SELFLESS (Runaway) Page 5

  “Can you believe this place?” she asked, running her hand over the coverlet on the bed.

  “No,” I said honestly. “No, I can’t believe it.”

  “Well, you better start,” Cream said. “This is us, Pumpkin. We’re really living here.”

  We investigated the bathroom together, ogling at the black marble sink and tub and gold fixtures. I glanced at our reflections in the mirror. We’d thought we looked so hot earlier this evening, but now I thought we looked cheap in these elegant surroundings with all our glitter.

  “What?” Cream said, meeting my eyes in the mirror.

  “Do you get the feeling that this isn’t real?” I asked. “That we don’t belong here?”

  “I mean, this is the nicest place I’ve ever seen in my life,” Cream said. “But we’re going to belong here, now. That three hundred grand says that much.”

  Three hundred grand. That was a lot of pressure to belong in this rich home. I almost felt trapped here.

  “You’ve got to step up your game, Pumpkin,” Cream urged, grabbing my arm. “We have to really impress this guy.”

  “I think we already impressed him,” I said. “That’s just judging from how much he paid for us.”

  “We have to make sure he knows he made a worthwhile investment,” she said. “Where else could we be right now? We could be in jail or worse—on the streets. You have to make sure he knows that you appreciate him, girl.”

  “Some people liked me shy at Mama’s nightclub,” I said, shrugging. “We can give him the best of both worlds. You can be outgoing, and I can be introverted.”

  “I don’t know,” Cream said, frowning a little. Even when she frowned, her skin stayed as smooth as a glass of milk. “He seems to be trying to draw you out of your shell.”

  “Let him try,” I said. “It’ll amuse him, maybe. Give him something to work toward.”

  There were some basic toiletries organized in the bathroom drawers, so we took a few minutes to wash off our makeup and brush our teeth.

  “I’m kind of hungry,” Cream admitted after we’d shed our clothes and donned the robes.

  My stomach growled in response. We’d been so busy getting ready at Jason’s home that we’d skipped dinner, figuring we’d grab something later. I shook my head to think about it. A few hours ago, I’d had no idea that I was going to be sold.

  “Me, too,” I said. “Let’s go to the kitchen to see if there’s anything.”

  “I don’t want to raid his kitchen,” Cream said, shaking her head. “Maybe we should ask, first.”

  “He said he was going to bed,” I protested. “We don’t want to wake him up. That could make him angry.”

  Cream groaned. “God. All I want is a bagel or a banana or something. That’s all it would take. I hate going to bed with an empty stomach. It reminds me of my childhood.”

  I frowned. I hadn’t had that problem living with my family. There were always quesadillas or flautas or tostadas.

  “At Mama’s, we could eat whatever we wanted, whenever we wanted,” I said. “Are we really going to starve ourselves here, in the lap of luxury?”

  “Fine,” she said, rolling her eyes. “But Pumpkin, I swear to God, if you get us thrown out on the streets for sneaking around this place, I’ll be so pissed.”

  “He’s not going to throw us out just for getting something to eat,” I said.

  But when we got to the door to the room and I grasped the doorknob, it wouldn’t budge.

  “It won’t open,” I said, rattling the gold handle.

  “Christ, Pumpkin, can you make any more noise?” Cream hissed. “Don’t break the door down. It’s probably just stuck or something. Here, scoot over.”

  I watched her consternation turn into disbelief as she grabbed the door handle.

  “He locked us in,” I said, feeling the blood drain from my face.

  “Don’t be stupid,” Cream said. “Why would he do that? The door’s probably just jammed or something.”

  Or something. That door was locked, even if Cream refused to believe it.

  “I wasn’t that hungry,” Cream said. “It’s fine. Let’s just go to bed.”

  I pressed my lips together to keep from saying anything and we turned the lights off, snuggling beneath the silk coverlet and satiny sheets. The material was luxurious, but it was hard to get warm in all the finery.

  “Pumpkin?” Cream’s voice was no more than a whisper.

  “Yeah?”

  “I’m really sorry about all this.”

