  The room is really an attic, but it doesn’t span the entire lower level. It’s cramped and musty, and hasn’t been lived in for a long time. Some little girl used this room once, though. I can tell by the faded flowers on the curtains in the other window—the high one that runs horizontal over the bed—and by the sheets, which are pale pink, and by the miniature porcelain horses lined up on the small shelf by the bed. I wonder where the little girl went, and why she didn’t take those horses with her. I shudder away the possibilities that creep into my mind.

  There’s a hard-backed chair in the corner and a closet that’s empty except for a handful of wire hangers laced with spider webs. This will do.

  I drag the chair over to the door and tilt it back so that the top edge is lodged beneath the knob. Then I look back at the bed I’ll sleep in tonight and the food spread on top of it. Taking a deep breath, I dive in.

  My eyes blink open to warm sunlight streaming through the window. It is so nice not to wake up shivering. For a few lovely lazy minutes, I lay on the bed and savor it, but as soon as I hear footsteps downstairs, I bolt upright. The chair is still secured under the door handle. My bags are on the floor by the bed, packed and ready to go. Always.

  I glance at Gram’s watch. No way is my mother awake. It’s only eight fifteen, and Ayla doesn’t do mornings. Still, I’m ready to scramble in case Judd wants us out. You never know with Ayla’s men. Some of them cuss and yell, like they don’t even remember picking us up. Others treat us to breakfast at a Bob Evans restaurant.

  I sit like a stone on the pink sheets and wait. Soon, knuckles rap against the stairway wall.

  “You awake, girl? Get on down here.” Judd’s voice is all business. That fake syrup sound he tried on me last night is gone.

  I slept in my clothes, even my shoes, so I walk to the stairway and start down, careful to keep my face blank. Judd is waiting in the hallway and today there is no crooked-toothed smile. There is, however, something different about him. Instead of flashy clubbing clothes, he’s dressed in khakis and
a sweater, hair combed to one side as if he’s trying to look…normal. He gives me an unimpressed once-over, in my dirty jeans and wrinkled T-shirt, then grunts. “C’mon. There’s work to do.”

  My eyes dart around. “Where is she?” I demand, but my voice betrays me by cracking.

  “Sleepin’.”

  “What are we doing?” I find the courage to ask.

  Judd looks at me as he picks something from between his teeth. “You didn’t think you were gonna stay here for free, didja?” He laughs a little and it sounds so unnatural, like a lion trying to mew.

  I gulp. We know nothing of this man, in his dingy house hidden deep in the woods. He could have Ayla tied up in that room, gagged, or even—

  “Look, I got a business to run and your mama said you’d work for your keep. It’s a fair trade, for food and shelter. Don’cha think?” Judd asks with arched brows, waiting for me to agree. I relax a little. If I’m working, then I won’t owe him anything. Plus, the aroma of cooked bacon lingers in the air and that’s as close to heaven as I’ve been in days.

  Before I can ask what his work entails, there’s a knock on the front door. No, not a knock exactly—a series of small, birdlike beats that seem endless and purposeful. Judd looks through the peephole, cusses under his breath, then opens the door all of two inches. He hisses, “I told you not to come here unless I called.” And then I hear a young man’s voice slurring his words, saying he can’t wait, he has money…

  Judd turns towards me, scowling. “Clean up the house, then eat breakfast. I’ll be back.”

  After he slams the door closed, I peek through the window and catch a glimpse of the visitor’s pimpled face, a jagged red scar etched above his right eyebrow. He looks a few years older than me—maybe nineteen or twenty. Judd grabs the collar of the guy’s jacket and drags him to a path in the woods. The kid doesn’t resist.

  As soon as they disappear, I rush to Judd’s bedroom door and turn the knob. Locked. I jiggle it and call Ayla’s name, three times. She doesn’t stir, but that’s nothing new. I press my forehead against the closed door.

  Damnit, Ayla. When are we gonna get the Buick?

  After a minute, I head to the kitchen, resolved. I’ve survived in Ayla’s world for months now, and even if Judd seems a little rougher than the hippie crowd she usually runs with, I can handle this. He’s probably some low-level pusher—one of those guys who wants his next hit and a bit of business on the side to pay for it. Besides, this is only temporary.

  It doesn’t take me long to find, cook, and devour the bacon. I put the last two slices in a plastic bag and slide it inside my boot for later. Then I stuff cheese and pretzels into my mouth while I wipe down the kitchen counters, earning my keep.

  Judd returns half an hour later. I’m scrubbing about fifty layers of soap scum off the bathroom sink when I feel his gaze on my back. I whirl around, but his gray eyes are not hungry like some of the men Ayla has brought into my life. They’re just matter-of-fact, sizing me up as he leans against the doorjamb.

  “Bones, huh. I can see why she calls you that. Not much to you. Pretty face, though.” He sighs, like this worries him. “Hope you’re stronger’n you look.”

  I’ll give him strong, I think, hardening my face and lowering my eyelids. I clench my jaw tight and cross my arms loosely. This is the look I use on my classmates when I want them to leave me alone.

  But Judd is no tenth grader and he doesn’t shrink from a skinny little girl with attitude.

  “Let’s go,” he barks, sliding on a backpack he pulls from the hall closet. “I’m behind schedule.” Then his hand is pressed against my back, pushing me out the door toward that same path in the woods. It’s a sunny day, but the crisp wind cuts through my T-shirt.

