Don’t get ’em high before you call me, D. They be bleedin’ all over my shit.”
There are four locks on the door. Four bolts, one that needs a key.
Devon flips on the stereo. Music thunders in the room. He opens my book bag, searches it, pulls out my school ID, and slips it in his back pocket.
Baby peeks over the shoulder of the man tattooing me.
“Aww,” she says, and her forehead scrunches up.
“Show her yours,” Devon says. Baby pulls down her white tank top.
There is a red heart. And underneath, in dark, flowing letters it says, “Devon’s Baby.”
Devon looks at Kat. She stands up, rolls her eyes, and pulls down her shirt.
There is a black paw print. Devon’s Cat.
Mine will be a peach.
Devon’s Peach.
Buzz buzz buzz . Stop.
The ink shoots into my skin, but it’s like he’s draining me. With each sting, I feel less and less. Like the morning after Reek. Like last night at the Litehouse. A little more of me, leaking on the floor, on bedsheets, on this table, till I am empty as a vacant house. My roof is caving in.
There are four locks on the door. Keeping me inside. Keeping out the world.
Devon comes over and gathers my face in his hands, his eyes bubbling with pride. “You a good girl, Peach. You one of us. You get to work, you make your money, and you got a life.”
A kiss on my forehead. I fill up a little. I smile.
Devon cranks the music.
Kat holds my gaze for a moment, then fixes her shirt, turns, and begins to dance.
Devon unlocks the front door.
“You must be hungry,” he says, pulling twenty dollars from a fat roll of money in his hand. “Go get us some dinner. You and Kat. You like Chinese?”
I stare at the door. It’s wide open.
“Go ’head.” He types into his phone, nods at Kat.“Boost’ll meet you there.”
Down the humid stairs, through the heavy metal door, into the parking lot. Two guys linger out front, one in a red hat, the other in a sleeveless red basketball jersey. Across to 27th Street, make a left onto Mermaid Avenue.
Follow Kat. She takes big steps, her shoulders back like, Bring it . Up ahead there’s a line of stores. An old woman shuffles past, pushing a cart stuffed with laundry. We pass a guy on the sidewalk. He’s tall, with thick arms and clean red sneakers. He nods at Kat, who lowers her head. Then he traces me with his eyes. I put my head down, too, and hurry behind her.
We stop at the Chinese takeout. Two guys linger beneath a dirty yellow sign that says HAPPY DRAGON . The taller one, with black shorts and a red jersey, steps toward us. “Kitty Kat,” he says, slapping her hand.
“’Sup, Boost,” she says, arching her back a little. I remember him from last night. He was in the parking lot, howling with Devon and the others.
He steps toward me and pulls down the front of my shirt. The tattoo is slathered in Vaseline. Kat shoots me a look that says let him see , so I do. I do what she tells me.I do what Devon says. I let them tattoo me. He looked so proud.
Boost leans closer and squints. “That an apple?”
Kat takes my hand. “It’s a peach,” she says. “C’mon.”
Inside, a blurry man stands behind the thick plastic window that runs the length of the small room. It’s splattered with grease and scratch marks, a stained menu taped to the front. The air hisses with steam and heat. The tile floor is stained and gritty. I don’t know what to get, so Kat orders me the same as her. Shrimp fried rice. Devon likes lo mein. Baby likes sweet and sour chicken. A pint of each, slide the money through the small square opening.
Outside again, past Boost, down Mermaid Avenue. A siren wails behind us. The same old woman is pushing her laundry, the wheels squeaking creepily, her head bundled in a white scarf.
Through the heavy metal doors, past the boys outside. Up the stairs.
Our footsteps echo. Kat speaks softly. “Remember, they all wear red. Understand? The tattoo, it tells them you belong here.”
Night.
Room 5.
I take the
There are four locks on the door. Four bolts, one that needs a key.
Devon flips on the stereo. Music thunders in the room. He opens my book bag, searches it, pulls out my school ID, and slips it in his back pocket.
Baby peeks over the shoulder of the man tattooing me.
“Aww,” she says, and her forehead scrunches up.
“Show her yours,” Devon says. Baby pulls down her white tank top.
There is a red heart. And underneath, in dark, flowing letters it says, “Devon’s Baby.”
Devon looks at Kat. She stands up, rolls her eyes, and pulls down her shirt.
There is a black paw print. Devon’s Cat.
Mine will be a peach.
Devon’s Peach.
Buzz buzz buzz . Stop.
The ink shoots into my skin, but it’s like he’s draining me. With each sting, I feel less and less. Like the morning after Reek. Like last night at the Litehouse. A little more of me, leaking on the floor, on bedsheets, on this table, till I am empty as a vacant house. My roof is caving in.
There are four locks on the door. Keeping me inside. Keeping out the world.
Devon comes over and gathers my face in his hands, his eyes bubbling with pride. “You a good girl, Peach. You one of us. You get to work, you make your money, and you got a life.”
A kiss on my forehead. I fill up a little. I smile.
Devon cranks the music.
Kat holds my gaze for a moment, then fixes her shirt, turns, and begins to dance.
Devon unlocks the front door.
“You must be hungry,” he says, pulling twenty dollars from a fat roll of money in his hand. “Go get us some dinner. You and Kat. You like Chinese?”
I stare at the door. It’s wide open.
“Go ’head.” He types into his phone, nods at Kat.“Boost’ll meet you there.”
Down the humid stairs, through the heavy metal door, into the parking lot. Two guys linger out front, one in a red hat, the other in a sleeveless red basketball jersey. Across to 27th Street, make a left onto Mermaid Avenue.
Follow Kat. She takes big steps, her shoulders back like, Bring it . Up ahead there’s a line of stores. An old woman shuffles past, pushing a cart stuffed with laundry. We pass a guy on the sidewalk. He’s tall, with thick arms and clean red sneakers. He nods at Kat, who lowers her head. Then he traces me with his eyes. I put my head down, too, and hurry behind her.
We stop at the Chinese takeout. Two guys linger beneath a dirty yellow sign that says HAPPY DRAGON . The taller one, with black shorts and a red jersey, steps toward us. “Kitty Kat,” he says, slapping her hand.
“’Sup, Boost,” she says, arching her back a little. I remember him from last night. He was in the parking lot, howling with Devon and the others.
He steps toward me and pulls down the front of my shirt. The tattoo is slathered in Vaseline. Kat shoots me a look that says let him see , so I do. I do what she tells me.I do what Devon says. I let them tattoo me. He looked so proud.
Boost leans closer and squints. “That an apple?”
Kat takes my hand. “It’s a peach,” she says. “C’mon.”
Inside, a blurry man stands behind the thick plastic window that runs the length of the small room. It’s splattered with grease and scratch marks, a stained menu taped to the front. The air hisses with steam and heat. The tile floor is stained and gritty. I don’t know what to get, so Kat orders me the same as her. Shrimp fried rice. Devon likes lo mein. Baby likes sweet and sour chicken. A pint of each, slide the money through the small square opening.
Outside again, past Boost, down Mermaid Avenue. A siren wails behind us. The same old woman is pushing her laundry, the wheels squeaking creepily, her head bundled in a white scarf.
Through the heavy metal doors, past the boys outside. Up the stairs.
Our footsteps echo. Kat speaks softly. “Remember, they all wear red. Understand? The tattoo, it tells them you belong here.”
Night.
Room 5.
I take the
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