Bob Seger's "Turn the Page" floats over the music system. I open the tampon machine in the women's bathroom. Yes, it's stocked with plenty of tampons. But there's something more important in there.
My moving money.
I've been saving for more than two years, since I turned sixteen and could get paid here at my stepdad's bar. Even cleaning the floors and unloading deliveries a few hours a week meant I could build a savings.
My stepfather won't give me an official paycheck. He pays me under the table, minus what he says I owe for room and board at home. Now I work the bar. I can't serve drinks, but I can clean and organize and deliver fried bar food. And I get tips sometimes from the men.
I'm sweating along the hair line on the back of my neck. It prickles and drives me crazy. It's hard to tell whether I'm sweating from the heat or from nerves.
I reach into the machine and pull out the tiny jewelry box my mom gave me when I turned nine. It has a little ballerina on top. She's wearing a pink tutu and pink shoes, but she doesn't dance when you turn the music crank. I broke that, on purpose, so it wouldn't draw attention. It hurt me to break it, but I did it anyway.
Home is a dangerous place to store my stash. My stepdad, Jeff, insists I'm never leaving his house. I stare at every car, every bike, every truck that comes through here and wonder if they're headed west, toward the ocean.
That's my dream. The one that almost died when Mom did. Los Angeles is out there, waiting for me. I've been waiting for so long. The only thing that matters now is to find a way to get there. To find my place there. To be the real Allie. Everything here is just practice until real life begins.
Hearing Jeff's voice on the phone, I quickly stuff my seven dollars of tip money into the ballerina box. I close and lock the tampon machine. A deep saxophone line from the song on the music speakers makes my heart clench a little. The sound is so soulful, so luxurious, like it must feel to have a man drag his hand across your arm. To cup the back of your neck. To trace a line along your jaw before pulling you in for a slow kiss.
What's it like to feel that kind of yearning for someone? I close my eyes for just a second and swallow, hard. I know exactly what it feels like to yearn for something, but someone? No.
I'm yearning for someone to need me like that.
I scramble out of the women's room and grab a rack of clean glasses from the steaming dishwasher. The white mist that billows out of the cranky old machine feels like torture. More heat? I don't need more.
I need a break.
It's hot today. The sweat drips down my back in long, lazy trails. I load the rack of glasses onto the scarred
but clean
bar, and start drying them with a towel. The bar towels are a special weave, so lint doesn't cake the glasses. I don't want to get screamed at like I did the first shift I worked here. My stepdad can be a real stickler. Back then, I cried when he yelled at me.
Nowadays I just roll my eyes and do whatever he wants.
My stash is growing bigger every day.
I glance at the clock. Two more hours and I can go home. Home. It doesn't feel like home anymore, since Mom died and my sister moved out of town, but what other word can I use? When you don't have many options, you take what you can get.
Home it is.
I feel the rumble of the motorcycle engines before I can hear them. The glasses on the bar start to shake and I slip, dropping one. It falls on the polished wood bar with a thud. Thank God it doesn't shatter.
And then I hear them. Tires scraping against gravel. Engines without mufflers. The air changes. I'm filled with worry, like someone's injected it into me. I reach up to put my fingers against my throat. I don't know why. I haven't done that since I was a little kid, afraid of the dark.
Just plain afraid.
My stepfather comes running from the back office, his eyes wild and arms tight with tension. His face is twisted with something I've never seen before. For a second, it makes me want to smile. For once, he looks like he's nervous about something.
Good.
"Allie, you stay calm. Keep washing glasses." His dark eyes narrow and he goes back to being cool and collected. The deep grooves of wrinkles in his face settle back to normal. His eyes are thin and tight, brown underneath the loose skin.
He's tall and wiry, fingers stained from chain smoking unfiltered Camels. He looks at least ten years older than he is. My mother's death two years ago aged him. It aged me, too, but I wear it on the inside. He wears it on his face.
Jeff has two emotions. Angry and neutral. I've seen a lot of angry, but not much neutral.
He looks like he feels fear right now. That's new.
I push my long, black hair behind one ear. I wish I had a scrunchie to pull it back in a ponytail. August in the dry, desert heat of inland Southern California means it's always hot. Any other summer and I'd be getting ready to go back to school, but I graduated this year. Late summer stretches out like one hot, empty void.
Like the rest of a life I need to live but can't.
The air conditioners have been groaning all day. The sound of the motorbikes drowns them out now.
They are in the parking lot. Two. Three. Four. I can't keep track of how many bikes pull up. My heart races but I keep it together. The last time a motorcycle gang came in, the bar got trashed. They beat Jeff up and the sheriff came.
Jeff can't afford to have that happen again.
Blood rushes through me, pulsing hard. My fear is loud and clear.
He also got angry. Very angry.
I can't afford to have that happen again.
Working at the bar is my only way to save money to move out of this town. I want to go live with my sister in Los Angeles. If the bar shuts down I don't know what I'll do. My hands polish the same shot glass over and over, like it's a piece of silver.
