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The tall table the dish rested on, the dish itself, and the hook weren’t my doing or my mother’s. They was Rachel’s.
On eviction day each month, my sister scoured the dumpsters, finding and making treasures from other people’s trash. With her artistic spirit, she did her best to brighten our sad little apartment and make it a home.
Without any talent like that, I didn’t bother. Instead, I worked, I planned, and I saved what I could.
I used to believe in fanciful things like Rachel still did, but those youthful notions died when our father took off. Now I had concrete goals—protect my sister from harm, graduate from high school, and get the hell out of this apartment and Southside Seattle.
When I stepped outside, a blast of wind hit me, feeling as though it sliced through my slender frame. I paused on the stoop to tug on my cap, and the watchful gaze of the afternoon sentry passed over me. At five foot nine, I was impossible to miss.
The sentry’s job was to keep an eye on all the apartments arranged around the rectangle of packed earth where his feet were planted. He worked for Raymond, my mother’s drug dealer. Ray made a lot of money dealing dope, and lived in a unit a few doors down from us with his wife and kids. He was a complete creep, propositioning my sixteen-year-old sister.
Pocketing my key, I pulled the hood of my jacket over my head. The sentry’s gaze slid away. I was beneath his interest. I didn’t dress up or wear makeup like Rachel did.
If I put in the effort, I might turn heads like she did, and like my mom once had, back when my father had been with her. But I didn’t want to turn heads, so I didn’t waste money on makeup and clothes. I focused on what needed to be done.
I jogged down the concrete steps, avoiding discarded needles and broken glass as I made my way quickly along the sidewalk around the rectangle of packed earth. The grass that was supposed to be rolled over the earth had never arrived. Budget cutbacks, we’d been told. A nice thing promised that was never delivered. Disappointments like that were a fact of life in Southside.
Hurrying, I made it to the corner bus stop just in time. My gaze downcast, I boarded and moved to an empty seat close to the driver.
Outside the window, the graffiti-covered buildings and trash-strewn sidewalks that slipped past were familiar and inescapable, so I retreated into my mind. With no radio or portable music player—those were too new and expensive for someone like me—I cranked up the volume inside my head and listened to Brutal Strength’s “Burning Off and On.”
My knee bouncing to the beat, I allowed myself to believe the hope the lyrics spoke of were real. I imagined I was dancing under pulsing lights, like I’d danced in front of the Z28 while Barry had watched me.
Music was a companion that never abandoned me. Music helped me not to feel so alone, even if it was music only I heard.
At the next stop, a guy with tattered clothes that stank and hard eyes that made me nervous got on the bus. He gave me a long look before he found an empty seat several rows behind me.
I could feel his stare. The fine hairs at my nape stood on end, but I kept my gaze straight ahead and didn’t let on that he spooked me. Fear equated to weakness.
In Southside Seattle, weakness could get you killed. I knew how things worked. I’d lived in Southside all my life. You put one foot in front of the other. You settled for what you got. You did what you needed to survive. Then you did it all over again the next day.
At the next stop, I quickly exited the bus. I breathed easier on the sidewalk, relieved that the guy with the hard stare remained on the bus. Another plus, the buildings lining this section of the Avenue were nicer. Nicer in Southside meant less graffiti and not as much trash.
As another blast of autumn wind cut through me, I got my ass in gear. I needed to hurry, or I’d be late for work. The worn soles of the boots that my father had bought me before he’d taken off and never been heard from again slapped the pavement in time to the beat of a different song. This one wasn’t a radio tune. It was one I’d heard the new dishwasher sing.
My shoulders hunched against the cold and warding off any interested stares, I moved along, passing a couple of homeless guys taking shelter in boarded-up doorways. Wearing multiple layers of clothing, they looked bigger than they really were.
Reaching a street corner, I noticed a big Latino sporting La Rasa Prima gang colors of blue and black watching me from his position against a light post. I scurried past him, turned, and exhaled with relief when the fifty-foot-tall sign for Dick’s Drive-In came into view.
As I entered the low-roofed, glass-fronted building, the aromas of sizzling meat and fried potatoes and onion rings made my empty stomach grumble, reminding me that I hadn’t had anything to eat since lunch at the Southside High cafeteria.
I couldn’t afford to buy a burger. Payday was days away. But I could snag a few fries that spilled over here and there, and I would stuff the discarded stuff my customers didn’t eat in my employee locker. I’d take that bounty home to share with Rachel.
Lorraine could fend for herself. After all, she was a grownup.
My pockets jingling with tip money a few hours later, I inserted my time card, clocked out, and spun around.
“Shit!” I rocked on my boots to avoid plowing into the new dishwasher. Andy Green was a senior at Southside High like me. Most of the staff at Dick’s were my age.
“Whoa there, Footit.” Andy gave me an interested once-over and put his hands on my shoulders when I tried to move past him. “What’s your rush?”
“Shift’s done, Green. Gotta get home.” I glanced at my shoulder where he gripped me. “Do you mind?”
“Right. Sorry.” He released me, and when I lifted my gaze, he shook his head. His shoulder-length blond hair skimmed his wide but not muscular shoulders. “Damn, baby. I didn’t realize since you always have your head down, but you’re just as hot as your little sister.”
“I don’t like being touched without permission.” Frowning, I didn’t acknowledge the come-on. I received too many from my mother’s drugged-out friends. Compliments or interest from the opposite sex made me wary.
“Noted, but hey, I wanted to tell you that a few of us are heading over to Winston’s tonight.” Andy tucked a strand of his hair that was a darker shade than mine behind his pierced ear. In the closet-sized room where we stamped our time cards, his Axe body spray was overpowering, making my eyes water. “Wanna come with?”
