Chapter Five
Visible
An hour after Dizzy is taken into custody, I return to my wall. I’m terrified the social worker will show up, but I don’t know what else to do. It doesn’t seem right to go to the house without him.
I press my back against the brick and slide down. Another pig could drive by any moment and arrest me for the same crime I just ran from. Maybe that’s what I want. Maybe I want to go where Dizzy is even if it means being locked up with my own head.
With Wilson.
I don’t know how long I sit there before I hear soft footsteps. They aren’t the cold, hard ones of police heels. These are gentle, like a cautious hand stretched toward a stray mutt.
My head rises.
A woman is watching me.
“Go away,” I say. I know her type. The bored housewife who’s looking for purpose, who believes she can find it in rescuing people like me.
“Did you do that?” she asks.
I follow her gaze to my wall. “What if I did?”
“It’s beautiful.” The woman holds her shoulders and head high. She has blushing cheekbones and pearls that dip into her cleavage. Her eyes are gray-blue and hooded, and her smile is a nice one, close-lipped without assumptions. She looks old Hollywood. Even her voice has a slow, regal tone.
“It takes talent to do that.” She states it as a fact. “And courage.”
I shake my head and roll my eyes, but the warmth of her words seep in anyway.
“You don’t believe me?” she asks.
I don’t respond.
She gestures to my wall. “Most people spend their entire lives quietly. Never saying what’s on their mind. Sheep.” She says the last word with a hint of disgust.
The woman takes a step closer. I glance up, knowing I should have scrammed before she ever said a word. But I remain where I am, still as death.
“Not you, though,” she continues. “You don’t just say what’s on your mind. You scream it.”
I’ve never thought of my art that way. I want her to keep talking, and I hate her for that.
She moves toward me until we’re only an arm’s length away. “I’m going to ask you something directly. I don’t like a lot of small talk.”
Her eyes seem kind and her skin looks nice and I like the way she talks to me, like I’m a human being, but not one she feels sorry for.
“I run an establishment for girls.”
“I don’t need charity,” I say.
“I don’t provide charity.” She touches a hand to her blond, graying hair. “I run an establishment for girls with artistic abilities. Abilities like yours. It’s a wonderful, almost magical place people go to forget their worries.”
I laugh. “Artistic abilities? I spray walls, lady.”
The woman smiles, and the folds around her eyes deepen. I try to decide how old she is. Between mother and grandmother, she’s leaning toward the latter.
“It’s not just walls you decorate.” Her eyes rake over my pink wig and the piercings in my face. “I’m offering you a place in my house. You will work with the other girls. And you’ll get a percentage of anything you earn.”
“I don’t need a job.”
Lie.
“What are you even doing out here?” I add. “Shouldn’t you be at home drinking herbal tea or something?”
The woman bends down, and I lean away from her. She smells nice, powder instead of perfume. “What’s your name?”
I search her face and wonder why she cares. There isn’t anything to be afraid of that I can see. But who knows what lurks beneath. I’ve been surprised before. I don’t want to tell her my name, but then I decide it doesn’t matter. She won’t see me after tonight anyway.
“Domino,” I say.
She reaches out to lay a hand on me. I jerk back.
“Domino,” she says, her words gentle as a cloud. “I don’t make this offer often. I’m asking if you’d like to get off the streets.”
“I don’t need you,” I snarl. I don’t know why I’m reacting this way. She’s trying to be nice. But I don’t trust it. Moments ago, I was running from police, watching my person get hauled away. And before that, running from Manhandler. And Wilson.
Now this.
“I think you do.” She tries again to place her hand on me, and this time I let her. Why do I let her?
She turns my hand over and offers my forearm as evidence. There are slashes across my flesh as if someone forgot the hugs in their Xs and Os. I stare down at them and then up at her. She thinks I’m a cutter, I can see it in her face, but she’s wrong. Those marks are a souvenir from my past, and I’d be wise to remember that. I yank my arm away and rise to my feet. She clutches my wrist as I’m about to go. It feels like an embrace and I hate myself—I hate myself—for relishing her touch.
“Take this.” She hands me a neat ten-dollar bill and a cream-colored card. “I could help you. I could give you what you want.” Her eyes flick toward my wall, the one with fresh paint cast across its gut.
I shove the money and card into my pocket and walk fast.
“You have to call by tomorrow evening, Domino,” she says from behind me. “Or my offer will be retracted.”
That’s all she says. She doesn’t try to follow me. I hate her for approaching me at all, and I hate her for not following. As I near the end of the alley, I see a tired gold sedan with tinted windows. It’s hard to see inside, but not so hard that I don’t recognize the guy I saw on the street earlier today sitting inside, the one with the big nose and white shirt.
He waves, and I freeze.
Is he with the woman?
Standing outside the car is another guy, one I’ve never seen before. He’s closer to my age and is built like a stone giant. Bronze skin, hair shaved close to the scalp, lips pressed tight like he hasn’t spoken in months and doesn’t plan to ever again. His eyes are brown with two layers, one he shows the world and a second he hides at great expense. I see both.
He straightens, and when he realizes I’m staring, his gaze drops. He’s built like a soldier, a king without a throne, but he doesn’t want to be seen.
I’m intrigued. Maybe more than I should be.
I force myself to move and wait until I’m sure I’m out of sight before I withdraw the card. It has a phone number and a name, Ms. Karina, written in cursive. I want to throw it away. I have to worry about bailing Dizzy out of jail, not the woman in the alley. But I can’t stop thinking about what she said. That she could give me what I want.
Anger boils in my stomach. I’m furious that I wrote that word on the wall. Furious that she knows what I dream of every night.
HOME.
A home of my very own. Four strong walls that will never fall.
It isn’t until I’m lying in bed, painfully aware that I’m alone in the house, that I allow myself to search my mind. To look for any trace of Wilson. I breathe a sigh of relief when he doesn’t surface.
Clutching my pillow to my chest, I cinch my eyes shut and silence my spinning mind. I’m in that twisty place between awareness and sleep, when my body grows heavy, and Wilson’s voice returns, a lullaby on his tongue.
Hush little baby, don’t say a word.
Wilson’s gonna buy you a mockingbird.
And if that mockingbird don’t sing,
Wilson’s gonna burn the world to the ground.