along the way. The
smells of a good breakfast rise into the air, and I know they’ll be enough to
rouse my friends soon.
Like clockwork,
I hear Paul and Nancy begin to shuffle from the living room, up to the second
story. Heavy footsteps pass the kitchen, but as I listen closely, I only hear
one set of feet start up the stairs. I focus on my cooking, tamping down the
sudden unease in the pit of my stomach. I can feel something on my skin,
something crawling and dirty. Cautiously, I peer back over my shoulder. The
world seems to curdle around me.
Paul is standing
in the threshold of the kitchen, staring straight at me. His eyes are hideously
bloodshot, and even from here I can smell that he’s sweating straight vodka.
His rumpled clothes strain against his bulky, uneven mass. He’s a mess of a man,
but he’s never scared me before. Not until now.
“Well shit,” he
rasps, crossing his veined arms across his chest, “Look at you.”
“Good morning,
Paul,” I say crisply, turning my eyes back to the stovetop. “Why don’t you go
up and get some sleep before work?”
“Don’t tell me
what to do in my own home,” he snaps. “I do whatever I please, here. Whenever I
please.”
I can
practically feel his eyes rake up and down my body as he speaks. I grip the
handle of the frying pan tighter, involuntarily. Paul’s barely said three words
to me since I’ve gotten here, and I don’t like where this particular
conversation is going.
“Paul,” I hear
Nancy moan from the second story, “Get your ass up here. I can’t find the
ibuprofen.”
My foster dad
grunts in acknowledgement of his wife and walks slowly away. I feel my body
relax as he departs, and glance anxiously at his steel-toed boots as they make
their way up the stairs. What the hell was that all about? And why do I feel so
unclean, after talking to Paul?
I drive the
lingering nervousness out of my mind and set the breakfast table, doling out
eggs and toast for the others. As I’m fetching a carton of orange juice from
the fridge, I hear the basement door swing open. I straighten up, unconsciously
fixing my hair. From the darkness of the narrow hallway, I watch Trace emerge.
His sleepy eyes snap open as he takes in the sight of me. I feel a little
flutter of glee, and have to fight to keep a grin off my face.
“Hey,” I say
lightly, “You sleep OK?”
“What?” Trace
says, staring at me unabashedly, “Oh. Yeah. I, uh...”
“There’s
scrambled eggs,” I tell him, sitting down at the table and helping myself to a
piece of crisp toast. “Come on, eat up.”
He walks toward
the table as if in a trance. Trace doesn’t even bother trying to pry his eyes
away from me. A warm, satisfying pressure makes itself known within my core as
he drinks me in. I let myself delight in his company in a way I haven’t dared
before. I decide, in the moment, that I’m through pretending I don’t have
feelings for him. What’s the point of acting like I don’t spend most of my
spare moments thinking about him?
“Did you,
uh...do something different with your hair?” he asks, sitting down.
“Yeah.”
“It...you...look
nice,” he stammers.
I smile at him
warmly, thankful that he’s as bad an actor as I am. Trace and I tuck into our
eggs and toast, silent in the early morning hours. If I try really hard, I can
imagine that it’s only the two of us here in this house. I imagine what it
would be like to share a home with Trace, share a life with him. The delicious
daydream transforms our humble breakfast into one of the best meals I’ve ever
had.
Seven
Nadia
Creepy Fucking Paul
Though Paul’s
strange behavior still tugs at the edges of my mind, I decide not to mention
anything to Trace and the others. Once Conway and Garrick finally roll
themselves out of bed, we all ship off for another day of school.
A wave of calm
passes through me every time we pull away from the Daniels’ home and head
toward our shabby high school. It may be far
smells of a good breakfast rise into the air, and I know they’ll be enough to
rouse my friends soon.
Like clockwork,
I hear Paul and Nancy begin to shuffle from the living room, up to the second
story. Heavy footsteps pass the kitchen, but as I listen closely, I only hear
one set of feet start up the stairs. I focus on my cooking, tamping down the
sudden unease in the pit of my stomach. I can feel something on my skin,
something crawling and dirty. Cautiously, I peer back over my shoulder. The
world seems to curdle around me.
Paul is standing
in the threshold of the kitchen, staring straight at me. His eyes are hideously
bloodshot, and even from here I can smell that he’s sweating straight vodka.
His rumpled clothes strain against his bulky, uneven mass. He’s a mess of a man,
but he’s never scared me before. Not until now.
“Well shit,” he
rasps, crossing his veined arms across his chest, “Look at you.”
“Good morning,
Paul,” I say crisply, turning my eyes back to the stovetop. “Why don’t you go
up and get some sleep before work?”
“Don’t tell me
what to do in my own home,” he snaps. “I do whatever I please, here. Whenever I
please.”
I can
practically feel his eyes rake up and down my body as he speaks. I grip the
handle of the frying pan tighter, involuntarily. Paul’s barely said three words
to me since I’ve gotten here, and I don’t like where this particular
conversation is going.
“Paul,” I hear
Nancy moan from the second story, “Get your ass up here. I can’t find the
ibuprofen.”
My foster dad
grunts in acknowledgement of his wife and walks slowly away. I feel my body
relax as he departs, and glance anxiously at his steel-toed boots as they make
their way up the stairs. What the hell was that all about? And why do I feel so
unclean, after talking to Paul?
I drive the
lingering nervousness out of my mind and set the breakfast table, doling out
eggs and toast for the others. As I’m fetching a carton of orange juice from
the fridge, I hear the basement door swing open. I straighten up, unconsciously
fixing my hair. From the darkness of the narrow hallway, I watch Trace emerge.
His sleepy eyes snap open as he takes in the sight of me. I feel a little
flutter of glee, and have to fight to keep a grin off my face.
“Hey,” I say
lightly, “You sleep OK?”
“What?” Trace
says, staring at me unabashedly, “Oh. Yeah. I, uh...”
“There’s
scrambled eggs,” I tell him, sitting down at the table and helping myself to a
piece of crisp toast. “Come on, eat up.”
He walks toward
the table as if in a trance. Trace doesn’t even bother trying to pry his eyes
away from me. A warm, satisfying pressure makes itself known within my core as
he drinks me in. I let myself delight in his company in a way I haven’t dared
before. I decide, in the moment, that I’m through pretending I don’t have
feelings for him. What’s the point of acting like I don’t spend most of my
spare moments thinking about him?
“Did you,
uh...do something different with your hair?” he asks, sitting down.
“Yeah.”
“It...you...look
nice,” he stammers.
I smile at him
warmly, thankful that he’s as bad an actor as I am. Trace and I tuck into our
eggs and toast, silent in the early morning hours. If I try really hard, I can
imagine that it’s only the two of us here in this house. I imagine what it
would be like to share a home with Trace, share a life with him. The delicious
daydream transforms our humble breakfast into one of the best meals I’ve ever
had.
Seven
Nadia
Creepy Fucking Paul
Though Paul’s
strange behavior still tugs at the edges of my mind, I decide not to mention
anything to Trace and the others. Once Conway and Garrick finally roll
themselves out of bed, we all ship off for another day of school.
A wave of calm
passes through me every time we pull away from the Daniels’ home and head
toward our shabby high school. It may be far
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