at all.
two
Harper Apple
At home, I peel off my damp T-shirt and pull on a tank, dragging my dark hair out the back of it and twisting it up. Then I tape up my hands and head to the basement to punch the bag that hangs from the ceiling in the corner. One of Mom’s boyfriends got it for himself one year, vowing to get in shape, but he’s long gone like the rest of them. I don’t blame them. Nothing good lasts around here.
I’m lucky Mom keeps a job and brings home enough money to keep us in this roach-infested trap. The paycheck lasts just long enough to cover the bills and Mom’s increasing need to buy shit to impress her men that has me wondering if one day she’ll disappear with one of them and stop coming home at all. At least she’s stuck around up until now, I have to give her that. It could be worse. I could get shipped off to foster care, and who’s going to take a surly teenager with an attitude problem?
Hell, even moving back to the trailer park where I grew up would be worse than a house. This isn’t so bad. Mom scrapes together rent just in time to keep us from being evicted each month, and even though our house is a shit hole in Faulkner’s version of gangland, it’s not a trailer.
I slam my fist into the bag, dancing back when it swings toward me. Then I deliver a flurry of punches.
That one’s for Mom and her preference for men and their drugs over groceries and running water.
The next one’s for my dad, whoever the fuck he is.
There’s a one-two combination for Colin, whose leather jacket and foreign accent seduced me out of my virginity under a bridge when I was thirteen.
There’s a right hook for the cop who chased me away when I tried to make some beautiful art on the wall under said bridge. I just wanted to give other girls something prettier than a bleak cement wall to bear witness to their shame when a guy pulled out, dropped the bloody condom on the ground, and tossed them a cigarette before bailing.
I save my most vicious blows for Mr. Behr, though. I curse the administrator who put me back in his class this year. It’s been two weeks since school started, and I actually let myself hope he wouldn’t talk to me again. That he moved on and found some other sad sap with no hope, so he could pretend to be sympathetic while he lured her into the back seat of his car.
After an hour, I’m spent, not to mention drenched in sweat. I jog upstairs, chug some water from the tap, and head for the shower. When I get there, I falter. Why am I getting myself all clean for nasty old Behr? I peel off my tank, pull on a clean tee, and because I haven’t completely abandoned all human decency, I throw on another coat of deodorant. A pair of jeans and a belt prevent hands from wandering, and tennis shoes will save my feet on the mile walk to the place I don’t even want to go.
But what choice do I have?
I glance over at my books. I get good grades without having to suck off any of the other teachers. Since the infamous freshman year off, I’ve busted my ass to make it happen. I decided that year of summer school that no matter what, I was getting out of this place before it sucked me down like quicksand, the way it has so many others.
Instead of rushing off to meet Behr, I power on the old desktop computer we still have—mostly because it’s so slow that even a pawn shop won’t buy it—and open the homework. Maybe if I keep records of everything, prove I turned it in, he can’t fail me.
I’m halfway through when OnlyWords message box pops up.
MrD: We meet again.
I jerk my hands off the keyboard like it’s turned to lava and glance around nervously.
I don’t know shit about technology, but what the actual fuck? Who is this guy and how does he know it’s me? How did he get from a school laptop to my ancient desktop at home?
I take a breath and wipe my palms on my jeans before carefully placing my hands back on the keyboard.
The app prompts me to create a username, so I type one in and then sit there, trying to think of what to say. Most of me wants to close the messenger box and block the app, but something stops me. My skin crawls, the hair on the back of my neck standing up like I’m being watched. How did he find me? I have to know.
BadApple: Have we met?
MrD: Oh, we’re playing that game?
BadApple: No games.
MrD: Agreed.
BadApple: So how did you find me?
MrD: I have my ways.
BadApple: Thot u said no games
MrD: That’s not a game, it’s a secret. Magician never reveals and all that.