Look Like That

Chapter 1

A Week After My Seventeenth Birthday I take a deep breath and hold it. I have one more week of school, so I can do this. I just need to focus. If I play my cards right, I can be out of here in a couple of weeks. I would just need enough time to scrape together some cash, find a roommate, maybe find a second job and-

The glass scraped against the cheap particle board side table she had made me drag in here from the side of the road last year. The sound made my eyes fly open and turn toward it in preparation for anything. But my hands are up, instinctively, before the vase crashes into the wall right past my head, protecting my face in case she successfully connects. The sudden sound makes me haunch and hold, still waiting for the pain. When none comes, I'm left in the middle of shattered dreams and glass in full flight or fight mode. The hazy whomping sound of my blood rushing to my brain causes her yelled words to sound far away as I'm left frozen. I'm left shocked stock still as she calls me an ungrateful asshole for wanting to use the car tonight. "It's my fucking car Madison; I can renig when I want to because I fucking bought it." My mother's voice had gone past shrill. Even for a pack-a-day smoker, she was reaching a whole new octave. She was already six shots into tequila when her friends called, asking her to meet them at the bar across the bay. She didn't slur because she took tequila like a champ. When she started mixing drinks and adding drugs, is when things got real. Mom had stayed asleep until I got home from school, and my walking on eggshells pissed her off enough to have her start taking shots and sneering at me as I got ready. She had me when she was sixteen, so she was a high school bully because I tried more times than not to ignore her attempts to get a rise out of me. It usually ended with her taking drunken shots at me until I couldn't look her in the eye out of fear.I knew she was rearing for a fight because she stood super close to me when I started pulling my hair up, picking at flyaway strands, and telling me I had a lot of work to do. "You're a joke." She huffed at me after her second shot. By the fourth, she kicked my shoe with her foot, telling me I looked like a hood rat with awful taste. The only men I would attract would be those who realized they deserved better once they had a go at me. I wondered why she needed to tear me down with every step I made, but I pressed my lips inward when a retort came to them. What good would speaking up do? I kept my mouth shut because the shoes and the top were her hand-me-downs, so the joke was on her. By the fifth, she had pressed my head against the wall when I moved around her in an effort to get a breath of air not saturated with cigarette smoke or the stench of her rotting breath as she laughed in my face. She got close to me, and I kept my eyes as still as possible. Her other hand gripped my upper arm, her fingertips bruising my already tender skin from an earlier in the week throw down when the smoke alarm went off. I couldn't shut it off in time. She had yanked my arm down so hard it slammed into the wall and hurt for days after. "You're nothing but a fucking disappointment. I should have aborted you when I had the chance." She pressed my head hard, tears threatening, and I bit my tongue. If I had been bold, I would have told her she wouldn't have had to worry about me much longer, but I was weak. However, she got so pissed off at me after that sixth shot that she broke a vase against the door before she slammed out of the house, and I followed, glass crunching beneath my hand-me-down sneakers. I know it's her car, but that's not the immediate issue. I knew she would be drinking tonight, so I made plans to take the car to the end-of-the-year junior class party instead, so she had one less temptation while drunk. But low and behold, my mother was right, so I begrudgingly handed over the car keys and watched the tail lights fade into the distance as I dab at a trickle of blood on my cheek. I wrapped my arms around my middle and sighed. I turned seventeen last week. I celebrated by petitioning the courts for emancipation since I worked almost full-time and paid most of the bills here when mom wasn't on a bender or between jobs. I thought, why not? Might as well be on my own since my home life was shit. I fed myself, mended my clothes, and signed report cards since she was usually passed out or hung over. I even made up lies when a teacher asked about my parents' missing parent-teacher conferences. I saw a movie once where someone paid their best friend to pose as their parent since they somehow swapped bodies with someone. Something? I don't remember. I didn't have enough money to hire anyone to pretend they spawned me, let alone know anyone worth trusting enough. I remember watching those tail lights fade and wondering if tonight was the night she'd finally kill herself by driving drunk. Still, I dashed that thought from my head and headed back inside the house, careful not to step much on the glass and rub it into the grimy shag carpet. Before getting the dustpan, I walked to the wall phone and plucked it up, dialing my backup rides phone and leaning against it as I dabbed at my wall-pressed cheek to see if I was still bleeding. More than anything, I hated that my face had been pressed against the nasty wood-paneled wall to think about the bruise starting to form or the cut from a nail in that wall. As it rang, I stared at the toe of my shoe, frowning, but when I heard the phone pick up, I smiled and straightened. "Hi, Lacey! Can I still get a ride? You know how it is. Dad's car is in the shop, and Mom had to run and get groceries!" I'd become great at lying; we hadn't had actual groceries for weeks since I cut her off from spending my money. I hid food in the room or bribed our neighbor two doors down for a pantry shelf. She had looked at me with pity when I asked and would conceal the few dollars I gave her for the shelf in an oatmeal box. She sometimes added food to my few boxes and cans; she doesn't think I