Little Peach Page 10

In the waiting room, the boys surround us.

  “What the fuck,” Devon growls, gripping Kat’s arm so hard her skin squeezes through his fingers. “You better tell me right now you didn’t say a goddamn word to these people.”

  Kat looks right at him. “You scared, D? Maybe I did. Maybe I told them everything.”

  Then Devon’s eyes light up. Like a fire. He grips my arm, too, Boost right beside him, Fuse making fists with his hands, and they lead us out into the hot August streets.

  Home.

  Kat paces like a creature, her face wet and shaky. She looks crazy. Boost and Fuse stand by the door with their giant stiff bodies and watch Devon, who watches Kat. His face is hard and still. His eyes flame like gasoline, his hands balled up.

  The air crackles.

  “You fucking crazy bitch,” he says to her. “You tryin’ to get us all locked up? Goin’ to a hospital? What the fuck you say to them, huh?”

  I clench my eyes shut, and then I see her: the girl from the hotel, the one who was screaming, the one that Boost put down on the balcony. The girl we never saw again, and Devon’s words to me that night.

  She would’ve gotten us all locked up.

  “You did this to me,” Kat hisses, her eyes wobbling in her head. Her face is drenched, sweat dripping down to her shoulders. “You told Queen Bee to kill it. I know you did. She gave me a pill. She said it was a vitamin.”

  “What you say to them, Kat?” Devon’s voice rises, rumbling like a storm. I cover my ears. I don’t want to hear this.

  Kat gets up in his face, her head twisting on her long neck. “Maybe I told them the truth. That you killed my baby. Maybe I told ’em I been doin’ this shit for five years, makin’ you money, believin’ all the shit you talk. You been talkin’ shit at me since you picked my ass up at that group home. We gonna make money, Kat. We gonna get up outta here, Kat. We gonna have a baby. We gonna get a house. You talk and talk but we ain’t got shit. You gonna work me till I’m dead. Till I end up like those girls on the track, all strung out and used up and starvin’.”

  The words shoot from her mouth like bullets. But they bounce right off him.

  “I ain’t doin’ this no more. I’m done. You hear me? You had no right. You had no fuckin’ right! You promised me, D! You promised! You said!”

  Boost takes a step toward Kat, then backs away when Devon raises his hand. I wait for the slap, for Kat to crumple on the floor, but Devon pulls her in. She struggles, squirms, then pushes her head into his chest. I don’t know what she’s doing.

  “I didn’t kill nothin’, Kat. You talkin’ crazy. You need to calm the hell down.”

  Kat pulls away from him, falls on the couch in a pile. “That was my baby. It was mine. I woulda raised it. I woulda loved it.”

  Devon shakes his head, a thin laugh slipping from his lips. “Look at you. What the hell you gonna do with a baby, Kat?”

  “I woulda loved it,” she says. “You got no idea what I am.”

  “Get dressed, Peach,” Devon barks. “Get Baby dressed too. We’ll talk about your little trip this morning later. Kat’ll stay with me tonight.”

  I don’t want to go. I don’t want to leave her. But Boost grips my arm, pushes me into the bedroom where Baby’s buried underneath her blanket.

  “You heard him. Get dressed. Now.”

  And so I do.

  So does Baby. Her hair in pigtails and barrettes. Dressed in her costume: a stupid pink dress with ruffles.

  And we leave Kat behind.

  She is still crying, crumpled on the couch in her hospital gown, her hands on her empty stomach, when we step into the hall. She does not look at us.

  Boost and Fuse drive us to the Litehouse.

  Up the metal stairs.

  Me in Room 4.

  Baby in Room 3.

  Kat’s room is empty.

  Baby’s face is hard—as hard as Devon’s.

  “I told you we shouldn’t have gone,” she says, with eyes that I don’t recognize, and shuts the door behind her.

  Two a.m.

  The trick takes long pulls from his glass pipe, the small white pebble melting in the heat. Watery smoke spills from his nose. His eyes sag, and soon he starts to snore.

  I take his phone and lock the bathroom door.

  I can only think of one person to call.

  Information.

  “What city and state, please?”

  Philadelphia. Pennsylvania.

  “What listing?”

  Boo’s Lounge.

