Heartless Boy

1

"So, this is it." I stare at the Brownstone I'll be calling home for—what my dad thinks is—the next year.

Next to me, Mrs. Yang huffs. "Not what you were expecting?"

I shrug, uninterested in engaging in an actual conversation with this woman. I've known Mrs. Yang now for all of twenty minutes, the same amount of time you can say I've been living in Brooklyn, New York, and I can already tell she's going to be a pain in my ass while I'm here.

But yeah, she's right. This isn't what I was expecting and I am not impressed.

Just as we're about to take a step up the few stairs that lead to the front double doors, one of them swings open. "Oh, Mrs. Yang," the girl who opened the door says, shoving something in her back pocket, all while doing a shit job of hiding her shock. "And ... you must be Jasmine."

Mrs. Yang points to the building before I even have time to answer, and the girl groans and slumps back up the stairs. We follow her inside silently and for a brief second; I stand there like a dumbass—unsure what I'm supposed to do.

"Mind telling me where you were going?" Mrs. Yang pounces.

As the two go back and forth—the girl stressing she was not sneaking out, despite what it looked like, and Mrs. Yang telling her she doesn't care for her excuses—I take that as my cue to walk further into the space and see what's up.

There's a short narrow hallway that leads into a living room that double as the kitchen and dining room all in one.

Another hallway, to the side, reveals four doors—one of which is open so I see it's a bathroom.

Don't mind if I do.

I scurry through the door, shutting and locking it behind me before they can notice — before anyone can stop me.

Once the lock clicks, a large painful breath escapes me, my body slumps against the wall until I'm sitting on the floor, and I finally let the hurt I've been feeling crush in on me.

I still don't get how the hell I got here.

How I'm the one who got nailed for a fight I didn't start because I ended up at a party I didn't even want to go to in the first place.

It's all Blossom's fault.

I wanted to stay home that night but no she was in full on stalker mode, wanting to find out what her ex was up to. Being the amazing best friend I am, I went along with her.

Now, look at me.

Sent into exile by my father who feels that time away from home and away from my best friends is what I need to assess the woman I want to become. Because, "You were raised better than that and those kinds of scenes and behaviors are unacceptable," or so I was told on a loop for the five days before I landed here in New York.

"Jasmine?"

"Shit." I jump, hitting my head against the wall. Two hand towels fall around me, and the small stand holding the toilet paper topples in my lap.

Seriously, can a girl get five minutes?

"Is everything okay?" Mrs. Yang asks.

Pushing myself off the floor, I lean over and flush the toilet. Loudly, speaking over it, "Yeah, sorry, uh, airport food."

There's a long pause as I wait for her to say something else. Is she gone? Is she waiting for me? Is she plotting how she's going to help my dad further ruin my life?

The possibilities are endless really.

"I should be out soon," I reply when she doesn't.

"I'll give you time to get settled. And I will see you in my office in one hour." Her words are muffled from behind the door, but I catch what she's saying—even the tone between the lines in which she's trying to say it.

"Understood."

Footsteps follow, then the wall next to me shakes as I hear the front door open and close. I sigh, relieved to alone.

That's literally all I want: peace and quiet and a chance to sort things out in my mind.

But people have stopped asking me what I want a long time ago.

I'm not sure how much time passes while I'm hiding in the bathroom, before another knock bangs at the door. This time loudly, and with unhidden agitation.

"Are you still really using the bathroom, because I need to use it if not."

"Oh, yeah, my bad."

I open the door and whatever-her-name-is, almost knocks me out of the way, barely waiting for me to close the door before she pulls down her pants and squats on the seat.

In another situation—like if I was home, and this girl was my friend —I could probably find this funny, but none of that is the case so I walk off and leave the door open.

Outside, the street is both quiet but busy. Cars speed by, and people are walking around — some with dogs — but all seem to be a natural part of the block, their paces quick and unyielding like they're in a rush to get somewhere. Even if the place they're heading is nowhere.

Behind me, the brownstone door opens, and when I turn I come face-to-face with what's her name again. I shake my head, knowing how she's not supposed to be leaving. Even if I don't know why.

"Hey." She approaches me. And now, up close, I realize how pretty this girl is.

She's dark skin like me, but much taller and slimmer. And her smile, though fake and hesitant, is close to perfect.

"You're not going to snitch, right?" she asks.

Amateur.

I shrug. "I didn't see anything."

With a nod, she flounces the other way without saying another word.

Watching her walk off, I follow her path for a few. She doesn't go far, just to the other end of the street, to another Brownstone where a group of guys is outside sitting on the stairs. Even from here, when she stops, I can tell they're staring at me.

Quickly looking away, I take in my other surroundings, barely able to hide my frown. Everything in me, tells me to run the other way, hail a cab, find a train station, and get as far away from this place as possible.

But Mrs. Yang has my purse in her office, and I have no idea where my suitcases are.

She and my dad might think they have this whole punishment thing figured out, but they have another thing coming.

As soon as I find a way to leave, I'm out of here.