notice, but I do. One day, I'll pay her back. "That's wonderful. Seven thirty is perfect. I'll be where I was last time. Right, McDonalds." I listen and then force a chuckle. "Yes, I'll get you a coke." I hung up and then stayed where I was, letting my smile fall as I listlessly lifted the reviver back into its cradle and let my arm drop. I rolled my neck back and forth as I figured out my timeline. I was trying to get rid of the tension in my neck, but it was there to stay, so I pushed away from the wall and got busy. I got the dustpan sans broom, moved over to the glass, picked up the shards, and crouched until I could vacuum the rest. I had about thirty minutes to clean up and finish getting ready, ten minutes to walk to the burger joint, and the rest to sit and wonder what life held for me. I made a mental note not to walk around barefoot until at least three separate vacuuming sessions had transpired, lest I get cut. I hate my life; the echo throbbed through me. My mind spirals as I move to the bathroom to wash my face. I felt grimy after she pressed me against that wall and noticed the swelling of my cheek and the dried blood around the cut from the nail, which I treated with antiseptic and prayed I didn't get an infection from it. I go into the bedroom I shared with my mother, just two mattresses on the floor opposite the other. Hers is in the opposite corner, with an old wooden dresser and her make-up scattered all over the top. I sometimes borrow it, so I look a little older, like tonight. I have a dumb dream of meeting a slightly older, less disgusting man and being so in love with me that he takes me away from this dump. But I've since stopped kidding myself; that only happened in movies and Carrie Underwood songs. I had learned this year alone that I couldn't expect anyone else to help me. I needed to save myself. I dab on concealer to hide the start of a bruise, pat a bit of blush and mascara on, and use my favorite BonBelle bubblegum lip balm, and I'm out the door. I lock up, hoping I somehow came home to everything in flames, but I tap down that dark thought too. Dark thoughts only make things worse, and I'm supposed to be celebrating today. Even with how shitty this night started, I was determined to make the rest of it a celebration, if only for myself. In my pocket laid my salvation in the form of court-granted emancipation signed and stamped by the county juvenile judge. Thanks to my mother never showing up and the fact that she had ripped the letter up in front of me and told me where I could shove it. Tonight, before she shattered the pretty vase to the right of me, she told me I should just get pregnant because that's what sluts did when I told her I was going to the party. To which she reminded me that's how I was conceived. Before she went into detail,Deep down, I knew she was only mad at me because she was bitter about her past and decisions. Then there was the other part of me, the dark part, that wished she had gotten the abortion like she rubs in my face. Because maybe then, I would have been born to a parent who wanted me. Or better yet, not at all. I sigh again and worry the inside of my lip as I walk out of my neighborhood. I walk further, minding the street signs and checking both ways, and finally reach my safety net. It's not too busy when I slip in and move to stand to the side, waiting for the line to die off so Marcia can see me. When she does, she furrows her brow and tsks. "Miha, you're off tonight." The Spanish woman looked at me like she was about to pull a flip-flop from thin air and whoop her like one of her three kids. "I know; I'm just here for the French fries." I have a ten-dollar bill out, laying it on the counter between us, and she looks down at it, shaking her head at me. "You can have the fries since we need to throw out this batch for new ones, anyways." She's lying. She knows my home life and what I do with my money because my mother came in during one of my night shifts, drunk, and caused a scene. I was afraid she was going to fire me. Marcia had to pick the lock to the boy's restroom because I had locked myself inside and cried myself into a stupor. "But I need a coke, too." I insist and slide the ten closer to her. "Bah." She grumbles and cashes me out, sliding me back nine dollars. "Thank you, Marcia, you're my French fry angel." My voice softens, blowing her a kiss. "Thank me later when I make you clean the grease trap." She grinned and yelled out my order. She made me truly smile, for the first time, probably since yesterday when I left work, but I count my blessings. While I wait, I motion her over again and pull out the judge's letter, and her eyes light up. "No!" She smiles and rushes around the counter, and snatches me up in a hug. I'm smushed between her giant triple D's, but I needed to have someone hug me right now. I can't hide the tears falling down my cheeks; my arms loop around her and hold on. She's chanting in Spanish, but I don't even care to try and keep up because she knows, just like I know, that I'm free. I can leave. "I'll still work here; I just need to find something nearby with roommates." "Bah bah bah. We'll figure it out. I'll ask around when I get off tonight." She leaned back and scanned me with her shining walnut eyes and nodded once, smiling. "Take the night to celebrate. You don't need to have it all figured out right now." Her hand came up and patted my cheek, and I couldn't help leaning into it, smiling a watery smile at her. "Thank you," I whispered, afraid my voice would shake and I would cry again. "Go dab your eyes. I'll get your fries bagged up and the Coke ready, okay?" I nodded and went to clean up. I was exhausted after the yelling, but Marcia gave me a bit more pep. Her excitement gave me a little more life and was just what I needed to feel strong after that last fight with Mom. When Lacey pulled up in her cute green Volkswagen, which she got for her birthday, I was excitedly hopping off the curb. I had the Coke and two bags of French fries because this was the start of my adult life, and I was beyond ready for it.