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And now that was ruined. Why now? Why when we were trying so hard to do this the right way? I only took what I needed. If I ever had the extra money to spare, I'd dump every last dollar I stole into some donation box for orphaned kids.
I swallowed back a thick lump in my throat, letting the stream of water wash away my tears. I hated pickpocketing. I hated feeling like a thief. I hated living in a hotel, where men traveling on business stayed. I hated their lecherous eyes and their catcalls. I hated the constant nerve-wracking worry about needing to make rent, and always being a dollar short.
I hated cringing every time I heard a siren passing by in the night. I always assumed they were coming for me.
When I couldn’t stand the self-pity any more, I washed, shaved and shut off the water.
I changed into to a pair of old pajama pants that belonged to Wil once, but had gotten too short for him. Since I was smaller, they were still snug but comfortable. I put on a black T-shirt. The pajama pants stuck to my skin, which was already itchy from the old, worn blades that liked to nick at the crevices behind my knees. I wasn’t sure why I bothered grooming at all, outside of trying to blend in at the mall. There was no one to impress. I couldn’t date anyone. I simply did it because I should and it wasted time.
Holding the thin blue men’s razor made me think of my mother’s pink razors before she died. Back when I was little, maybe around six years old, I would sneak into the bathroom, and tamper with pink razors, and tampons, and other girl items she kept in a drawer away from everyone else’s toothpastes and washcloths. I didn’t have much to play with as a kid. Rocks and sticks weren’t allowed in the house, so I’d used the razors and the tampon box to build a pretend mansion, where little Molly and Polly Tampon lived in luxury with horses and breakfast cereals I saw on television, and toys overflowing from every closet.
My mother had caught me and laughed at my imagination. “You’re my little storyteller,” she’d said, braiding a strand of my brown hair, the same color as hers. “Always something interesting. You don’t need a toy when you’ve got such vivid ideas of your own.”
I sighed at the fogged hotel mirror, blinking away the memories. It was still too hard to think of her back then, because inevitably, I started thinking about the day she died.
And that was something that made me angry at Jack. I was so tired of being angry, feeling a weight in the pit of my stomach that never went away. When Wil had his diploma, and finally settled into a college, I’d be able to strike out on my own. Then we’d leave Jack to his fate. He wouldn’t be able to come after us. I’d stay for Wil, but not a second more.
A grumbling old voice, muffled through the bathroom door, broke my thoughts. “Where is she?”
I made a face, and then drew a frowning face into the fogged up mirror that I thought mimicked my own. I didn’t really want to deal with Jack now. I hung my towel properly to let it dry and yanked open the door.
Jack was leaning against the wall, his arm up ready to knock. His scruffy face was in dire need of a wash, with grime darkening the crevices. His teeth had yellowed. He had thread veins and a drinker’s nose. “What are you doing in there?” he asked, his question full of suggestive intent.
“Nothing,” I said, trying to duck around him, and holding my breath as I did. I wasn’t sure how he managed to lure women to the hotel room. Probably on a promise of a twenty dollar bill he’d nipped from me. His heady armpit smell surely wasn’t what they were after.
Jack coughed thickly, as if he had a fur ball. “Your brother told me you haven’t made rent.”
“It’ll be here tomorrow,” I said. I bit my tongue to the fact that if he didn't require me to be here when he was awake, I could probably get a better job and make enough for a better place.
“It better be. How am I supposed to teach you responsibility at your age?"
"By setting a good example and getting a job, yourself?"
"Don't you start that snippy attitude with me." He shoved the bathroom door open. "Now go clean up the room before I get out."
I moved slowly until he grunted and shoved me aside. When he was behind the bathroom door, I made a face to mock him. Not that there was a point, but at least it made me feel better. A little.
I got to work changing the bed sheets and getting fresh ones from the dresser.
Wil got up from his reading. He picked up one of the pillows and changed the cover.
“You should study,” I said.
“I have time to help you change the sheets.”
Since we lived in a hotel, technically we could have had a maid come in. Jack had already irritated the maids enough that I’d promised them I’d clean the room and change the sheets regularly if they’d leave what we needed outside the door. They were more than happy to leave it to us, since they knew they’d never get a tip anyway. I ran a powerless sweeper over the thin carpet and Wil replaced the bed’s blanket. The worst part was the mess Jack made: collections of bottles, crumpled Kleenex tissues and occasionally a pair of ladies’ underwear of unknown origin.
Jack slept for most of the day. I was convinced he only woke up and worked just hard enough to be presentable so they’d let him into the bar. I checked my stash of money, counting to make sure he didn’t take any. I don’t know where he got money if he didn’t get it from me, but I thought he might have made a few friends at the bar who occasionally gave him the fifty-cent shot specials.
The phone rang on the nightstand between the two beds. Wil and I both stared at it, silently urging the other to answer and deal with it.
“I’ve got homework,” he said, crawling back onto the bed and snagging his textbook.
I sighed, and picked up the receiver. “Hello?”
A woman’s voice replied. I recognized her as being the front desk attendant though I forgot her name. “This is Kayli Winchester, right? Do you have a minute to come down to the front desk, please?”
“I’ll be there in a second.” I slid an evil eye at Wil, who wriggled his eyebrows at me and grinned. I was stuck facing off the questions of if we would be staying another week.
I was hoping they’d believe my lie. I wasn’t sure if we’d make it.
?????
I walked barefoot down the steps and toward the hotel lobby. The maroon walls and the brown and black striped carpet irritated my eyes, not to mention made the hotel lobby look like it catered to hookers. The front desk was empty. I didn’t want to wait and knew what this was about anyway, so I found the short hallway on the other side that lead to the manager’s office.
Colby was inside. Colby was a black lump with legs and a shiny bald head and wrinkled neck. If he wanted to, he could look mean, and often needed to because of people the hotel usually catered to. The rest of the time, though, he was just a lump.
His feet were up on the shaky oak desk. He stared at the large screen TV hanging on the opposite wall that had the football game playing. When whatever play was finished, his dull eyes broke from the screen and focused on me. “Oh, hi Kayli.”
“Did you need something?” I asked. “I was called ...”
“Margaret wasn’t at her desk?”
“Nope.”
He frowned. “I just wanted to see if you’ll be staying another week.”
“I’ve told you ...”
He held up his hands. “Sorry. We have to ask. The higher ups have us do this thing, you know?”
“And it’s due tomorrow,” I said. “I know that.”
“It’s not just that. We’ve had complaints.”
Not again. “What kind of complaints?” I asked, trying to make my voice light, like I had no idea.
“The neighbors hear the shouting and the banging late at night. They say it sounds like people beating each other up. They were wanting to call the police.”
I stared off at him, not wanting to confirm or deny anything, just wanting to listen. This was one of the reasons we got kicked out of the last apartment we lived in.
H
e sighed, shoving his fingers through his thinning hair. “Well, just try to keep it down, okay?”
“Okay.”
He pursed his lips, as if my answer wasn’t enough for him. What did he want me to say?
“By the way,” he said. “The weekly rates have gone up this week.”
My mouth dropped open. “How much?”
“A hundred dollars.”
“A hundred?” I cried out. “Don’t we get the same rate because we’ve been here for a while.”
“It doesn’t work like that,” he said. “This isn’t an apartment. It’s a hotel. The rates go up whenever the big guys tell us.”
“Isn’t there something you could do? You’re the manager.”
“I don’t control the rate. I’m giving you a head’s up. I’m sorry, but maybe you should be looking to live somewhere else.”