  “Please hold a moment.”

  Ring ring.

  Music and voices.

  “This Boo’s!” says a man.

  My heart throbs in my throat.

  “Is Chuck there?”

  “Chuck?”

  “Yeah. Chuck. Out front.”

  “Hold on a sec.”

  Music and voices and noise. I wait and wait and wait until I hear him.

  “Hello? Who this?”

  “It’s me,” I whisper. “It’s Michelle.”

  “I can’t hear shit. Hold up. Yo, Boo! Turn the damn music down!”

  Please. Please hear me.

  “Hello?”

  “Chuck! It’s Michelle!”

  “Michelle? Is that you?” His words slide into each other, slow and messy. He’s drunk.

  “Yeah, it’s me.”

  “I . . . I don’t . . . Where are you?”

  “I’m in New York. Can you come get me?”

  “What?”

  “I’m in New York.”

  “New York?! Your mama said . . . I don’t understand. Michelle? Is it really you?” He’s shouting now.

  “Yeah. It’s me. Please. Listen. I think—” I swallow hard. “I think I’m in trouble.”

  “What kind of trouble?”

  I don’t know. “I just need help. Can you come get me?”

  “Oh, ’Chelle.”

  He’s crying now. Something shatters in the background. “Goddamn it!” he hollers. “Michelle? You still there?”

  “Yeah.” My head falls in my hands. I sit on the toilet, the phone pressed to my ear, and pretend I’m sitting outside of Boo’s with him, like I did when I was little, waiting for Grandpa to get home.

  “Your mama, she gone, ’Chelle. I think she got locked up. I asked her where you went, but she kept givin’ me stories like you was with a friend or you went to stay with family, but I know you ain’t got no family. The house all empty now, ’Chelle. The lights ain’t on. I been thinkin’ about you so much. I miss you. Your grandpa, he asked me to look out for you, and I tried to, I swear, but . . .”

  Chuck keeps talking, the words crashing into one another, breaking up when he starts to cry again.

  He can’t help me. He can’t even talk right.

  “I met a lady,” I say. “She said she can help me out. But I don’t know, Chuck. I need . . . I need somebody to tell me what to do. Can you tell me?” My voice breaks, and I wait for him to say something. I’m on my way. Or, Stay right there. I will find you.

  For a moment, he’s quiet, the sounds of Boo’s in the background. Music. Voices. Someone laughing.

  “Oh, God,” he says in a low, weak voice I can barely hear. “I’m sorry, ’Chelle. I’m sorry I ain’t like your grandpa want me to be.”

  I sit on the toilet. He’s crying.

  “You gotta talk to somebody. Somebody gotta know what to do.”

  “The lady, she’s like a doctor, I think,” I say.

  “That’s good. That’s good. She gonna take care of you?”

  I clear my throat and fight to steady my voice.

  “Yeah,” I lie. “Yeah.”

  Chuck sighs, like a weight’s been lifted off him, then he starts to talk again, about Mama and Grandpa and how much he misses me.

  “I love you,” I whisper over the words that spill from his mouth onto the dirty floor of Boo’s, a million miles away from this place, this filthy bathroom, the filthy man on the other side of the door, snoring like
a truck, leaking smoke. Waiting for me. “I gotta go. Say hi to Little John for me.”

  “Oh, ’Chelle,” he weeps. “Oh, ’Chelle.”

  I know.

  I wish you were Grandpa too.

  I wish he was here.

  Click.

  On the bed, the trick’s eyes open slowly, roll around in his head before landing on me.

  I arch my back, toss my braids aside. They are unraveling.

  Tomorrow Kat will fix them. She’ll sit me on the floor and yell at me for not taking care of them right. Then she’ll work each one till I’m perfect.

  That’s what she’ll do.

  “Hey, girl,” the trick murmurs, wiping his nose and looking around like he’s not sure where he is. “We done?”

  “Yeah.” I smile, in the voice Kat taught me. “We done, baby. It was great.”

  I walk out and down to Baby’s room and open the door without even knocking.

  The man is sitting on the edge of the bed. His pants are off. Baby’s on his lap, staring at the wall with empty eyes, his arms wrapped around her, his hips wiggling beneath her.

  “You’re my little girl,” he coos. “Aren’t you?”