  My hand found hers in the darkness and I squeezed it.

  “Don’t be sorry,” I said. “We’re not on the streets. We’re sleeping on satin.”

  “I didn’t know what Jason was,” she said. “I thought he could help us. I never thought he’d sell us—or that such a thing was even possible.”

  “For all we know, he did help us,” I said. “Look at where we’re living now, Cream. We’re doing all right. We can ask Andrew about the door tomorrow—after a big breakfast.”

  “Mm, breakfast,” she murmured. “That would be nice. Bacon and eggs. Fruit salad. Grits—oh my God, grits. And a big mug of hot chocolate.”

  “I hope we dream about it,” I said, smiling.

  We fell silent and Cream’s breathing deepened. I couldn’t help but think about the locked door. What did it signify? Was it really just jammed? I had my doubts.

  After Jimmy had tried to strangle me and I’d fled to Mama’s nightclub, I more or less jumped from the frying pan and into the fire.

  When you were in the fire already, it couldn’t get worse, right? There was nothing worse that we could jump into, I thought.

  Wrong, I learned later. You could jump from the fire and fall straight into hell.

  Chapter Four

  Life at Mama's nightclub hadn't always been out of the frying pan and into the fire, though. At the beginning, my only misgivings came from the way the cab driver had introduced me to the place—or the fact that I was still shocked at fleeing from Jimmy and what he’d done to me.

  But when I got out of the taxi that first night, my tote bag full of the only belongings I had anymore, I was intrigued in spite of the purpling finger marks on either side of my neck.

  Even though the neighborhood wasn't very good, it was heads and tails over East Harlem and my old stomping ground.

  The nightclub itself was enormous, and there was a line of people waiting to get in. I stared at the back of the line, thinking about the fact that the female contingency would always push to the front, no matter what. It had been easy enough to accompany them past all the pushing and cursing, but I didn't have the fortitude to try it here.

  The vast majority of them were men, and though I had the switchblade, I wouldn't dream of sticking a bunch of guys just to get to the front of the line. I didn’t want to stick anybody ever again. I wondered if my sister had gotten all the blood off the blade. Maybe I should throw it away. Part of me didn’t want to touch it at all, even if it had saved my life. I thought of the sickening resistance Jimmy’s belly had given the switchblade, then how it had slid in. It made me feel like fainting.

  "Hey, sweetheart!" Of its own accord, my head jerked in the direction of the voice, my fingers tightening on my tote bag. I inhaled, trying to calm myself, remembering that I was in public. If you were feeling faint or sickly out on the streets of East Harlem at this time of night, you were in trouble. There were people who would take advantage of you in a heartbeat. I was sure this neighborhood was no different. I had to be on my toes.

  I looked around for the source of the voice and my eyes finally fell on the man, who was waving me over. It was the bouncer, trying to get my attention.

  "Yeah?" I asked, approaching cautiously.

  "You one of Mama's girls?" he asked, looking me up and down.

  I wasn't nearly as dressed up as I should be to try to get inside this nightclub. I was wearing tight jeans in a dark wash, which I liked because it helped camouflage my big ass
a little bit. My Henley shirt was nice, especially when I left the top unbuttoned, but it was clear that I didn't belong here. I looked down and gasped. There were exactly three dark spots on the portion of the shirt covering my belly. I knew they were blood drops—Jimmy’s blood. I was dressed like shit and covered in blood, trying to get into the nightclub. Everyone in the line looked like they were trying to gain access to the city's most exclusive spot—cufflinks, three-piece suits, fedoras, and everything. I looked like I’d just tried to slaughter someone.

  "I'm sorry, what?" I asked, sidling up to the bouncer. "What's a Mama's girl?"

  I bit my lip, hoping he wasn't teasing me or trying to flirt. I was in no mood to get into it with anyone—not with what had just happened with Jimmy. I was scared at how easily I’d wielded that knife. What was wrong with me?

  "You know, one of Mama's girls," the bouncer repeated. "Do you work here, doll?"

  My sister had told me that I could live and work here. Would that be possible? It sounded like it.

