Roxy couldn't help but sigh. She poked her head out of the window, looking down at the small planter box and then just barely glimpsing out onto the street below more as instinct than anything. The roof below her bedroom window jutted out almost enough to give you an idea of a balcony, though it wasn't sturdy for much and there certainly wasn't room to maneuver once you were out past the window ledge. Certainly there were safer ways down to what passed in her neighborhood as a lawn.
The little potter plant of herbs she'd been trying to grow were decimated. Deceased. Again. It had seemed like a good idea at the time of course. A few books from the library. A trip to the gardening center. It had all started wonderfully, ideally even. The vibrancy of the gardening center had tricked her— along with all those articles from the magazines. Who didn't like fresh herbs? On tv, they rambled about them at length. About how they made your pizzas perfect and your breads and appetizers the best and whatever else you were inclined to use herbs for. They were probably even great if you did say— lemon thyme— for dessert. Which Roxy couldn't understand a person doing, but hey, if they had a camera trained on them, it must've worked somehow.
Maybe it was her age that made Roxy less capable. Maybe having just turned fourteen meant she just wasn't going to be able to grow anything until she had more life experience. The proof was right in the box gripped in her hands. She'd managed to kill what she thought were hearty little plants. It was all carnage really, carnage with little popsicle stick stems to note what the herbs could've been. Withered stems, fallen leaves, even tiny extra divots in the dirt as though the remaining seeds had been spirited away to save them from a fate worse than death.
Maybe it had been the lack of sun on this side of the house? Roxy didn't know but she brought in the planter as if to examine it, setting it on the desk where she'd be doing high school level homework soon enough. Well, not really an actual desk. That would've been generous. This particular table had been a tiny two seater cable for a pizza place that hadn't been paying particular attention when they locked up their tables at night. She'd felt bad about it— until her grades had improved and given her a reprieve from teacher glares the day after the full moon, when she hadn't finished her assignments.
The somewhat fresh dirt and dark, wilted green did look nice against the fake laminated checkerboard pattern of the formica table though. The whole bedroom had this same thrift store vibe— as much as necessity as it was aesthetic. Roxy wasn't a traditionally feminine girl, nor exceedingly beautiful herself. Much like her room, she was a mish mash of textures and colors and maybe a little lost. Not necessarily messy, clean enough. But not with enough money or power to stress over matching traditional furniture, that was for sure.
"Okay—" Roxy sighed. Was she giving the dearly departed plants a pep talk or herself? It was probably a bit of both. "Now I tried to do my part and failed again. So, I'm sorry. I'm— not really sure why I'm talking to a plant other than it's what the book suggested. My goddess, what has my life come to that I'm talking to the dead stalks of a plant—"
She winced at the embarrassment of it all. If you couldn't keep them alive, why bother trying step four in the Idiot's Guide to Planting Herbs? You had to get steps one through three right first. The evidence had to get dumped into the small wastebasket that was usually reserved for her tea bags. She moved her little tea kettle to do the deed and then wrapped up the bag so there'd be no incriminating evidence. The dumpster could hold many secrets.
Having a low profile in life was one of the few things keeping Roxy sane. That and the good nature of the adults who looked out for her. She supposed she inspired a feeling of warmth in them. Those who didn't know her sad story didn't see much of worth in her. She was little more than a girl a t shirt and a jean jacket with wild, uncontrollable hair. Not particularly tall or commanding. Maybe a little clever when she finally began talking. But not really special.
She grit her teeth, canine on canine, as the small rectangular potter plant emptied out into the basin and the crinkling of garbage bag being tied met her ears. The traitorous dirt left behind a hollow crust of ever present residue in the small planter box and was a salute to her own emptiness.
She brought the empty vessel back over to her desk, dripping slightly wet, and set it down. Contemplating it. The table wouldn't be hurt by a little dew.
"I'll have to deal with you after work—" she said, shaking her head.
She kept some cheap black drug store hair ties in a little bowl by the door, along with a small flipped over silver serving platter she used as a mirror. Half because it was good enough and half because anything that nodded to her underwhelming life as a werewolf was kind of fun in a self deprecating way. And what was life for, if not to have fun?
