LITMIR.BIZ

Скачать книгу

athletes – yes, those athletes, the ones you also read about in newspapers. My daughter attended a small, very exclusive, private school where your child would not have been allowed even if you could have afforded the tuition.

      Within the span of twelve months, however, all of that changed. My marriage dissolved, my house burned down, and the only job I could find, substitute teaching, hardly paid for a week’s worth of bills. On top of that, I’d suddenly gained custody of my antisocial, eleven-year-old niece Ariel when her mother dropped her off at my doorstep and drove off without a backward glance. A week later, my bent-for-hell stepsister Jasmine moved in after her mother kicked her out of the house.

      So when I was hit by a car and died for the first time, I thought that my life couldn’t get any worse.

      Boy, was I wrong.

      The day I died was a Monday. Specifically, the Monday after a two-week Christmas school break, and all of us – even Drinking Tea, our cat – had slept through the alarm. Had I still been married, this never would have happened since Dr. Theodore Dempsey, my ex, woke me up every morning at five by groping me under the covers. However, my recent divorce gave me certain privileges, such as being able to sleep in without having someone squeeze my breasts like they were testing mangoes for ripeness.

      When I finally did wake up and realize what time it was, I leapt out of bed and shouted orders to my daughter and my niece. “Grace, get up! Ariel, move it!”

      My old house had more square-footage than the city library, but after Ariel accidentally set it on fire, I had to relocate. The only place I could afford was a seedy townhouse with walls so thin that my voice carried through them with no problem. At the same time, however, those thin walls allowed me to hear my daughter’s whine of, “Do I have to go to school?” followed by my niece’s muttered, “FU.”

      Luckily, I didn’t have to be at work that morning. As a substitute teacher, I picked my own hours, and I’d given myself the day off. If I got the girls out the door on time, I still had a chance at a peaceful day.

      I spared a moment to throw on my robe, then ran downstairs, so intent on getting into the kitchen that I almost didn’t notice the stranger sprawled on my couch. He was a broad-shouldered young man dressed in nothing but a pair of boxers. The large demon tattoo on his chest, and the line of metal rivets punctuating his forehead lent him a sinister air. As did the twin gauges in his earlobes whose holes were so large I could have put my thumb through them.

      Jasmine! My stepsister knew my rules, but paid them no mind. Each time I lectured her about not letting strange men sleep over, she swore she wouldn’t do it again. Yet, in the past three weeks, seven guys had paraded in and out of her bedroom. I would have charged into Jasmine’s room right that minute and ordered her to pack her things, but the girls and I were already behind schedule.

      The stranger yawned and scratched, keeping his eyes closed. He was the most hairless creature I’d ever seen. Not only was he bald, but his legs were so smooth that I was jealous. His chest was as pink and clean as a newborn’s. He had no eyebrows. Nor, for that matter, armpit hair, a fact I realized when he raised his arms over his head to stretch. I eyed his boxers, wondering just how far the hairless area extended.

      Unfortunately, before I could chase this frightening spectacle out of the house, Grace pounded down the stairs. To hide his nearly-naked body, I tossed a blanket over him. He muttered a ‘thanks’ and immediately went back to sleep.

      “Mom! Mom!” Grace skidded to a halt. “Hey, who’s that guy?”

      “Probably a friend of Aunt Jasmine’s.”

      “So why isn’t he sleeping with her?”

      The question was a good one, but it broke my heart to hear her ask it. I wanted to keep my daughter innocent for as long as I could, but with Jasmine in the house, that didn’t seem possible.

      “I have no idea.” I swept Grace into the kitchen before she could ask more questions. Heading for the coffee maker, I stepped in a puddle of water that soaked my slippered feet. The entire floor of the tiny kitchen was underwater.

      With a cry of, “Ah, shit!” I started mopping up the mess with an armload of dishtowels, tracing the puddle to the washing machine which sat innocently by the back door.

      I wanted to cry. A broken appliance was the last thing I needed. I’d spent the last of my savings to pay my car insurance bill and had nothing left over to buy a new washer. In fact, I didn’t even have enough quarters to go to the Laundromat. “Goddamn, shit!!”

      “You broke rule number one. Now you need to put a dollar in the swear jar.” Grace stood in the doorway, looking solemn. She’d dressed herself in the same T-shirt and jeans she’d worn for the past two days and brushed the top layer of her brown hair smooth over a bottom layer of wicked snarls.

      A year ago, when I was still married and living in my mini-mansion, Grace would have been dressed in her school uniform eating an egg white omelet in the breakfast nook while I braided her hair. The scene, once ordinary, was now so surreal that I might have dreamed it up.

      There was no time for regrets, however. Not with the clock ticking. “I know I swore,” I agreed. “I’m just having a really bad morning.” I dropped the soaking wet rags into the sink and put down another layer of towels.

      “You also broke rule number nine.” Standing behind Grace was a very triumphant-looking Ariel. My niece loved catching me in the middle of bad behavior.

      The rules the girls were referring to were known as the “Ten Commandments of the Straight Household.” I’d posted copies of them on the refrigerator, above the TV, and on the bathroom mirror. Also, next to the computer, on the doors of all the bedrooms, and even on the dashboard of the car.

      I’m nothing if not thorough.

      Rule number nine had been written specifically for my stepsister. It said, “Thou shalt not let strange boys sleep overnight (either on the couch or in your bed).” Not that it did any good.

      “You’re right. I did break the rule,” I told Ari, thinking of the man on the couch.

      “And eight, too,” she added.

      For a moment, I couldn’t remember rule number eight. When it finally came to me, I was shocked. Eight was: “Thou shalt not leave prophylactics (either used or unused) lying about the house.” Again, this rule was for my sister. Personally, I hadn’t needed prophylactics since long before my divorce.

      “I never broke that rule,” I argued.

      “Really?” Ariel held up several square, foil packages.

      “Give those here,” I said, furious. “Where did you get them?”

      “They were on the end table next to the couch. They probably belong to that bald guy.” Ariel’s eyes were alight with evil mischief. “But you should have thrown them away, so you just broke number eight.”

      I snapped my fingers at her, and she surrendered the condoms with a smug smile. It never occurred to me to ask how she knew what those things were. Ariel’s mother had given her the flipside education to the ‘no boys, no drugs’ message most girls get at home. Grace, however, looked on with heartbreaking innocence. “What are those things, Mom?”

      “Don’t worry about it.” I shoved the condoms into the pocket of my robe. “Just grab your coat and get going before you miss the bus.”

      “But I need to change my clothes!”

      I’d gotten careless with my laundry duties over vacation, and dirty clothes piled on the floor like the slopes of Kilimanjaro. Although I’d started a load the previous night before I went to bed, obviously nothing had gotten clean. There goes rule number two, I thought. (Rule number two: Thou shalt not pick dirty underwear out of the hamper and re-wear it.)

      There was one silver lining to this terrible day, however. At least none of my old friends and neighbors were around to witness my current, desperate situation. If they had

Скачать книгу