All Out of Pretty Read online

  The next day, Sylvie caught Ayla and Scott lip-locked on the porch and literally tossed our bags onto the lawn. Still floating high on Sylvie’s cocaine, Ayla just laughed.

  We continued couch surfing with random people. Most of them didn’t remember Ayla, but they let her in because she was beautiful. By the time we returned to The Lofts and collected the keys to our suite, I was shell-shocked. That was how Ayla had lived for years.

  But she had money now, and she paid for an entire month at the hotel up front, which made everything feel less transient than it was. The suite even looked like an apartment, with exposed brick walls and memory foam beds, a kitchenette and steam shower. After the previous six nights, it was a palace.

  For a week I zoned out on TV and junk food—two things Gram had limited at home. Ayla and I operated like roommates—eating take-out and talking only when necessary. She went clubbing every night and slept most days, so we were on opposite schedules, which worked out nicely. Often, I woke to find random men making coffee in our kitchenette. Some of them felt entitled to rake their eyes over my body, earning them my tough-girl look. Others seemed nice, but I kept my distance anyway.

  The Lofts had a business center with four computers. I surfed the Internet, but didn’t send emails. Or use the phone. Mostly I slept and cried and paged through the photo album looking at pictures of Gram when she was a young mother. Her hair was longer and darker then, her skin smoother. She looked beautiful. She looked blissful.

  “What is that?” Ayla asked me once when she was bored. She hopped on my bed and leaned over to look, her chin pressing into my shoulder. I held my breath. She’d never sat so close. Then she took the album into her own hands, transfixed. It was all about her, really. Ayla in a tutu. Ayla in a swimming pool. Ayla blowing Gram a kiss. Poised and flirty and all smiles. She was the stunning one, even at age five.

  As Ayla paged through the album, tears filled her eyes. When she was done, she took a ragged breath, handed the album back to me, and left the suite. She returned at five in the morning, shitfaced.

  Whatever loss Ayla felt for Gram or her old life, I was certain I felt it deeper. I missed everything about home. Gram most of all. But also my books and my bedroom and—silly as it sounds—the filing cabinet with all my school papers sorted by subject and year. Everything orderly about my life had been blown away by the tornado that was my mother. For the first time in sixteen years, I had no plan, no motivation. I was simply caught, swirling, in her vortex.

  “Here,” Ayla said one night, switching on the overhead light and stirring me from sleep. I was nothing but a lump on the bed as she tossed a paper on top of the comforter and announced, “You start at that school tomorrow, Bones. I signed you up.”

  Under the bundle of covers, my eyebrows furrowed. Ayla taking initiative? Unlikely. I peeked out to see a thick, glossy brochure. I couldn’t imagine my old high school spending one cent of their precious government funds on fancy marketing materials like that. Curious, my hand slithered out to retrieve it.

  With a rigorous academic curriculum, I read, Essex Academy is consistently ranked in the Top 100 public high schools in the country, number one in the state of Ohio for the past ten years…

  My mind woke up. My heart woke up. Excitement bubbled through my veins as I devoured the information…Highest SAT scores. Ninety percent of graduates receive scholarships. Tier one colleges recruit the best and brightest. I almost squealed. Graduating from a place like Essex, especially with honors, would increase my chances of attending an Ivy League university by so many margins I could barely sit still long enough to do the math. I took it as a sign. This is what I’d always wanted. This is what Gram would want for me.

  Instead of sleeping that night, I paced and I planned. The next morning, I buried the photo album in the bottom of my duffel bag, drew on a thick band of Ayla’s eyeliner, and embraced my new life.

  Essex was everything the brochure had promised. I didn’t try to make friends—I was there to accomplish a goal. I immersed myself in academics and didn’t worry about anything else, including my mother. I was still naïve then. I felt more disgusted by her lifestyle than concerned about it infecting mine.

  I didn’t think about money, either, since Ayla always seemed to have enough. Gram’s house had sold and I figured Ayla had inherited her savings. In February we moved into a small apartment that I found advertised on Craig’s List. Life went on, clumsy but bearable, with Essex as the shining star in my universe. Until last week.

