Atlanta
We see are hunkered down by the side of the hut, obscured by the shadows when Donna storms out. I can hear the furious outraged wrath of two dozen teenager girls, their voices, quite far, but not far enough so that Donna wouldn't hear, are one huge milkshake of anger.
I feel a twinge of pity somewhere, deep deep down, for Tim. I know from experience, what incandescent girls can do. How hard they can hit. And how much too. But I have no time for pity. Phoenix's breath tickles the back of my neck.
I bolt of electricity runs through me, and as soon as Donna, muttering under her breath is far enough, too far to see, too far to hear, I stand up, grabbing Lorraines hand and run.
Her fingers, sticky with sweat, curl around my own, and I'm dragging her, dragging her towards the door, with Phoenix's toes brushing my heels.
An just like that, we're inside. The light is on, and the narrow corridor, constructed from roughly polished pillars of wood, all stacked on top of each other, is bright. Lorraine takes a step forward, but I yank her back, away from the window.
With this much light, you could power a city. And be seen. It's okay. It's okay because it's Lorraine, and girls like Lorraine don't break into people's homes to steal their ice cream.
But girls like me do.
There's three doors, all wood and brown and nondescript, everything blurring into one big heap of nut and wood. And brown. I look at Phoenix, he has been here before, after all. The only one of the three of us.
Passing seconds breath down our neck, and I wonder, wonder for how long Tim can keep Donna occupied. For how long can he stretch out safety net of time for us.I only hope it's long enough.
I look at Phoenix, and I say with my eyes, "which door? " and the message silently transfers between the two of us, his chocolate eyes grasping mine.
He points silently to the one furthest down. That's the kitchen. That's where we have to go.
I take a look at Lorraine's face, the string of a violin stretched tight, the sugar released in her blood pumping color into her pale cheeks. I give her a grin, a devious, wicked thing, and I grab her hand again, squeezing my reassurance into her. I pull her down with me, and we quickly pass the windows, hunkered down.
Phoenix is already ahead of us, opening the kitchen door. It creaks a little. I flinch, almost forgetting that there's no one here to hear. The kitchen is exactly what you would expect from a log cabin.
Three counters, crammed into one corner, one of which is occupied by a set in stove. Two cupboards over head, a garish yellow, bright against all the forest brown. A couch, which looks like it would be snug for two people, a faded green, and a tiny TV, with an actual antenna on a table opposite it.
I wonder do they get cable here.
The window, we avoid , and our eyes are scanning for the fridge when I hear it. The sound of footsteps. I have just enough time to look up, and catch Phoenix's gaze, and he's leaping behind the couch, seizing my hand, and I'm moving with him, my free hand frantically looking for Lorraine's arm behind me.
My fingers curl around thin air, and I'm tossed forward, into the shadows of the sagging sofa, Phoenix's body pressed up so close behind me, that I can hear the beating of his heart. It's a runner, finishing a race. I wonder if our race will end in jail.
From where I am, I can see Lorraine, her face twisted, a frozen rabbit. The prey. I see the door, slowly, swinging open behind her, and a hot, heavy hand, landing on her shoulder. She doesn't flinch. She doesn't move.
I hold her gaze. A steady string. Phoenix breath is a whisper in my ear. And then I smell it. The undeniable reek of alcohol. It hits my nose, fills my head with memories of unwant and abuse, and the incredible vertigo and high of intoxication. I know, know from they way Phoenix stiffens, that he smells it too.
"Whatcha doing outta bed, Donna? " the owner of the hand says, and I'm trying. I'm trying to tell Lorraine with my eyes not to move not to say anything. Not to give herself away. Because this man, he's drunk. And he thinks she's Donna. So maybe, just maybe, we're getting out of here.
But it's Lorraine who has the ace. And girls like Lorraine don't break into peoples homes for ice cream. Girls like Lorraine, they stay at home on Friday nights and review the notes they wrote in class. They were skirts below the knee.
Girls like Lorraine, they're not fuck ups. I wish we could swap places.
"Just looking for ice cream, " she says, and her voice, it's kept low. She's not speaking loud enough for him to get a good grasp of the difference in voice. And he's drunk. And she knows it. And maybe girls like Lorraine, maybe they can hitch up their skirts when no one's watching. " do you know where is it? "
She doesn't turn, and the drunken man behind her, he doesn't advance. He's not stepping into the kitchen. His hand is still on her shoulder.
"You're gonna get fat, eating ice cream in the middle of the night, " our new sweaty guest says " it's in the fridge, over there anyway, "
When his hand lifts off, lifts off to point, I know Phoenix looks away. But I keep my eyes on Lorraine . I think I've never seen such sweet relief of someone's face. But she doesn't let go of her breath. Which says a lot.
"Oh, of course, " she says, without turning her head " go on to bed, I'll be in in just a minute, "
The guy behind her chuckles.
"You're not getting into my bed, " he says " you have your own, "
Lorraine's eyes are still glued to me. In the moonlight, they're a silvery blue.
"Well goodnight then, " the guy grunts, and he shuffles out, the door creaking behind him. All the tension in the room leaves. Lorraine finally lets go of her breath. She has held on until the end. And I'm some sort of inexplicable pride leaps inside me. And I think for a second, maybe there's no such thing as girls like Lorraine.
Maybe, there's just girls. Tilted. Screwd. Broken. Fabulous.
The though flickers at the edge of my mind, thin as the sharp edge of a razor. And just as deathly. But thoughts are dangerous if you entertain them. They let you think, that maybe, maybe you can be something.
I'm too hyped up now, too hyped up to think, to stay put.
In one fleet footed movement, I fly across the room, and my hands dwellve into the sleek coolness of the refrigerator, fingers prickling with the cold of the ice cream box as I pull it out. It's vanilla.
I straighten up. Phoenix is standing by the couch, away from the window. I meet Lorraines gaze, and there's something furious and wild inside her, a wizard whipping up a storm. I don't show my surprise. We have no time to think.
"Let's get out, " I say.
"Gladly, " Phoenix brushed against me, on his way to the door. Only Lorraine, she's still standing, rock still. I wait. Another second, it ticks by. Our gazes, clash, her's filled to the brim with silvery moonlight, mine swirling with shadows.
Then, abruptly, she turns.
I follow, the cool box of vanilla ice cream cradled against my chest.
YOU ARE READING
Turmoil
Teen Fiction""And you see, maybe people, maybe we're like those cars. We meet others, we crash, some crashes more powerful than others, we change. Impact. It means the death of something, doesn't it?" Tim : (adjective), a writer who's feelings are pressed into...