  "Um, I'm new," I said. "Could I talk to the manager, please?"

  "You mean Mama," the bouncer said. "Owner, manager, accountant, cook, singer. Come on in."

  He lifted the rope for me and I scooted by, not looking to see if I was getting any scowls from the people waiting in line. My heart lifted a little bit. Maybe I didn't need the female contingency to get into places. Maybe I could get the doors to open all by myself.

  Stunned would be an understatement—I was downright flummoxed when I stepped through those doors. The nightclub was bigger than I'd ever dreamed—a dance floor in the middle, a stage, where a jazz trio was playing, and beautiful cocktail waitresses in uniform, bustling around the space and getting customers what they needed. The place was packed. I couldn’t believe that even more people were trying to get in.

  The bouncer walked in behind me. “Got a new girl for you, Mama,” he said before ducking back out to manage the crowd of people.

  I looked and saw the only person who could be Mama—a generously proportioned black woman wearing a sparkling cocktail dress, complete with an enormous ring on her finger.

  “Sugar, you didn’t pick the best time to come,” she said, eyeing the customers.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, looking at her gorgeous pumps. “I had to—I didn’t have anywhere else to go.”

  “I know, darling, I know,” Mama said. “Most of my girls don’t. It’s going to be fine, honey. I just don’t have the time to show you around. It’s a busy night.”

  “I can wait outside,” I said quickly. “I don’t want to be any trouble.”

  “You’re not going to wait outside,” she scoffed. “Come on, now. We’re going to get you fixed up. Cocoa!”

  One of the prettiest girls approached Mama quickly, even though she’d been clear on the other side of the nightclub. I was surprised she’d been able to hear Mama at all over the din of the band and the customers.

  “What’s up, Mama?” Cocoa asked. She had long legs and intricate hair. It must have taken her hours to braid the strands so neatly.

  “New girl,” Mama said, pointing at me. “Could you run her up to your room real quick? We’ll give her the tour later, after the night’s over.”

  “Sure thing, Mama,” Cocoa said, taking me by the elbow. “Come on.”

  We turned to go and I heard Mama hoot loudly. Cocoa and I both turned in question to see Mama cackling.

  “You got an ass like a pumpkin, sweetheart!” Mama hollered, slapping her knees. “You’re going to be just fine here, Pumpkin!”

  Cocoa laughed and led me away, threading through the tables of some of the most finely dressed people I’d ever seen. I blushed the entire time, trying to puzzle out Mama’s words.

  When we reached a stairwell and started climbing it, I cleared my throat.

  “What did she—Mama—mean?” I asked. “When she told me I’d fit in?”

  “She meant that you have a great ass, Pumpkin,” Cocoa said. “You do better here the sexier you are, so you’re going to have an illustrious career ahead of you.”

  It was then that I realized my name was Pumpkin. Just as I’d been sorpresita with my family, I was going to trade in my real name for Pumpkin. No one here had even asked me for my name, which I probably would’ve given as sorpresita. My real name didn’t even seem like it belonged to me because nobody had ever called me by it. Sara was some secret, faraway person who had never existed in the first place.

  I was Pumpkin now.

  Cocoa led me down a hallway. It was clean and smelled good—much more than I could say for our apartment building in East Harlem. Every door we passed had a couple of names on it—Cream, Shimmy, Blue—funny no-names like Pumpkin. We stopped when we reached the door named Cocoa.

  “This is my room,” she said, opening it and flicking on a light. “I’m sorry, Pumpkin. I wish I could show and tell you more, but I’m going to have to leave you on your own. We’re having a crazy night, and I need to get back down there. Please make yourself at home. I hope you don’t think we’re rude here.”

  “Not at all,” I said quickly. “I know you’re just busy. I came at a bad time.”

  “You came when you needed to,” Cocoa corrected. “The TV’s there in the corner, and the bathroom’s right across the hall. I’ll bring you up something to eat if I get a free moment.”

  “That’s all right,” I said. “Don’t bother yourself. I’m not hungry.”

