Chapter Eight
Status
The house is white. Or, it once was white. Now it’s more of a dull cream color. It’s three stories tall, and there are toad-green shutters framing the windows. A porch stretches from the house in a vulgar underbite, and thin beams support the floor above. A bold blue door is suffocated by a rotting screen one, and I wonder what kind of person paints a door blue when the shutters are clearly green.
My home will be much more traditional. Colors that match and a wreath on the front door. I’ll paint the siding using long strokes and put on three coats if that’s what it takes. In the backyard there will be a swing lounging in the sun. I’ll paint that red and watch as the years of rain erode my work. Inside there will be soft couches bought from real furniture stores and a dining table where I’ll eat eggs and toast with raspberry jam.
And in my room. In my room I’ll have a queen-sized bed with a lavender comforter. It’ll be big enough for me to spread out in, small enough so that no one else can sleep there comfortably with me in it. It’ll be a room I sleep in. Dream in. It will be my room.
This isn’t the house I hope to own one day, but it’s better than the place Dizzy and I shared. There are no boards covering windows or broken glass. This home is built of clapboard, and there are three wide steps like enameled molars leading to the porch. A few bushy plants grow snug against the house, browning in the July heat, and there’s a single chaotic rosebush near the right corner.
There isn’t a sidewalk. No numbers to mark the address. And the entire area is surrounded by a five-foot-tall fence built of wooden posts and barbed wire. The place feels eighty years out of date, and for some reason that makes it less intimidating. Internet, cell phones, security systems—these are things I’ve lived without for months. But this place feels historic, like it’s been here a while and it’s not going anywhere anytime soon, thank you very much.
Two girls sit on a front porch swing. When they see our car grumbling toward the house, they dash inside. The screen door smacks shut behind them. Seconds later, silhouettes appear in windows. Their faces press against the glass, hands cupping their eyes for a better look.
I sink down in the seat.
“Don’t worry.” Ms. Karina has a compact out. She examines herself in the mirror. “You’ll fit right in, if you want to.”
The car comes to a stop, and Cain opens the woman’s door and then mine. Behind us, Eric parks the gold sedan. There isn’t much of a driveway, so the vehicles simply squat in the crunchy yellow grass. It’s hot outside. Impossibly, mind-blowingly hot. I’m still dizzy from so many hours spent half asleep, but the heat slams into me like a flyswatter.
“Some girls are groggy after such a long trip,” Ms. Karina says. “It’s understandable.”
“I’m fine,” I reply.
“I’m gonna take the bags in and then drop the rental in town.” Eric has a bag under each arm and is marching toward the porch. He toes the front door open and heads inside.
Ms. Karina looks at Cain. “Go ahead and get started on breakfast. Let’s have eggs, scrambled, and turkey bacon. Not that fatty pork kind. Turkey.” She turns back to me. “You like eggs?”
I nod. I’m trying not to appear too eager, but I could eat an entire henhouse of eggs right about now.
Cain reaches for my wigs and Dizzy’s shirt in the backseat.
“No!” I bark.
He snaps his hand back and stares at his feet.
“It’s okay,” Ms. Karina says. “He’s only going to put them in your room.”
It’s not her words that change my mind, though, it’s the look on Cain’s face. He’s large enough to cause an earthquake, and his face is carved from a quarry, but he’s incredibly skittish. And I know it didn’t help that I snapped at him.
“Here.” I shove the wigs and Dizzy’s shirt into his arms. “Sorry.”
He looks up at me. It’s only a second, but it’s enough. There’s a world of hurt behind those brown eyes. And something else, too. Something I feel reflected inside myself. I can’t name it. I’m not even sure what it is.
Cain turns and heads toward the house.
“This is my family home. Built by my grandfather in the 1920s. He worked on it for six years to win his sweetheart’s hand. Now that my parents are gone, it belongs to me.” Ms. Karina says this last part like she’s arguing with someone. She puts her arm behind me. Not in a touching manner. Just, there.
I walk beside her, wishing I still had Dizzy’s shirt to cling to, questioning whether I’ve made a mistake in coming here. As we approach the house, I realize how enormous it is. Monstrous, really. I wonder what kind of work they do out here in the middle of nowhere. Maybe they help keep the place from falling apart. I’ve heard of old houses needing an entire team to keep them functioning. That could be fun. Though it wouldn’t explain what Ms. Karina was doing in Detroit.
