Page 3 of Whispers From The Dark

Gabi

What did Donna do now?

Not mom for once. Jack broke a window.

Gabi

how did he manage that?

being ten. You think Henry can hook me up?

Gabi

I can ask him. He might be able to get you the window at cost, but labor isn’t cheap.

How many hours can it take to replace a single window?

Gabi

How many hours a week does that lawyer bill you to sit on his ass?

I bite my lip, ready to explain to her for the thousandth time what a retainer is, when she texts again.

Gabi

The baby’s up. I’ll text you after I talk to Henry.

thanks Gabi

Selecting my show tunes playlist, not daring to turn it past a certain volume for fear of rousing the beast on the other side of the wall, I escape into the shower. It’s much nicer when Mom isn’t home because I can sing. There’s something about belting El Tango De Roxanne at the top of my lungs that’s quite soothing. Tortured Moulin Rouge Ewan McGregor has always done something for me. Although Aaron Tveit’s version is better.

Instead, I opt for No Place Like London from Sweeney Todd, because I’m not feeling very optimistic at the moment. Grumbling about people being full of shit in my shower might be the closest I ever get to stardom. Though my singing isn’t even close to good enough for Broadway, I have high hopes that all the time I spent pouring myself into theater will come to something. I don’t think I’d survive my acting career peaking in high school.

I remember I'm supposed to be hurrying—fortunately my hair is shorter now, only down to my jawline. The thick waves rinse out easily for once, and I scrub quickly with a lemon and grapefruit body wash. It's supposed to be energizing, but I still need to grab dinner or I'll pass out by midnight.

Before I can finish rinsing the suds from my body, the hot water goes tepid, and I sigh, reaching for my towel. It’s damp—probably Mom’s fault—and I cringe as I do my best to dry off.

Thankfully, I got lucky with my new haircut. It’s way shorter than I’m used to, but a little mousse is all it takes to give me a perfectly tousled bob. An over the top smoky eye, a brow brush to my thick eyebrows, and a quick application of blood-red lipstick later, and I’m ready. I don’t bother with foundation or bronzer. The vampires don’t like the taste, and some of them are really fucking weird, wanting me as pale as possible. On the days when I commit to the Sickly Victorian Child bit, I make the most tips. After stuffing my fishnets and lime green dress into my bag, I pull on comfortable sweats and a hoodie.

Tiptoeing into the living room, I wince when I hear Mom’s cough as she ambles out into the hallway. Usually, when I work the late shift, she’s asleep before I leave, and it’s wonderful. Now that the television is in her bedroom, it drowns out any sounds Jack could possibly make to wake her.

Her silver hair is tangled, and she hasn’t even bothered to put on her glasses. She looks older than my friends’ moms, but that’s certainly because of the booze and cigarettes. Her normally tanned skin has a yellow tinge in the faint fluorescent lighting, and I wonder if maybe her liver has finally started to fail. When she steps out of the shadow, I realize it was only a trick of the light.

A girl can dream, I suppose.

“Working late?” she grunts, tripping over the transition where the carpet turns into tile. I ignore her, reaching under the futon I sleep on to find my phone charger. It’s not like my schedule has changed for the last three years, and yet she still asks this stupid question. “You better come straight home after because you’re paying for my plane ticket if you can’t call me a ride in the morning.”

“It’s almost like you can catch a bus—” I mutter, but don’t want to get her riled up. Plus, her leaving for two and a half weeks, right before Jack’s on break for school, is a gift. She won’t be back until Christmas afternoon, and I need to make sure she gets on that damn plane. Still, I’m annoyed. I snatch the end of the cord, pull it out, and shove it in my bag. Slipping my Doc Martens onto my feet, I tug my hood up and walk toward the door.

“I’m hungry for something sweet,” she says, opening the fridge. “I’m serious, Petra, you have to be home in time. I hate using that damn app, and I have to walk so far to flag a taxi down.”

“Yeah, Mom. It’ll be fine. I’ll schedule it while I’m at work and text you the details. There are fresh raspberries on the second shelf,” I say, grimacing because I bought them for Jack. They’re her favorite though, and I need to leave. And she needs to fuck off back to bed.

“You owe me, by the way. Water was paid late, and there’s an $8 fee. If you can’t fucking pay⁠—”

“I’ll leave cash on the counter when I get home tonight,” I say, thinking about how Gabi’s mom gifted her a month of rent so she could take extra time off with the baby. One thing’s for certain: if I ever have kids, I will not give a flying fuck about $8. “Sorry, Mom.”

With a hand on the doorknob, I watch as she closes the fridge and struggles with the plastic container of berries. I’m about to offer my help when she sneers at me.