Curse of the Alligator: ACT 1

Harris

"Harris, let us in!" Mom says from the other side.

I keep my back pressed against the door. Mom kicks the flimsy panel several times, and Phil turns the knob, hoping I'll give. The jammed lock can't hold the battery much longer. If I could slide anything to bar the door, it would give me time to slip out the window; the dresser is too heavy.

"Leave me alone!"

"Not until you give it back!"

"Give what back?"

Mom finally pries the door open and bursts into my bedroom. She holds me down like an animal; I bend and contort to try and wiggle away. She digs into my pocket and pulls out the hundred-dollar bill stuffed deep. I should've tucked it in my sock. Mom and Phil stand above me, ashamed.

"My tablet is broken. I need to buy a new one." I plea.

"What, so you can play Minecraft?"

"I use my tablet to draw."

"Get you a damn piece of paper. You don't steal, Harris. Did you tell us your tablet was broken? We could've saved and got you one for Christmas. Phil works hard for his money."

"It was on the counter. I didn't think you would notice." I lie back on the floor. I don't know; I constantly feel broken, like a piece is missing.

Mom leaves me. Phil shakes his head in disapproval. I am the malfunctioning toy pushed to the bottom chest. I don't know what I was thinking. I will say Phil needs to keep better track of his funds.

My parents split when I was a baby; they were never married. The last thing I remember Dad saying to me was that I was the most beautiful girl he ever saw. Other than that, I never knew him; maybe he said it as a joke, or it never happened. Mom refers to him as my sperm donor. Dad moved to Texas, and I was kept here in Missouri. I've always had this morbid curiosity to meet him.

I grab my phone, and Google search his name, Pearl Harris Houston. When I found out Dad's middle name was Harris, everything changed. Pearl is more generic than I would have thought as a first name. The full name listing had his voting record registered independently, his last known address, and that he was a city employee for Candle, Texas. My most cherished finding I keep as a screenshot in my photos, is a black-and-white newspaper article from 2015. The report covered Pearl saving a family's life when their car flipped into a lake. Every night, I stare at that picture. We shared our dirty blonde hair, blue eyes, and stubby nose. I wonder if he ever looked up my name and stared at pictures of me.

Ugh, Mom ticks me off. I did tell her about my tablet, and she ignored me. I grab my tablet off the art desk. I've had this thing for seven years. It's been handy, but some girls at school dropped it in the toilet. I'm never leaving anything in my backpack again. The battery is fried no matter how I turn it on. I bash the tablet on the corner of my art desk, A shattered glass web dents the screen. I toss it to the side; broken things should be thrown away. I grab my sketchbook from inside the drawer. I flip through. I haven't practiced ink much lately, but I'll try it. All my saved files are lost; I've constructed Pearl's face on my tablet so many times that I could do it from memory. I pick up a micron pen and begin to outline page one lightly.

At least my master plan to leave this s-hole is intact. I'm 16, and I've never left the state. No one will take me to get my driver's license. I don't know if I'll ever meet Pearl. I want to live the life of a Mangaka. In a peaceful existence, alone as I always am, I focus on meticulous things like nurturing plants and staying tidy. All this is in pursuit of completing my first manga.

"Harris, living room, now." Mom hollers.

I listen; I don't want any more trouble today. I double-check my fit in the mirror – baggy jorts, custom Crocs, track jacket, and all matching shades of magenta. I enter the dimly lit living room and spot Mom's duffle bag underneath the table. She probably plans to stay the night at Phil's again since she's wearing her classic hoodie sweatpants combo. Mom sways in the rocking chair, nurses another cigarette down to the butt, and doomscrolls through Facebook. The living room is dimly lit by one table lamp.