mother instantly deem him unworthy of the finer things in life. Only the beautiful deserve to be rich. (I actually heard her say this once to my grandmother during one of their drunken heart-to-hearts.)
“You got any cash on ya?” he asks, sliding to the edge of his seat, rubbing his unshaven jawline.
I shake my head and turn my knees toward the wall. “No.”
“You sure?” He eyes the pockets of my pants while he keeps licking his lips.
“Yes, I’m sure.” I scoot toward the window, while he continues to stare at me like a creeper.
“You are fucking fine. You know that?” he asks and for a second I feel flattered, but in an uncomfortable way. “Are youlost or something?” he wonders and when I don’t answer, he puts his hand on my knee. “If you want, I can help you find your way back home.”
“Don’t touch me,” I utter quietly, my pulse accelerating as he glides his hand up my leg.
“Why, sweetheart?” he asks, his hand reaching my thigh. “It’s okay, you know that.”
I don’t move right away. It takes me a minute to sort through the confusion in my head, because my head and my body are saying two different things. It’s not like a guy hasn’t touched me before, but for some reason this guy’s hand on my thigh makes me feel special. Human contact, skin to skin. I hate that I feel starved of it and there’s a slight bit of enjoyment his touch brings, which makes me feel ashamed and dirty, yet at the same time wanted. And I rarely feel wanted.
Working up the courage, I fling his hand off my leg. He starts laughing at me, but doesn’t say anything else, and finally he gets off the bus, making a remark about me going with him so he can show me a “real good time.”
I unstiffen a little once he’s gone and try to stay focused on the outside as the bus passes street after street, the sun dipping lower on the horizon until it vanishes altogether. My reflection stares back at me through the window nearly the entire ride: my deep-set blue eyes, shoulder-length blonde hair, and my fair complexion that’s so smooth everyone thinks I wear makeup but I don’t. Beauty. I get told I have it all the time andpeople seem envious of it, yet it never gets me what I want. Love. Affection. To feel whole inside instead of so empty.
It’s dark by the time I reach my destination and the air has gotten chilly. The neighborhood my sister lives in doesn’t help either. It’s in the rundown section and there are a lot of people roaming up and down the sidewalks littered with garbage. There’s a man passed out on the bench at the bus stop, along with a group of guys standing in a circle shouting in front of a vacant building with boarded-up windows. One of the guys notices me when I step off the bus and he nudges the guy to the side of him, saying something in a low voice. They both look at me and I don’t like the expressions on their faces or the fact that they’re three times my size.
I veer to my right, even though my sister’s place is to the left, just to avoid walking by them. I keep my head tucked down, wanting to hide what I look like, because, like I’ve experienced before, my looks can cause trouble.
“Hey, where you goin’, baby?” one of them shouts out, his eyes following me. “Come back here and play.”
I take off and don’t slow down until I’ve rounded two of the corners on the block, practically making a U-turn. Finally, I reach a quieter area of the sidewalk, which borders a chain-link fence around a junkyard. I continue walking with my head tucked down, walking swiftly, until I reach my sister’s apartment a few blocks down.
I remember when I first visited her, how shocked I’d been.She’d just been kicked out of the boarding school for drug possession and my dad wouldn’t let her move back home or give her any help financially. She’d left home a loudmouth who liked to speak her mind, and rebelled every once and while, but nothing major. When she returned, she was
“You got any cash on ya?” he asks, sliding to the edge of his seat, rubbing his unshaven jawline.
I shake my head and turn my knees toward the wall. “No.”
“You sure?” He eyes the pockets of my pants while he keeps licking his lips.
“Yes, I’m sure.” I scoot toward the window, while he continues to stare at me like a creeper.
“You are fucking fine. You know that?” he asks and for a second I feel flattered, but in an uncomfortable way. “Are youlost or something?” he wonders and when I don’t answer, he puts his hand on my knee. “If you want, I can help you find your way back home.”
“Don’t touch me,” I utter quietly, my pulse accelerating as he glides his hand up my leg.
“Why, sweetheart?” he asks, his hand reaching my thigh. “It’s okay, you know that.”
I don’t move right away. It takes me a minute to sort through the confusion in my head, because my head and my body are saying two different things. It’s not like a guy hasn’t touched me before, but for some reason this guy’s hand on my thigh makes me feel special. Human contact, skin to skin. I hate that I feel starved of it and there’s a slight bit of enjoyment his touch brings, which makes me feel ashamed and dirty, yet at the same time wanted. And I rarely feel wanted.
Working up the courage, I fling his hand off my leg. He starts laughing at me, but doesn’t say anything else, and finally he gets off the bus, making a remark about me going with him so he can show me a “real good time.”
I unstiffen a little once he’s gone and try to stay focused on the outside as the bus passes street after street, the sun dipping lower on the horizon until it vanishes altogether. My reflection stares back at me through the window nearly the entire ride: my deep-set blue eyes, shoulder-length blonde hair, and my fair complexion that’s so smooth everyone thinks I wear makeup but I don’t. Beauty. I get told I have it all the time andpeople seem envious of it, yet it never gets me what I want. Love. Affection. To feel whole inside instead of so empty.
It’s dark by the time I reach my destination and the air has gotten chilly. The neighborhood my sister lives in doesn’t help either. It’s in the rundown section and there are a lot of people roaming up and down the sidewalks littered with garbage. There’s a man passed out on the bench at the bus stop, along with a group of guys standing in a circle shouting in front of a vacant building with boarded-up windows. One of the guys notices me when I step off the bus and he nudges the guy to the side of him, saying something in a low voice. They both look at me and I don’t like the expressions on their faces or the fact that they’re three times my size.
I veer to my right, even though my sister’s place is to the left, just to avoid walking by them. I keep my head tucked down, wanting to hide what I look like, because, like I’ve experienced before, my looks can cause trouble.
“Hey, where you goin’, baby?” one of them shouts out, his eyes following me. “Come back here and play.”
I take off and don’t slow down until I’ve rounded two of the corners on the block, practically making a U-turn. Finally, I reach a quieter area of the sidewalk, which borders a chain-link fence around a junkyard. I continue walking with my head tucked down, walking swiftly, until I reach my sister’s apartment a few blocks down.
I remember when I first visited her, how shocked I’d been.She’d just been kicked out of the boarding school for drug possession and my dad wouldn’t let her move back home or give her any help financially. She’d left home a loudmouth who liked to speak her mind, and rebelled every once and while, but nothing major. When she returned, she was
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