Page 7 of Dirty (Chicago Underground 5)
I laughed. “I meant my father, but I’m sure he wouldn’t mind your assessment of the situation.”
“What does your father have to do with it?”
“I don’t know. Nothing, probably. But if he does, if I’m right…then all this shit really was preordained.” I laughed again. “Like God. Like fate. Just another fool on Fortune’s Wheel.”
Her throat worked audibly. “You’re scaring me.”
“Sorry,” I said, contrite. “I’m not the best company right now. You should probably go.”
Her hand fumbled for mine, burning where it touched. “It’s okay. You can tell me.”
Strangely, I believed her. Or maybe I just needed it to be true.
Chapter Four
In history class, we learned that each new civilization plows over the existing one. Archaeologists cut through rock and measure the years based on the layers within. Pottery shards of one culture sit only yards above, feet above the broken pieces that came before it. That was what our neighborhood in south Chicago did.
Some big-shot community development folks bought up a rectangle right in the middle of the projects, razed it down, and built a handful of million-dollar homes. The poor, run-down houses surrounding the gated neighborhood were the murky waters of a moat, something to be crossed between the castle at home and the freeway.
Except for the kids. We were all zoned to the same school district, and since dear old Dad didn’t see fit to send me to private school, I got to mingle with the commoners. The rich and the privileged usually dominate, but not there. There the strong and the fearless would—and did—cut an uppity white kid and take his iPod.
Luckily I’ve always had a pretty face and a nice rack. Or maybe not so luckily, since men tended to notice, and the kind of men who notice such things on a thirteen-year-old aren’t very good. Like my father. He touched me and had sex with me, and what are you going to do? Even then, I knew better than to bite the hand that feeds me. Even then, I knew what I was.
I wasn’t bitter about what my father did. It was the way of the world.
I also learned that Cleopatra’s daughter was only fifteen years old when she was forced to marry an older man, and I imagined myself an exotic princess fulfilling her birthright. Some Egyptian royalty married their relatives, even. The analogy fit, because my mother had been beautiful and selfish, leaving her daughter to face the world alone. Not that I was bitter about it, but life went on, for me at least.
The important part of this story began when I left home. That day I approached his office.
I knocked.
The long wait indicated how annoyed he’d be at the interruption. “Come in.”
I slipped inside and stood before his desk. “Hello, sir.”
He didn’t look up, rifling through papers on his desk. His hair was rumpled, shirtsleeves rolled up. “Speak,” he said.
My stomach sank. I had hoped for a good day, when he took me on his lap, took what he wanted, and then asked what he could do to make me happy. “Can I come back when you’re free?”
“I won’t be.” He slammed the papers with his fist, finally looking me in the eye. “This is what I do, Shelly. I work so that you can live here, wear the clothes you wear, so that Juanita can clean up after you. Now what is so important that you had to disturb me?”
Deep breath. “My friend. Allie. You may remember her. She came over a few times when… Anyway, she’s in trouble.”
An eyebrow rose. “Trouble?”
I flushed. “She’s pregnant.”
“I see.”
If he thought she was a bad influence, he wouldn’t help. “It wasn’t her fault, I swear. She said no. He wasn’t even her boyfriend. He just—”
“Quiet.”
I stilled, stomach churning.
He got up from his desk and strolled over to the window. “Do you know what I see when I look out there?” He glanced back at me. “At the rattraps that litter our lawn, where your friend no doubt lives?”
I licked my lips. “She doesn’t have a choice.”
