CHAPTER11
Nothing. I found nothing that can help me. No job openings. I parked at one point and went about walking for an hour before I headed to the library. Once I finished my homework, I went back out for another hour.
By now, I’m feeling tired and weak. I didn’t bring home my food from my locker, which might not have been the smartest of ideas.
Now, I’m back beneath the highway overhang. It’s raining some, but the overhang keeps me dry at least. Temporary, I remind myself. This is only temporary.
I stare at my bike. I never used to let it come anywhere close to rain. I would have Katie come pick me up if there was even a ten percent chance of rain. My baby. Moonlight. Yes, I named my bike. If the Mutineers are real bikers, they have names for theirs.
But now that they’ve seen Moonlight, I’m not about to ride her back to school. Moonlight means too much to me. It’s the only part of my past that I brought back with me other than my wallet and a backpack full of stuff.
And to think my mom didn’t want me to have a bike in the first place.
“Erika, why on earth would you want to ride on that death trap?”
“It’s not a death trap, Mom! You have to take a test before you can drive it, just like with a car. I’ll be safe. I promise.”
"I know you, child. You have a lead foot as it is. It'll lead to a dead head on two wheels!"
“What if I promise to always wear a helmet?”
She places her hands on my cheeks. “Erika, my daughter. My only daughter. Why must you do this to me? Why must you give me so much grief? You will age me. Give me gray hairs.”
“Mom, there’s no way to know if you have gray hairs. You dye your hair every six weeks.”
“I only have the roots done every six weeks,” she corrects me.
Mom has hair as dark as mine, but she dyes it a lovely shade of red that’s actually not that dissimilar from Shane’s.
“Why do you dye your hair?” I ask her.
"Why are you changing the subject? You are not getting a motorcycle without a yes from both your father and me."
With a smug smile, I lean back on the couch. We are in the parlor. No one else is around. Father is out, and the maids have been instructed not to disturb us unless we call for them. They're probably cleaning another room or maybe helping our chef.
“Well, if I can get Father to say yes?” I ask.
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because he always says yes to you. Why? I want to know why.”
“Because he loves me,” I say.
But we both know that isn’t why.
When my father asks me to do something, I do it. No matter what he asks.
If he asks me to kill someone, I won’t have. That’s crossing a line that I will never do.
But my father…
I can’t stand him.
Even then, I knew he was a terrible man, but I didn't realize that one day, I would come to hate him, loathe him, disdain, scorn, and abhor him with every fiber of my being.
But my father’s love for me is conditional. Everything with him is conditional. So long as you do everything he asks of you, everything is fine.