  When the police showed up to “enforce our eviction,” I was stunned. It was the first day of spring break and I’d been planning to spruce up the place with paint and pictures, to go grocery shopping and fill our bare cupboards since Ayla never found time. Eviction? It had to be a mistake. I tried arguing with the officers, then pleading. Ayla, who must’ve collected the notices, wasn’t surprised. She had apparently forgotten to tell me that Gram’s money was gone. All gone.

  We packed our things and drove around Columbus trying to come up with a plan that didn’t involve couch surfing. I was livid that Ayla had spent all our money, but yelling at her wouldn’t bring it back. So I kept suggesting reasonable options for our future, many of which involved returning to Indianapolis, even though I already felt detached from my old life there. Ayla shot down my ideas, and soon we were forced to focus on our immediate needs. We rationed our last few candy bars and kept the Buick running to stay warm. In hindsight, that was a mistake.

  On the third day, we loitered inside the bus station because it was warm—and populated. Ayla flirted with a few men, conned them with some sob story, and swaggered off with their handouts. Her efforts earned us each a soft pretzel and hot chocolate—our only meal that day. I remember Ayla watching me eat, smiling like she was proud of herself. I remember something inside me throbbing with pity for her—until the hunger pains snuffed it out.

  The next night, Ayla sashayed into Judd’s tattooed arms at that hole-in-the-wall bar and I learned, once again, that no matter how hard I focused on the future, the unwelcome present kept creeping up to bite me.

  Chapter 9

  Now

  Saturday marks the end of our first week with Judd, and boy, is he in a good mood.

  “Whoo-ee! Best week’s payout in a long time, Ayla girl. You must be my good luck charm,” Judd says and smashes his lips against hers. Standing in the kitchen drying the lunch dishes, I scoff and think, Or maybe it’s because you’ve had a live-in slave to do your dirty work all week.

  Judd spins Ayla around the living room while she giggles in this childlike way that pinches my heart, even though it shouldn’t. Then he pats her butt and tells her to go dress up nice because he wants to take her out and show her off.

  I am left behind with strict instructions not to set one foot outside the house. I nod like a good little drug mule but as soon as they leave, I walk out the front door and directly into the woods. Damned if I’m going to take orders from Judd when he’s not around to enforce them.

  I walk for about a mile, taking the left turn at every fork in the trail, until I’m on the fringe of some farmlands. Stumbling over the uneven ground, I venture off trail to pick a cluster of butterweed plants because they’re pretty and I need some cheering up. As I’m tucking the tiny yellow flowers into my hair, I look up to discover a pond hidden by overgrown bushes and a stand of thick trees. Swaying along the water’s edge are tall, willowy grasses—burnt orange with sprigs of green mixed in. Before I know it, I’m pushing my way through the foliage to reach the muddy bank.

  The pond water doesn’t glisten. It looks more goopy than anything. But there is a stillness here, a lovely stillness that makes me feel like life has been put on pause. A huge hickory tree leans out over the black water and lily pads, and I start climbing it. Once I’m nestled onto a high, thick branch with my back curved against the tree’s trunk, I relax. I feel safe up here. Outside of Essex, it�
�s the only place I’ve felt safe in weeks.

  Several minutes later, while I’m perched up there listening to the wind, I hear something different—an unnatural rustling. At the far end of the pond, a girl pushes through the reeds onto a strip of dirt. She wears her streaky hair in two tiny braids on either side of her head, and she’s built small, like me. It’s not that warm today, not even mid-60s, so I’m surprised when she pulls off her clothes to reveal a light blue bathing suit.

  The girl glances around as she dips her toe into the pond water, which must be freezing. She bravely wades in a few feet, then disappears underwater, barely making a ripple. The pond must be deeper in the middle because she doesn’t surface for a long time. When the top of her head breaks the surface, she releases a whoop of exhilaration, flips to her back, and floats there, arms stretched like sunbeams. I watch her, mesmerized. Curious. Jealous. It takes confidence to lie like that, eyes closed, exposed and trusting.