From the corner of my eye, I catch sight of an empty garden bed. It’s positioned on the side of the house and surrounded by smooth stones and railroad ties. The dirt is cracked and barren, telling me nothing has grown there in some time. Ms. Karina sees me studying the garden, and her shoulders tense.
The porch creaks when we step up, and the screen door is even louder. We spill inside, the blue door gaping open. Ms. Karina closes both behind us, and a second later Eric reopens them to go back for more luggage.
Three girls sit on a couch pushed against the wall. One girl, a slim Asian, beats her heels against the floorboards. The second claps her hands together and then the tops of her thighs. And the third sings a playground song.
Went to the market,
To buy me a gown.
All the boys whistle,
And one fell down.
Sway my hips,
Lips stung by a bee.
Keep on walking,
Till he take a knee.
“Girls, come meet Domino,” Ms. Karina says.
The girls stop at once and walk over. I notice all three wear silk carnations on their blouses, pink like the fading day. The Asian girl offers her hand, and I stare at it. A second girl slaps her arm down. “You’re always so overeager, Siren. Give her a second to breathe.”
A thunderous sound rocks the house, and the girl who spoke rolls her eyes. “They all want to check you out.” She leans in close and makes a crazy face. “Show no fear.”
I smile in spite of myself.
Two new girls appear in the front sitting room. It isn’t a large area, and already the floral papered walls seem to close in. Both girls have dark skin and light eyes. They could be sisters, but I don’t think they are. Over their hearts are white silk daisies.
“The others are still asleep,” one of the new girls says to Ms. Karina, eyes never straying from my green wig. “Nice hair.”
“It’s a wig,” I say.
“No shit.” The girl grins. Her teeth are immaculately white against full lips. She is beautiful. The other girls are, too. Actually, beautiful isn’t the right word. They’re more interesting, some with oversized eyes, or sweet freckles, or hair that tickles apple-bottom rears. These aren’t the girls you ask, do I know you from somewhere? Because one look says you haven’t seen a person exactly like this before.
“She dumb?” the same girl asks Ms. Karina.
Detroit Domino might have put this girl in her place, but that Domino had Dizzy waiting at home and Greg a few blocks away. So I say nothing.
The woman drops into a chair and waves a hand toward her own face, trying to cool down. “Go and turn on the air, Jezebel. And if you say anything else you’ll be cleaning toilets for a month.”
Jezebel bumps her shoulder into the girl she came down the stairs with. “Come on, let’s go bother Cain.”
As they leave, another four girls enter through the small space. They wear yellow tulips and don’t say much. They just run their gaze over my body and head toward the kitchen. I can already smell the bacon frying, and my stomach clenches in excitement.
Everyone leaves the room, giggling and singing their playground song once again.
Ms. Karina sighs. “Run along and get some breakfast. One of the Carnations will show you to your room after you eat.”
I don’t know what she means, but I know exactly where the food is coming from, so I follow the smell. There’s a short hallway that connects to the front entry room. I’m halfway down it, following the tune of pans and utensils clashing, when someone cuts off my path.
He’s round and sweaty and has the shortest neck of any human I’ve ever seen. Dark hair sticks against his forehead, and when he sees me, he grins.
“Well, what do we have here? A little rabbit.” He’s breathing hard. It sounds like he was outside running sprints, but I find that doubtful.
I tense, and he approaches.
Huff, puff.
Grin.
“What’s your name?” he asks.
“Leave her alone, Mr. Hodge,” Ms. Karina calls from the entry room. “She’s only just arrived.”
The smirk leaves his face. He lifts a finger, thick as a serpent, and jabs it into the middle of my chest. “I hope you aren’t lazy. Because if you are, you’ll answer to me.”
I brush past him, and he chuckles.
“Your first shift’s tonight, new girl,” he says as I move away.
I spill into the breakfast room, my pulse ringing. Mr. Hodge is someone I want to stay away from. Ten seconds with him. That’s all it took to know this.
The kitchen is sunny, and there are multicolored Christmas lights strung across the ceiling. Several of the girls are already seated at two long tables. When one of them sees me, she shoots up from her chair.
“Is this her?” she squeals.
“That’s her,” someone answers.
The first girl races toward me, and I think she’s going to—
She throws her arms around me and hugs me close. “Now I’m not the new girl anymore. You saved me. You saved me! My name’s Poppet. You can call me Poppet. I’m a Carnation, obviously, but some of the other girls are Daisies and Tulips. The Lilies and Violets live in the guesthouses out back and they eat later, but we can—”
“Take a breath, Poppet,” someone says, shaking her head. “Good God.”