  “Get off her,” I snarl. Baby looks over at me, but it’s like she doesn’t see me at all.

  “Get out,” she says weakly. “Just leave me alone.”

  14

  2700 SURF AVENUE, APARTMENT 6B CONEY ISLAND, NEW YORK

  Seven a.m.

  A boy I don’t know takes us home in Devon’s car, his red hat turned backward.

  Baby doesn’t look at me. She bites at her finger and stares out the window. When I reach out for her shoulder, she shrugs me off and shoves her thumb in her mouth.

  Home.

  Up the stairs to the apartment.

  Something’s wrong.

  Music slams the air, the bass punching. Boom. Boom. A man’s voice growling rhymes over the thick beat:

  I ain’t a killa but don’t push me.

  Revenge is like the sweetest joy next to getting . . .

  Devon has no shirt on, his skin shimmering darkly. The red star on his chest is scratched, a trickle of blood mixed with sweat. He jumps to the music with Boost and Fuse, who yank at the front of their shirts. The air is thick with smoke, a bag of weed on the table.

  Devon tilts his head back and barks—that sound they make like wolves. Boost barks back at him, the music pounding, shaking the room, shaking me, like a terrible storm that’s about to crush us.

  I take Baby’s hand. She tries to pull away, but I won’t let her go. She stares at the men, her mouth slightly open. They look huge. Skin and muscle and rage.

  Where’s Kat?

  “Go to your room,” I whisper to her. “Now.”

  I creep to the door of the other bedroom. The mattress is flipped against the window, sheets torn off, a broken glass on the floor. The table is cracked in half.

  There’s blood on it.

  My heart pumps hot in my chest.

  Devon’s behind me. His hot mouth in my ear. His hand on my bottom. I jump. He’s never touched me like that. He smells like weed and beer.

  “Clean this shit up, Peach. You sleep in here now. Understand?”

  His hand burns into me, squeezes hard. I stare at the blood on the table. “Where’s Kat?” I ask.

  “Clean this shit up.” His breath like fire, licking at my face. “I gave you a long-ass leash. I gave all you bitches a long-ass leash, and what you do with it? From now on, we on lockdown. You don’t go nowhere by yourself. Clean this shit up and get in bed.”

  His hand slides under my shirt, squeezes again. I push his hand away. I don’t want him touching me like that. Not him. Not Daddy.

  “You fucking girls.”

  Devon peels off his sweaty shorts, tosses his phone on the floor, and walks to the bathroom.

  The music stops, replaced by the thunder of a video game. Boost and Fuse sit on the couch. A haze of weed smoke hangs in the hot air that smells like men. They grip the controllers in their hands, gunning down soldiers, blood exploding on the screen.

  Their eyes are like guns.

  My hands tremble. I want a pill. I don’t want to feel this scared.

  Something’s happened. They did something bad.

  I rush to Baby’s room, kneel down at her head that’s buried in her blanket.

  “Baby, listen to me. Kat’s gone. I think they hurt her. I think we need to get outta here. Now.”

  Baby’s turned away from me, her eyes closed tight, her thumb in her mouth.

  I shake her. “Baby. Wake up. C’mon.”

  “Leave me alone,” she murmurs.

  I find my sneakers, your card tucked deep inside where I’ve hidden it.

  “Listen to me. I know you’re mad, but you gotta listen. I got a plan, okay? I won’t leave you, I promise. But you gotta listen. We can’t stay here.”

  Baby doesn’t answer. She sucks harder, puts a chubby hand across her eyes. The sound of gunshots blazes through the apartment. My heart is running, tearing so fast I cannot breathe.

  “Baby, please.”

  Please.

  “You left it. You left it there to die,” Baby mumbles through her wet thumb.

  “What? Baby, you gotta listen to me.”

  “Nemo. The goldfish. You just left it there, on the bench. It’s probably dead.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “At the park. You and Kat. You just took off and left it there. You said I could keep it. You said we’d bring it home, like Nemo. But we didn’t. You left it. And now it’s dead.”

  A single tear leaks from her closed eye. She sniffs, pulls her legs up. “How could you do that?”

  She’s not even listening to me.