Tying back her hair was going to be its own struggle today too, clearly. Roxy had been cursed with curls. Well, she thought it was a curse. Other people loved her long, luxurious curls. They didn't have to shampoo or comb them out though, so Roxy didn't think much of their acclimation. Not quite the color of a raven's feather, her curls reached halfway down her back. They even curled when she was transformed, but since she didn't risk transformation much unless it was absolutely necessary— perhaps that changed with age.
She looked over herself in the silver plated reflection. Fine enough looking. No Cindy Crawford, but skin without too much blemish either. Her eyes were pretty even and not too close together. Her lips were a little thin but that was what makeup was for. She could see a little bit of her father in the reflection before her. She had his cheek bones. They sat up on her, regal and nearly out of place. It gave her face a sort of pleasant skinniness that was hard to replicate even with plastic surgery.
She was pretty skinny everywhere really. Not even the hint of a breast yet, though when they grew she was pretty sure nobody was going to notice them anyways. Least of all her.
All Roxy could think about her own reflection was that if she had a bridge of freckles across her nose, she could've played Annie. And that was not a thought that filled her with joy.
She stuffed a few things in her purse— going over a checklist in her brain. A jingle of keys, wallet with stuff, offerings to go across city lines so she didn't offend anyone if she crossed turfs, a couple of hair ties and a scarf to deal with her hair as need be. Lip balm. Flavoring packets for water at work— her own little guilty pleasure.
It was hell going outside when you needed to carry a whole bunch of stuff just to live. Where were all the pockets for women in this modern age? Too much to plan for and never a purse big enough for it without looking like a crazy cat lady.
And the irony of the crazy cat lady being a thing that she thought about was not lost on her
.
She felt the breeze and turned back towards the open window. Leaning out from the fire escape, she could see down onto the street on this late summer evening. Not exactly bustling but here and there people were out. The moon was waxing crescent, almost too its first quarter. A pleasant sliver and not too bulbous. A couple walked by, having parked on their street in order to get to the Chinese restaurant down the street. She dwelt on them as they walked, barely hiding her gaze. The way the woman's hand folded into the crook of the man's arm. She was caught with surprise by the feeling of loneliness that fluttered against her chest briefly, twitching.
A small meow interrupted her reverie. She looked over at a cat, who had been staring at her for who knew how long. A neighborhood stray with a tortoiseshell pattern in blacks and whites and calico orange. Those weird twisted ears that only that particular breed had whose name she could never remember. They had a few strays but it must've been young to be so bold and curious. Roxy thought they'd have enmity, the centuries long conflict between the cats and dogs being in effect. But this one had decided to visit her roof.
Fire escape. Balcony. Whatever she was supposed to call it.
"What do you want?"
She got a little quipping meow in response.
"Look," she replied as if the cat could understand her. "That's very sweet and I'm sure you're a very nice cat but I am not looking to take on anyone at this point in time. I hope you can—" She paused, realizing that the pattern and the twisted ears of the stray were a little darker at one part of the corkscrew in the ear and going up one leg from the paw.
"Seriously?!" she said it loud enough and with enough venom to cause the cat to scatter to wherever cats in trouble hid.
Roxy muttered to herself as she came inside, shutting and locking the window. She huffed, looking back at the planter. "Well, at least I know it wasn't all my fault this time. And that apparently I need to find something cats are allergic to."
Roxy wasn't really against cats per se. Cats were like most things. They were around. Some were great, some were troublemakers. She wasn't visiting a shelter to adopt one anytime soon but she didn't cross the street to pass by one on a sidewalk either.
She was in her head as she found herself in her hallway, shutting the door to her room. It was a different world here even in the hallway. Things were just so. A tiny table. Framed art of inoffensive flowers. It wasn't bad, it was just— unremarkable. The lights worked though, and that made Roxy happy. No flickering. It was generally safe. No shadows to fear. Which as a werewolf meant that things in the shadows were not a problem that went away as you matured.
One of the few great things about this house, this street, this little portion of the world is that Roxy lived in neutral territory. Being unpacked, a rogue as they called wolves like her, usually with shame in their voices— your life was dictated by neutral territory as that was the only safe place you could walk without being hassled by packed wolves. Roxy's lot in life was to know that they weren't superior but were the dominant force in the world and as such had more power than she would ever know.
But there was no way she could think to ever change that.
She could hear Mrs. Donovan's tv volume on loud even up in the hallway above the living room. She plastered a little smile on her face, steeling herself for what she might find her caretaker up to, and began the descent down the gently twisting staircase to the small lobby of the building.