  I turned my head to look in the room and heard Cocoa hiss. Surprised, I turned back to her and realized that she’d seen the bruises on my neck.

  “You running from someone?” Cocoa asked.

  “I guess I am,” I said. Thinking about what had happened to me was difficult mostly because it was hard to imagine that it had happened at all. The bruises on my neck were proof that my boyfriend wasn’t the man I thought he was or wanted him to be.

  “We’re all running from something, Pumpkin,” Cocoa said, her eyes kind. “What’s important is that you’ve run to a safe place. I’ll be back later.”

  I watched Cocoa jog down the hall and felt guilty for taking up her time before turning back to her room. It was neat and clean—sparse, almost. If Cocoa had many personal items, she didn’t have any of them on display. The top of her dresser had beauty products organized into little baskets—lipsticks and nail polishes and eye shadows—and a cup full of brushes of all shapes and sizes.

  I walked in to the room and shut the door. The full-length mirror on the back of the door made me jump, and I realized how tightly wound I was. The incident with Jimmy had really shaken me up. I set my tote bag on the carpeted floor and studied my reflection.

  Cocoa had said I was sexy. Was I? I never really felt sexy unless my family dressed me up for a night out at the club. My hair was long, dark, and glossy. I took care of myself, but I didn’t paint or perm myself up, like my sisters and las primas did. I didn’t have a scrap of makeup on, but my lashes were thick and long enough to look like they had a layer of mascara on. My eyes were big and round—the consequence, I thought, of a life spent in observation. And their color wasn’t anything special, either—a dark chocolate brown that I shared with most Puerto Ricans, I figured.

  I’d gotten blessed in the tits and ass department, though, I figured. My chest was nothing to sneer at, but my real asset was, well, my ass. Mama had said so herself. I turned in the mirror to look at it. It was both wide and deep, what many of my classmates called a bubble butt. I supposed if you put a pumpkin in a pair of jeans, it might have looked like what I had going on.

  I swept my hair back behind my ears and inhaled sharply. That’s what Cocoa had been staring at—the long lines of bruises on either side of my neck, wrapping around the skin there to meet at my throat. It was disconcerting to see the marks that Jimmy had left on me, physical proof that he’d harmed me. He’d said I was sexy, too, whispered it to me as he thrust into me again and again.

  Those days—and nights—were over.

  I
t was easy to see, now that I was away from the situation, just how bad it had gotten. The drug-addled gangbanger who’d tried to strangle me was a sad shadow of the boy I’d known in school. I didn’t even know myself.

  Why had I done all those things—took him inside my body in the middle of a club on a Friday night? Being away from the family and East Harlem was like a slap of perspective. The female contingency was a terrible influence growing up. I shouldn’t have been involved in Jimmy in the first place. And I certainly should’ve left him a long time ago—maybe even before my oldest sister told me I should, when he’d hit her.

  It was so easy to grow complacent in a terrible situation. Bit by bit, I’d gotten used to things that bothered me about Jimmy—his need for his crew, then his ambition to be in the gang. Having drugs around so he could sell them, then him doing the very drugs he was supposed to be pushing for the gang. I’d hated it all but had simply become accustomed to it, forgetting what was right for me in the process.

  It took being uprooted from the place that had been my home for nearly twenty-one years for me to see just how wrong everything had been.

  The blur of tears came quicker than I expected, and I broke down right then and there, thankful there was no one around to see me. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d cried. There was never a spare moment—or private space—to break down back at home. I’d simply kept coping until now, when I’d run away from everything.

  Without anything to cope with, I didn’t know who I was anymore. What meaning did life have? Where was my identity? Who was I?

  I don’t know how long I cried, standing there in front of the mirror. I’d lost my past, and the present was all I had left. My future extended no further than the next breath I took. I had no idea what was going to happen to me.

  Through my burning eyes, I tried to look around Cocoa’s room for clues. She had some nice clothes hanging in her closet—which was organized, but little more than an alcove with a tension rod—and all of her beauty products were well organized. There were a couple of outdated beauty magazines covering her chest of drawers, but I’d read them all before.