There’s a bar separating the seating area from the kitchen. Cain rounds the counter and appears with a plate in his hand. He lifts it slightly and then places it down at an empty spot next to Poppet’s seat. Cain doesn’t look at me. He doesn’t look at anyone. He only heads back to the kitchen, a Teflon spatula in one hand, and keeps his mouth shut.
“See?” Poppet says with a bounce. “Even Cain thinks we should be friends. That’s like the most interaction he’s had with anyone all year.”
“Serial killers don’t speak much, isn’t that right, Cain?” one of the Daisies jeers.
Poppet frowns. “I wasn’t being mean. It’s good that Cain is communicating.” Poppet leans toward the back of the kitchen. “I wasn’t being mean, Cain. Honest.”
Poppet releases me, and I suck in a breath. She straightens, and her breasts expand. She has the largest boobs of any girl her age, ever. Her hair is blond and curly and she wears glasses. She’s small, with fine bones, but her voice is like crystal breaking.
“Come sit with me,” she says. “I’ll show you around after we eat.”
I pull my chair out as Poppet eyes my green wig with obvious interest. I like Poppet. I like her too much. It’s something I hate about myself. How easily I fall for people. It’s why I have to keep my walls strong. It’s for other peoples’ safety. If they’re too encouraging, I’ll cling and never let go. Even after they’ve left me, even after they’ve told me I should move on too—I’ll still love them.
Because they cared.
The kitchen is straight out of a County Living magazine, but in every corner there is something unexpected. A fireman’s hat. An origami swan glued to a window. A rabbit mount with a lei around its furry neck.
It looks like Grandma went out of town and the grandkids threw a rager in her house. I inspect my surroundings and shove a bite of cheesy scrambled eggs into my mouth. Before I can help myself, I let out a moan of ecstasy. Everyone stops.
Cain looks up from buttering toast.
I swallow the eggs and wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. “Sorry.”
Poppet roars with laughter. “It’s good, right? I never had food like this before I came here. Cain can cook a mean meal. He puts cottage cheese and sweet onions in the eggs.”
She’s about to launch into a detailed explanation of her past culinary experiences when the back door swings open. A girl takes two steps inside and puts a hand on her hip. Her eyes roam over the girls eating, and everyone stops to look at her.
She’s wearing red lipstick. It can’t be later than 9:00 a.m., and she has on cherry red lipstick. “Get the other girls up. Twelve hours until doors open. We’ve got a lot to do in that time.”
The girl glances in my direction. She takes me in, every last dollop there is, and grimaces. Her chin rises almost unperceptibly, but I catch the movement.
Know your place.
She’s wearing a purple silk violet. Her eyes flick to the flower and back to me. If the flowers somehow separate the girls, I have no doubt where she falls in the rank. I’m not sure why the desire arises, but it rears its ugly head all the same—
I want that flower.
“You heard the girl,” Mr. Hodge booms, appearing through the hallway again. He stands over one of the girls, his great belly pressed into her back. He isn’t smiling anymore. “Eat up. But not too much. Don’t need porkers around here.”
“Jesus,” a Carnation says loud enough for him to hear.
Mr. Hodge grabs a plate from the kitchen and leaves at the same time Violet Girl does.
“That was Lola,” Poppet whispers. “She’s Top Girl here, which means she makes the most money. But we do all right, too.” She elbows me. “Come on. Hurry and finish. Tonight will be here before you know it, and there’s a lot you need to learn before then. Madam Karina will take you through the rules of the house, and I’ll tell you the stuff you really need to know.” She elbows me in the ribs and winks.
Though I’m itching to learn what I’ll be doing here—and wondering about that word, Madam, now that both Ms. Karina and Poppet have used it—what I’m most concerned with is this Top Girl, Lola, and exactly how much she earns. Bailing Dizzy from jail will cost a lot. Does she make that much? What about enough for a house? Could that kind of opportunity exist here? A chance to afford a safe, permanent place in this world?
Hopefulness blooms in my chest until Wilson grimaces.
It’s almost all girls that work here. And it’s in the middle of nowhere. You know what this place is.
If you’re not going to leave, be quiet, I reply. You don’t know anything.
Out of all the places we could end up, Domino, this is the absolute worst. I remember the things we did, even if you don’t. And we shouldn’t be here. We should be anywhere else but here.
Maybe he’s right. But I can’t leave.
Or maybe it’s that I don’t want to.