  “Where are we going?” I demand, twisting around so I can keep my eyes on him.

  “My office,” he says without breaking stride.

  Office? Out here? As soon as we’re surrounded by the trees, panic sets in, and I try to veer sideways, out of his grasp. He responds with a yank on my elbow so powerful it rattles my teeth. “Stop squirmin’!” he hollers. Every muscle and ligament in his body is tight—his neck, arms, hands.

  Judd must see the fear on my face because he sighs and tries on another smile like it’s killing him. “Look, this is real simple. You do what I say and you can stay here with your mama, eat all the food you want, sleep in a nice, warm bed at night. But if you become more trouble than you’re worth…” His sentence dangles and I wish he’d finish it.

  Then again, maybe I don’t.

  Imagining the worst, my survival instinct kicks in again. “I won’t be any trouble,” I promise, letting him guide me deeper into the woods.

  We reach a small clearing where three paths converge and Judd stops short. “My business requires a certain level of…discretion. Your mama says you know how to keep your mouth shut. That true?”

  I nod.

  “Good,” he says. “But that don’t mean I trust you.” And with that, Judd’s hand moves to the base of my neck, two of his bony fingers extended so he can control where I look. That’s all it takes—two fingers.

  My breath is shallow, and the feel of his hand so close to my face makes my stomach churn. Judd walks fast, and I walk faster to keep up. My long black hair blocks my peripheral vision. On the ground I see sticks, rocks, leaves, and sunlight, all swirling in circles because of the way he keeps my head angled down. There are other paths that cross ours, turns we take that I know I won’t remember. He doesn’t want me to.

  Finally, he grips tighter, halting me. His fingers slip off my neck. Looking up, I see nothing but trees, some with a coating of ice still clinging to their branches.

  “Don’t move.” Judd slips on a pair of gloves, unlocks the door to a shed buried deep in the brush, and ducks inside.

  For some reason, I follow his orders. I don’t move. I am paralyzed in these woods, in this moment. Until I’m yanked into the blackness of the shed.

  Chapter 4

  Then

  I don’t remember calling 9-1-1. But I must have, because the ambulance arrived and someone led me away from Gram and into the living room. Everything was a messy blur of sirens and strangers, each moment spinning into the next like puzzle pieces that didn’t quite fit. The newly strung lights on our Christmas tree, the tepid hands of a social worker, the promises recited over and again, as if repetition could summon a miracle: “We’ll find your mother soon, Andrea. Everything will be all right.”

  I watched the paramedics take Gram’s body to the morgue.

  Nothing would be all right.

  The social worker drove me to a foster home. I heard her say how lucky I was that a family in my school district was willing to take me on such short notice. Standing on a dark doorstep, I stared at a holly wreath hanging from a crooked nail, then looked into the weary eyes of a middle-aged couple when the door swung open. I did not feel lucky.

  I went to school the next morning because I had a geography quiz, a French project to turn in, and a yearbook meeting. Because school was the only thing that seemed normal. But when I got there, no one knew how to act, not even me. Not even Delaney.

  “I feel so bad about your Gram,” she said, tears pooling in her eyes. But she didn’t suggest that I leave the foster house to come stay at hers. She didn’t cancel her Chicago dance plans or insist I come along. She echoed the social worker, assuring me that my mother would come back soon. I felt something inside me latch down tight.

  The foster people said to call them Charlie and Diane. Their house was eggshell blue. There was peanut butter smeared on the cabinet doors and a pile of plastic bowls set on the counter each morning. There was a guestroom full of futons and cots and kids. Charlie and Diane were used to this chaos. I was not. Between school and dinnertime, I wandered their neighborhood, just one subdivision away from my own. I could’ve walked home
and let myself in with the spare key we kept in the planter, but the memory of Gram slumped on the kitchen floor kept me away.

  My body repelled sleep, resisted the passage of time. It wanted to go back, not forward. Each night I slipped out of the room I shared with the four other foster kids and tiptoed across the hall cradling my backpack. I curled up in the bathtub and hugged my books, their familiar spines pressing into my chest, their words barricading my heart.

  I had read countless stories about the fog of grief, but nothing prepared me for this. Gram was dead, Ayla was out getting high somewhere, and there was no chance of my father—whoever he was—coming to rescue me. It’s not like I hadn’t experienced loneliness before. As an only child, that’s part of the deal. But I’d never felt this hollowness. I’d never felt so completely alone.

  Lying there in the tub each night, I held my breath while pieces of the nightmare rained down on me like shards of broken glass. They cut deep like puncture wounds, barely visible on the surface. But damaging just the same.

  Chapter 5

  Now

  The lock on the shed clicks behind me. Judd walks farther inside, but I stay by the door and let my eyes adjust to the dimness. There are several canisters lined against the far wall, a folding table, and drug paraphernalia similar to what I’ve seen Ayla use with her hipster friends. Also a box overflowing with teddy bears.

  Judd half-sits on the table and lights a cigarette, sizing me up again. I’m breathing so hard but so quietly that my lungs ache from the effort. He stares like he’s trying to decide something, and I suddenly realize how bad things could get if he thinks I’m too fragile, too naïve, too much of a risk.

  So I cross my arms and pull out my toughest voice. “What are we selling?”

  He steps forward and leans his face down close to mine, amused. “I’m a distributor of home goods.” His breath puffs out, sending the rot scent of tobacco up my nostrils. It takes all my willpower not to gag.