  I watch the girl the whole time she’s in the pond, diving down deep and bursting up through the middle again. She dog-paddles around the perimeter and I freeze when she passes below me. She treads for a minute, blows bubbles. After she’s out of the water and has vigorously dried herself with a towel, she pulls on her sweats and a T-shirt. With her back to me, she loops the towel around her neck.

  “I can see you up there, you know!” she calls over her shoulder, then saunters away. I freeze as her girlish giggle fades into the trees. I want to call after her, but I don’t. I do smile, though.

  The girl’s innocent laughter sings in my head all the way back to Judd’s place. It lightens my steps. When I arrive at his ramshackle house, I stand outside in the gravel driveway, feeling heavy again. I don’t want to go inside yet and I’m sure Judd and Ayla won’t be home until the bars close. I find a fallen log nearby and sit there in the waning light. The heat disappears with the sun, so I lie down on the forest floor where the dry leaves poke through my thin sweater but also insulate me. In the quiet, I stare up at the barren trees reaching their charred fingertips toward the sky. If I were a bird, I would fly right through those branches and launch myself into the clouds. I would sail to the sun and set myself free.

  Free. Such a simple word, but a concept far more complicated than I ever realized.

  Anyway, I’m not a soaring bird. I am a girl who is slipping, falling, sinking. I know exactly what I need. It’s what I’ve always needed. School.

  Just thinking about Essex Academy’s bright halls, its library teeming with books, and the teachers who talk about the future gives me a jolt of energy. I love Essex, even though I’m considered a freak there. Even though I wear the same five articles of clothing in rotation and if the teachers don’t notice, the rich kids sure do. Anyway, it’s best if they view me as hardcore, with my dark eyeliner and darker expressions, with my vintage combat boots and long black vest. Those were the two items of clothing I bought after Gram’s death, when I wanted to look like a bad-ass. When I wanted to feel like one.

  I yank on those boots and that vest the next morning. Downstairs, I march toward the couch in Judd’s living room and whisper urgently into my mother’s ear, “Ayla, we have to get the car.”

  Ayla is lethargic from her night of partying, one skinny arm draped over her face, legs twisted like a pretzel. Judd is outside talking on his cell phone, which means I can badger her until he comes in and makes me shut up. He doesn’t want us to have the car. He wants all the power.

  “They’ll tow it soon,” I press. “Then when you want to leave, you won’t be able to.”

  “Why would I wanna leave? Judd’s shit is the best I’ve ever had,” Ayla slurs, her milky white hand rising to pet my hair. When she does this, I can’t help leaning into her palm a little.

  “We can’t stay here forever,” I say.

  “Why not? Sure beats that crappy apartment you found.” Her hand, so gentle a moment ago, jabs into my shoulder.

  I force a calming breath because I’m still spitting mad that she bounced the rent checks, that we got evicted after two measly months. I’d led Ayla to that apartment because it was affordable and in the right school district. As usual, she’d messed everything up.

  But I have to focus on the car.

  My mind searches for what will sway her. “The Buick’s worth a few thousand dollars, at least,” I argue. “We can’t give that up.”

  “Bones, you’re startin’ to give me a headache.”

  I pause, then say what I don’t want to, “The police will trace the car to Gram. They’ll wonder where we are and come looking. They’ll take me away if they find you like this.”

  This startles Ayla into coherence. I haven’t figured out her motive, but she seems desperate to keep me. I’ve thought about asking why, but I’m afraid bringing it up will cause her to reconsider, and then I’ll be on my own. Or back in the system. Ten days in foster care was enough for me.

  “Okay.” She sits up, runs her fingers through her stringy hair, and goes to splash water on her face.

  “Put some clothes on!” I yell, because it’s not impossible that she’d forget. While I wait, my whole body tingles with excitement, as if something good might finally happen.

  Ayla emerges from the bedroom, dressed and pretty, her purse on her shoulder. We find Judd outside and there’s a short argument, which Ayla wins. As messed up as she is most of the time, my mother usually gets what she wants.

