Total pages in book: 37
Estimated words: 34335 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 172(@200wpm)___ 137(@250wpm)___ 114(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 34335 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 172(@200wpm)___ 137(@250wpm)___ 114(@300wpm)
There are more liquor stores than grocery stores these days. But, when we grew up, it wasn’t a war zone, it was working class, and to us it was just home.
“I’d give you lessons,” Alice goes on. “I told you that bunches of times. You could make so much more money.” She tips her head toward the window where the sun is already down, and the early winter evening has taken over the sky. “And, you get to sleep in.”
Alice’s work has paid for her pre-med as well as room and board at Marygrove College about an hour from here. She’s staying with me for her winter break, but her classes start in a few days and I don’t begrudge her the path she’s chosen for her college funding. She’s smart, and she’s gorgeous, with that perfect blend of a flat stomach centered between her natural double D’s and a rear end that makes most grown men cry. Her cocoa colored hair hangs in perfect rinlets and curls down her back and I’ve never seen eyes like hers before. They are a greenish-blue like a some tropical lagoon and I’m pretty sure she could hypnotize someone with just a look if she wanted.
My eyes are brown, wide, but nothing special. My body stores some extra fluff all over year round, but I gave up the self-loathing years ago. I am what I am, I feel good and the number on the scale can’t continue to determine my self-worth or my mood.
I love that Alice is chasing her dreams on her own terms and envy snaps at me whenever I think of my own dreams of design school, which seem more out of reach every day.
Except, if all goes as planned, I’ll have ten grand that may just jump start my dreams after all.
The alarm I set on my phone goes off and my stomach flips.
“I gotta get dressed.”
I take one more look in the mirror, barely recognizing myself.
Another side advantage to working as a stripper, is Alice has some mad skills with hair and makeup, and if I didn’t know better I’d swear I was looking at myself through some glam IG filter, not at the mirror over my dresser. It’s not that I’m an au naturel gal all the time, but when Alice gets ahold of a face, it’s makeup art at its finest.
As I move to my bed where my dress for the evening is waiting, my father’s voice bellows through the bedroom door.
“Bria!” He sounds pissed, which is how he sounds the majority of the time. “I need to talk to you.”
Alice shakes her head on a sneer, hissing, “Don’t give him any more money.”
I flick my eyes to the door and clear my throat. “Coming,” I yell, then look at my friend, putting my finger to my mouth.
“He just got his disability check last week.” She grits out shaking her head, frustration clenching her jaw.
“I know,” I answer in a hushed tone, waving at her to keep her voice down, but she gives me an eye roll as I open the bedroom door and head down the hall to the den where he spends most of his time.
Looking inside, it’s a disaster. I cleaned in here yesterday, but already there are empty beer cans, two empty whiskey bottles and a mess of pizza boxes and take-out containers. The scent of sour alcohol and sadness wrap around me like a heavy fog as he spins in his wheelchair and his watery red eyes focus on me.
For a second, he stares, and I wrap my arms around my waist as my stomach knots. “What do you need? I’m on my way out.”
“On your way out? You taking up with Alice then? All painted up like a working girl. And your hair. I hate it. I hate that color. It’s cheap.”
“I have a charity event. What did you need to talk to me about?”
“I need twenty bucks. I need to pay for a prescription.”
“I refilled everything for you already…”
“It’s a new prescription. None of your business. I just need the money.” His frail body is lost inside the cotton pajama bottoms and tattered blue robe he wears almost every day, even though I’ve bought decent-fitting clothes for him from the thrift store down the street.
Sometimes, I believe he likes living this way. Playing the victim. Soaking up pity like it somehow legitimizes his self-destruction.
I start to tell him no, but the argument that would ensue would sap any of the positive energy I have going into this evening, so I walk back to the bedroom, give Alice a look, letting her know I don’t need her chastising me right now, and get a twenty dollar bill from my purse.
When I return and hand it to my dad, he doesn’t thank me. Instead, he narrows his eyes on a sniff.