All The Pretty Liars

Chapter One: Without Parole

Boxes.

I feel like they are all we own as I stand in my new room among my little cardboard kingdom. For as many boxes that are scattered around the unfamiliar beige carpet, there truly aren't that many things in them that belong to me. The things that are really important reside in my beat up leather purse that used to be my mom's. The strap is worn, and there are spots that are more thin and yellow than brown, but I carry it along with her picture, the locket my dad gave me, and a tiny old chipmunk stuffed animal from Grandma Rose, Dad's mom, who I haven't seen since I was seven. These are the things I treasure, and I wouldn't have trusted any of them in one of the beat-up boxes hastily packed by my stepmother two days ago.

Right now, I've also got the three hundred and twelve dollars inside of my purse that I found in one of Dad's old shoe boxes that I was able to hide from Cheyenne before she went crazy again.

Looking around at the peeling pink floral wallpaper, I try not to think about the past and instead focus on finding a good hiding spot before Cheyenne or Amber come to see what I'm doing. They watch me like hawks when Cheyenne is sober. Too bad there aren't any loose floorboards lying around --this room is wall-to-wall carpet--that makes it really tough to hide anything. I move on to the closet, shoving my box of clothes that way with my foot for good measure.

Looking around quickly, I notice that here seems to be an attic access in the top of my new closet. That will work for now, I think as I shove the Ziploc bag with the carefully folded bills just inside of the access point, but slightly to the side so that the money won't fall out if the door is pulled down by Cheyenne or Amber. 

"Amina!" The shrill sounds of my stepmom, the screaming banshee, get louder as she approaches and I hastily grab one of my dad's old t-shirts and put it on a hanger. My cheeks are red at the thought of being caught doing anything other than unpacking my clothes. 

"Yes? I'm in the closet," I shout back, trying to calm my racing heart. If she had caught me with the money, things would have been bad. But who am I kidding? I barely remember the last time things were good.

"You come to me when I call you, not the other way around. You're the kid, and I'm the adult who is putting this roof over your head, you hear me?" Her voice inches up a few octaves as she approaches, her bleached hair rustling like dry straw as she pushes the door to my closet open and looks around, like she knows I am doing something wrong. Beat them for good measure---that's Cheyenne's motto. 

"I'm sorry Cheyenne, I didn't hear you until just now." I look down, trying to avoid her hollow eyes. When she is like this the best thing to do is stay under her radar, to make myself disappear among these boxes, among anything I can.

The shirt I'm holding catches her eye, and suddenly, I can feel the anger punch me in the gut as she yanks it from my hands. "Wait a minute, you deceptive little shit, did you steal this shirt? This shirt was your dad's and I know I threw it out before we left!" She shakes the black Led Zepplin t-shirt in front of my face to make a point, hitting me lightly with the fabric, but I don't know what to say. I needed something that fit, and I wanted to keep at least one thing of his, so I took the shirt from the garbage hoping Cheyenne wouldn't notice. That obviously backfired. 

"I don't want this disgusting thing in the house! We don't need any reminders of your disgusting father!" She yells in my face and twists the shirt up in her hands, making it look like a short rope, which she wraps around my neck with a sick look in her eye, a sneer on her face. My heart rate speeds up and I try to anticipate what she is going to do. I try not to panic, to slow my breathing, but it's pretty hard not to. In my head I'm squealing and crying, but physically, I stand there trying to look innocuous.