Page 13 of Ripple Effect: Ep. 1

We can’t live like this, out in the open, wondering if the police or a band of crazed homeless marauders or Randy’s going to nab us up. I pawned Randy’s gun for food, which leaves us essentially defenseless, save my knife. We need shelter. We need food. And if I don’t find more pills, I’m going to need a whole lot more than that.

I look up to the sky again, all those stars twinkling back at me, like lost hopes out of reach. If I could add a star for every time I dreamed of a different life, my world would never be dark at night.

The Conservatory is as safe a place as we can get in this part of town. Garfield Park, itself, is a shit side of Chicago, but it’s where I could both score some cash, maybe more pills, while keeping Layla and Charlie out of the mix.

After a quick kiss to the top of her head, I stroke Charlie’s fur, wishing it was just the two of us so I wouldn’t have to leave her here—a thought that spurs guilt when I look over at Layla sleeping peacefully beside her. Guilt and sadness have swallowed most of my seventeen years, and made me hard, much harder than I ever wanted to be. Shifting the blanket, I cover more of Layla to keep her warm and make sure nobody sees her. Charlie will protect her, I remind myself, but we’re safer here than we’ve been anywhere else. It’s warmer tonight, which means more people will be out on the streets.

As if she senses something, Charlie perks up, lifting her head from the pavement.

“Charlie. Stay.” Holding up my finger halts her movement and she lets out a quiet whine at my command. “I said stay.” Like the good dog she is, she stays, and my heart breaks.

What if I don’t come back?

I push to my feet and start walking—a path that feels like death row to me, the same path my mother walked. It’s like I said to Charlie, I am a fractal—an infinitely recurring pattern predetermined by my mother’s mistakes, just a smaller version of the bigger picture—failure.

I hate this. Feeling responsible for Layla. Three more days and I’ll be considered an adult. At the moment, I’m just a runaway kid, but in three days, I’ll be her kidnapper.

If I can send her off with some cash, maybe convince her to go back to Kestral herself, that’ll be the best-case scenario, because she’s not in any better position staying with me.

Just up the street, is a gas station, and I slide my hand into my jeans, gripping the hilt of my pocketknife. Through the front entrance, I keep my head low and duck into the ladies’ restroom in the back. It reeks of stale cigarettes and shit, taunting my gag reflex. I push down the urge to throw up and flip on the sink, filling my palms with cool water that I splash onto my face. With paper towels, I scrub away some of the day’s grime, until peach-colored skin glows back at me in the mirror. I run my fingers through my long, honey-blond hair and dislodge a few of the knots.

Beneath my jacket, I stretch my T-shirt to the side and tie a tight knot, baring the mid section of my stomach, which has come to look more concave in the last couple of weeks as hunger has taken its toll.

From my pocket, I pull the small white object that looks like a pop rock firework, and set it on my tongue. With a handful of water, I swallow it back. I hate parachuting the shit, but the bitter taste makes chewing my pills downright unbearable. I’m praying I can get enough cash for some food and another month of Oxy. I’ll try to quit, I just need time.

Once it’s down my gullet, I wipe at the circles under my eyes, run my fingers through my hair one more time and exhale a sharp breath.

A knock tightens my muscles and I throw back the door, shuffling past a large black woman and her young son. Her eyes scan me a moment before she guides her son into the cramped bathroom. Zipping up my jacket, I pass a shelf lined with packaged Little Debbie cinnamon rolls and my mouth instantly waters. Wish I had the balls to swipe one, but the clerk’s eyes have been on me since I entered the store. No way I’d not get caught. Layla and Charlie would be so excited if I brought them one, though.

Charlie.

My stomach churns with the thought of having left her alone. The Conservatory is, at least, guarded by night watch—a small comfort. And if I end up having a good night, I promise she’ll never have to be left on the streets alone again.

I step out into the cool air that tickles my throat, begging to upchuck the last meal I actually ate back at the shelter. Across Jackson Boulevard, I make my way to a seedier part of town. A place I’ll undoubtedly find what I’m looking for. Swallowed one block into the shit neighborhood, I make my way to an empty street corner, in front of a graffiti-ridden strip club. Definitely one of the lower class joints in the city. The places closer to the Loop are much flashier, with bouncers and valet. This place looks like something off the highway in a horror movie, painted all black with taped-up windows and posters of half-naked women plastered to a steel door.

Two men sit crouched along the wall of it—their rags telling me they’re much too poor for what I’m offering. Neither of them approach, both perhaps pushing fifty, but they stare. And why wouldn’t they? A young white teen on the corner in Garfield Park is like watching a chunk of lamb tossed into a pool of great white sharks.

The smell of sulphur emanating from the manholes only adds to the queasiness of what I’m about to do.

To the right, a sleek black old model Chevelle sits parked along the curb, its dark windows reminding me of a Darth Vader car. Out of place in the shit neighborhood, but not out of the ordinary if the guy is a drug dealer. Kinda creepy not knowing if someone’s in the damn thing, possibly watching me. I unzip my coat, revealing my bare torso, and with some reluctance, pull it down off my shoulders, draping it over my arm. In the direction of the muscle car, I saunter, doing my best not to look like a limp, wounded animal in my attempt to be sexy. I want to cry but my heart is pounding in my chest, all instincts on high alert.

I’ve never done this before in my life. Sure, I’ve offered myself to Randy and a handful of men, but only as a means of protection, and most times, Randy finished in a matter of minutes. And he never penetrated me, with his dick anyway.

This is how girls die. This is how they find themselves trapped in basements with their faces on morning talk shows, as the world dissects how the hell they ended up so unfortunate.

A dull sound snaps my attention toward the vehicle where the window rolls a crack. My chest rises and falls with each labored breath.

A hookup.

One step off the curb, toward the vehicle, and I pause as another car slides in front of the first, a silver Chevy Malibu, like something a suburbanite might drive. The window of the muscle car slides back up, as if the driver changed his mind, and I step back onto the curb.

The man who exits the Malibu is medium height, smallish build with brown hair that sits like he gelled it to the side. He might be in his forties, white guy, looking like he could be one of my high school teachers or something. Definitely not a drug dealer. Maybe a tourist, looking for directions, though he’s got Illinois plates.

He offers a smile as he passes, shuffling toward the club.

I open my mouth to proposition him, but nothing comes out.

Biting the inside of my lip, I contemplate how I might approach the guy when he comes back out. Maybe he’ll be awkward. We’ll both be awkward and after, I can laugh it off and walk away with enough cash to score a motel room for the night. A shiver moves through my body at the thought of a nice hot shower and a soft bed. Maybe I could grab some bread and a gallon of milk from the market.