Pushed Together

Chapter One: Chloe

“Find a place inside where’s there joy, and the joy will burn out the pain.”

-Joseph Campbell

There’s a guy standing in the doorway, asking to see my mom. I don’t recognize him, so he must be her new boyfriend of the week. He’s a short, a few inches taller than me, has brown eyes that hold lust as he looks me from head to toe, a t-shirt way too tight for him tucked into his jeans, where his beer gut is hanging over. I wrinkle my nose as I take in his scent – beer and cigarettes. It’s one of the worst combinations ever. Disgusting. Revolting. And I can tell that’s exactly how this guy is. Where did my mom meet this guy? No, where the hell does she meet all the guys she dates?

I point toward the bedroom, not speaking. Not wanting to. I never did like coming into contact with the guys my mom dates, because they all do the same exact thing. Rake their eyes over my body and undressing me with their eyes, sending me sleazy smiles and winking at me. Just like this guy standing in front of me is doing. It takes everything in me to not send that smile off his face. Instead I just step aside and let him head over to my mom’s room.

He doesn’t knock, but goes into her room after sending me a look full of greed and want. When he’s out of sight, I shut the front door to keep all the air from coming inside and head into the kitchen to continue what I was doing, which was fixing my little sister and I something to eat with what little we had in the house. Mom likes to spend the money she makes only God knows how on drugs and alcohol and new clothes to impress her boyfriends rather than on the things her kids needs. Like clothes, and more importantly, food. My sister and I are always stuck eating sandwiches or canned food. It’d be nice to have something different instead of the same thing every night.

Once I’m done, I screw the cap to the mayo back on and put it in the refrigerator, right beside the bottles of beer, and grab the last juice pouch, shutting the door with my hip. I pick the plate that has two ham and cheese sandwiches on it and head to the room I share with my little sister. She’s lying on the bed, all of her curly blonde hair on one shoulder, playing with two Barbies she’s had since she was three, right before our dad passed away and our lives have shifted in the wrong direction the same time our mom’s attitude changed. One is missing its head and its shirt, while the other is missing an arm and leg. No matter how broken and crappy the dolls are, my sister loves them and refuses to throw them away. Not like I can blame her. It’s the only thing she has left that reminds her of Dad.

“Britt, I made you a sandwich.”

Brittany rolls onto her back and stares at the plate of food. She sighs and sets her Barbies to the side, then looks up at me with her bright blue eyes. She looks so innocent, only being ten, yet she’s pretty mature for her age. She always stays at home when she’s not at school, staying out of trouble, and I can’t help but admire her for it. Everyone knows she’s nothing like me, and they don’t want her to be. Neither do I. I get in trouble a lot, hanging out in the streets with my friends, knowing I shouldn’t but do anyway. It’s not an easy choice for me – or anybody – to make.

I have had people tell me I gave into peer pressure, but that isn’t it. I think the main reason I made the choice that I made was so that I could fit in. that people would like me and want to be my friend, and another reason was to escape from home. To escape from my mom’s insults to Britt and I, to escape from the reality that my life is pretty fucked up. Leaving Britt here in the hands on mom’s wrath when she’s drunk and high is bad on my part, making me a terrible older sister, especially when Britt looks up to me, but my actions come before I even think about what I’m doing. It’s not a good excuse, but it’s one I’m pretty content with.

She takes the plate from me and grabs the juice pouch. I take one of the sandwiches and nibble on the ends, my eyes roaming over our room. It’s small, only fitting one bed, so Britt and I share one. There’s an old fashioned TV in the corner of the room, the kind with the knobs. It’s sits on the floor, the cables tangled up around it. In the other corner is a small desk and a chair that I use to do my schoolwork on it. Well, I hardly do my schoolwork. Only when I’m bored and don’t feel like hanging out with my friends, which is hardly ever. I’m always out, roaming the streets, causing trouble with my friends.

Suddenly there’s yelling coming from my mother’s bedroom. Britt sits up straight, almost knocking her untouched plate of food off her lap, and stares at the door. I close my eyes and flinch when I hear something shatter against the wall. More yelling, but their voices are muffled by the wall separating mine and Britt’s room from Mom’s. This is something I can’t take, something I can’t handle and don’t want to listen to. I grab my jacket from the back of the chair and shrug it on. Britt watches me, probably wondering what I’m doing, but not saying or asking me anything.

I slip on my shoes and grab my cell phone, sticking it into the back of my short pockets. Then, tying my hair into a ponytail and ignoring my sister, I hurry out of the room and out the house, away from all the yelling, away from what’s to come whenever the guy leaves. A little part of me feels guilty leaving my little sister alone, all innocent and vulnerable, yet another parts screams at me to get away.

And I do.