  “I’m sorry, okay? I’ll get you a new one, I swear. Once we get outta here.”

  “I don’t want a new one. I want that one.” She sounds like a little kid, stomping her feet.

  “Baby, listen to me! Don’t you get it? We—”

  “I don’t wanna be your friend no more. Just leave me alone.”

  I sink to the floor, my knees digging into the dirty carpet. I love her. I don’t want her to get hurt. But I am a kid too. I can’t make her do anything. I can’t make her wake up. I clench your card tight in my hand.

  “I’m sorry,” I whisper. “Baby. I’m so sorry.”

  “What the fuck you saying to her?” Devon’s voice booms at the doorway. I can still feel his hand under my shirt. What’s happening? Why is he doing this? My armpits are soaked, pain stabbing at my forehead.

  “I was just tucking her in,” I say, and try to smile like Kat would, because maybe it will calm him down.

  “Get the fuck in bed, Peach. I ain’t playin’ with you no more.”

  And he waits until I leave, until I leave her alone in her bed, in the room we used to share, buried underneath her blanket, her eyes shut tight against it all. Devon grabs my arm as I pass by. I steady myself, draw my lips into a smile, and lace my arms around his neck.

  I say the words Kat taught me. Stand up straight. Arch your back. Pretend.

  “Go take a shower. It’s all good,” I whisper. And I glide across the floor, past the TV with the men in bloody heaps, into his bedroom.

  I shut the door and grab Devon’s phone as soon as the shower turns on.

  I shiver, a deep coldness creaking through my bones despite the heat, your card clenched in my hand, your words crying out in my head.

  The doctors need the bed for other people. People who are hurt worse than she is.

  I don’t know how to work Devon’s phone. It has a large screen with lots of buttons, like a keyboard. I push one, then another, till the screen lights up. Then I punch in the numbers: 911. And I wait.

  Outside the door, the gunshots blaze. The shower shuts off.

  “911. What’s your emergency?”

  “I need an ambulance,” I say. “A girl’s getting beat up.”

  “What’s the address?”r />
  “2700 Surf Avenue, Apartment 6B. Coney Island.”

  “Okay. Can you see her? Is she conscious?”

  “Please. Come quick. She needs help!”

  The doorknob turns. I drop the phone and turn to face my daddy.

  Devon. The guy who rescued me, who found me in the bus station, gave me food, and drove me to Pink Houses. And when I broke and cried, he took my face in his hands and promised me, I’m gonna take care of you, ’Chelle. I swear.

  “Thought I told you to clean this shit up, Peach.”

  I search his face, looking for the remnants, looking for the guy I once believed. He was there yesterday. Everything was okay. But all I can see is the scratch on his chest, feel his fingers on my bottom. The blood on the table. The empty place where Kat once slept.

  “Where is she?” I say. “Where’s Kat?”

  “She’s gone.”

  “Where?”

  Devon laughs, but he doesn’t answer me.

  “Tell me the truth. Tell me what you did to her.”

  In the distance I can hear the sirens screaming. I don’t have much time left.

  Devon doesn’t answer.

  “I’m not going back to that hotel. Baby either. I looked in her room tonight. I know what you make her do.”

  “What you just say to me?”

  “You’re a pimp.”

  His eyes flare in his skull. “I saved you. I don’t MAKE you do shit.”

  “Where is she? Where’s Kat?”

  “Maybe she’s dead.”

  Blood roars through my ears. The sirens get louder. They are coming.

  “I’ll tell. I’ll tell the cops. I’ll get us all locked up. I swear, I will.”

  And then he’s on me. I crash to the floor. Boost bursts through the door, grabs my hair, and pulls me to the living room. I close my eyes, softly, gently, and surrender to their hands, holding on to nothing but the sirens that are coming and the card deep in my fist. I will not let it go, no matter what they do.

  My hair is twisting, twisting, a hand on the back of my head, pulling me up, and then the smash of my face into the table. Something crunches, warm and wet down my throat, sharp and hard on my tongue. The shattering of glass. Plunging deep. Burning in my leg.

  My face caves in, over and over again into the table, the place where me and Kat and Baby eat our breakfast. But I can see them through the blood, Boost all calm in his red shorts, Fuse bouncing like a mad man in his red sneakers.