  The sun is shining today, chasing the chill from the air. I feel light and hopeful as Judd drives us to the old supermarket complex in the neighboring town, a can of gas by my feet.

  Please, please, please let the Buick still be there.

  It is. Seeing her car near the lone lamppost is like reclaiming a piece of Gram herself. My heart sings with joy, but I try not to show it.

  While Judd gasses up the Buick, Ayla hands me the keys and climbs into the passenger seat. “I’m tired, Bones. You drive.”

  The engine purrs under my foot as I snake through the parking lot. Glancing at the fuel gauge, I notice that Judd only put in an eighth of a tank. So I couldn’t make a run for it, I guess. I wasn’t going to. As long as I have Essex, I can handle Judd. I can handle anything.

  I follow the black sedan all the way back to Judd’s hideaway. But this time, I am not hungry or beat down. I am not powerless. This time, I memorize every turn.

  Chapter 10

  The instant I park Gram’s car in the driveway, Judd yanks open my door and rips the keys from the ignition. I start to protest, but he slams the door so fast, I hardly have time to pull my arms inside. He stalks into the house while Ayla, wiped out by our thirty-minute excursion, follows him listlessly.

  I climb out of the Buick and press my cheek against the slope of its roof, fuming. The cold sting of the metal seeps into my skin and spreads to my clenched jaw as the unfairness of my situation festers. This is my car, not Judd’s. But he thinks he owns me and Ayla. He acts like he’s king of the crap pile, and we have to bow to his commands. And maybe we do for now. I’ll play his game. But I’m smarter than he is, and the tides will turn. I’m sure of that.

  Right now, though, I can think only of school. Without the car, I’m screwed. There’s no way Ayla’s going to get up in the morning to drive me.

  I bide my time all afternoon, but there’s no opportunity to ask Ayla for the keys—Judd is always by her side. So later, when they’re busy in Judd’s bedroom, I initiate Plan B. I sneak the phone upstairs and call for bus schedules. The route is easy enough, but my heart sinks when I realize I’ll have to ask someone for the fare.

  As I’m returning the phone to the kitchen, I notice their clothing thrown haphazardly across the back of the couch. Sitting there on top of Judd’s pants is his thick black wallet. A tiny smile curves up the side of my cheek.

  The sun has not yet risen when I slip outside the next morning and begin the mile-long hike to the m
arket. Dollops of snow are still scattered on the frosty ground. As I walk, it strikes me how isolated this area is, mostly farmland with an occasional house popping up way back from the two-lane road. Despite the blossoms peeking through the undergrowth, the woods near Judd’s place are dense and dark, the trees tight like soldiers. We are completely hidden out here.

  Judd’s going to flip when he finds me missing today. I kind of wish I could be there to see the look on his face. Imagining it puts a spring in my step, even though crossing him now could bring trouble later. Who cares? I tell myself. Getting back to Essex is all that matters.

  At the market, the plump lady at customer service sounds sugary sweet when she tells me where to board the bus, but she smacks her blue bubble gum too hard and her eyes seem insincere. I don’t like the way she stares after me as I head outside, but I’m not letting anyone spoil my good mood.

  I drop Judd’s bills into the fare receptacle and slide into a rear seat. Once those big wheels are chewing pavement at fifty-five miles an hour, I feel invincible. I am light years away from Judd now.

  The bus drops me in downtown Columbus. The air is charged with buzzing energy as people clip-clop their way to work. After a fifteen-minute walk, Essex slides into view. Four white stone buildings covered in ivy. A large green lawn. Clusters of students chatting in doorways. My heart swells. It looks more like a small college than a high school, and it’s mine.

  I’m too early for class, but the library is open. Flashing my ID to log onto a computer, I start pulling up maps. Haydon is the town where Judd lives, thirty-five miles southeast of Columbus. It’s just a farming community—not much else there. I print out bus schedules going in every direction from the market, just in case. My finger traces the blue line that goes west to Indianapolis. On the map, it looks so close, like I could blink and be back in my old bedroom. I blink.