Sunlight filters in through the Venetian blinds, licking my room with belts of warm gold. I shift on the bed I'm lying on, staring up at the ceiling fan overhead. It circles with a sick slowness, making the air dull, thick and heavy.
Without my wishing it, the events of the previous night come back to me, playing through my head like a retold film.
The man who tried to follow me. The kids who beat him up. And what happened after I got home ....
Rolling over, I extend one arm, reaching for the clock I keep on my bedside table. It's late, nearly eleven. Which is a good thing. It means my father won't be around.
The thought comforts me, and I bring myself to swing my legs over the edge of the bed and set my feet on the floor. After digging up some clothes and a towel, I head out to take a shower.
In the bathroom, I peel off my T-shirt and check myself in the mirror for bruises, but can't find any.
I was hoping my father wouldn't find out that I snuck out yesterday. I guess I'm just not that lucky.
There's only so much any of us can do when he gets that mad. Our only chance is to apologize and beg, not to answer when he speaks, and of course, never hit back. Yesterday wasn't that bad, except at one point when he shoved me, throwing me backwards against a wall.
That part really hurt. Each time seems like an eternity you'll never escape, but in reality, it's never more than a minute or two. It always ends as quickly as it starts, like flames fizzling out.
I turn away from the mirror, stepping into the shower. I've learned a thing or two over the years about how to deal with my father, and I've followed these rules religiously. There is no one I fear more than my father. All the same, I'm starting to get tired of it. I'm fifteen now. I'm entitled to some goddamned freedom. I mean, isn't it my life? Isn't every choice mine to make?
I wish there was something I could do. Something we could do.
Nobody knows about the Conroys. Nobody knows what really goes on in our house. And I could never tell anyone the truth, not even Alex, my best friend.
I'm sure my mom and my brothers keep it a secret too. You think you'd know what to do if this were to happen, if that were to happen. You think it's simple.
It's not.
There are some things you just can't speak about. That's because they eat at you. They eat away at your insides and leave behind a kind of shame and guilt, until that's all you are. They make you believe that you're worthless, because that's what you're living. You look at other people and realize they're not faking their smiles or lying when they say things are going great. You start to think that maybe in some way ... you actually deserve all of it. That it's all some sort of punishment.
I close my eyes, breathing deeply as hot water runs over me.
None of it can last forever, I tell myself. At some point, it has to stop. I will leave this house, I will be free and independent. All of us.
I could be morbid and pray for my father's death, but I don't think the odds would be in our favour. And besides, we wouldn't last very long without him. His job isn't the best, but it's all the family has.
I stay in the shower for a long time. When I emerge, it's half past eleven. I put on some clothes, then pad down to the kitchen.
There's no one around. It's as quiet here as it was upstairs. Everybody must have gone out for the day. Famished, I raid the fridge and cabinets for food, but all I can find are overripe fruit and the remains of an old box of cereal. Not too appealing, nor suitable for a growing girl, am I right?
I get my cell phone, keying in Alex's number. I ask what she's doing for lunch. She tells me 'nothing' and sounds happy to meet up at the deli for lunch.
We hang up, and I head back upstairs, grabbing my wallet. I don't care to check my reflection, and so I head out, casual in a white tank top and black cargos, my short, dirty blonde hair still damp from the shower.
Trotting down the porch, I cut across the unmowed lawn, glancing for a moment over the rest of the neighbourhood. Small houses, ugly fences, bags of garbage sunbathing. A stray dog flits through the brush, scraps in his mouth.
I find myself thinking back to what happened on Toledo Avenue yesterday. My neighborhood is better, but not by much.
I enter the open garage, noticing that both cars are missing. I wheel my bike out and jump on. In seconds, I'm ripping over the walk, whizzing past bored neighhbours who ignore me as much as I do them.
It's a cool, clear summer day, and the wind rushes against me, all sighs, whistles and whispers. I glance aside to look at the half-busy road, locks of wet hair teasing my cheek.
The deli where I'm supposed to meet Alex is on Change Street, about ten minutes away by bike. It's about the same distance away for Alex, just from a different direction. She can't drive and doesn't have a bicycle so she'll have to to walk. I bet I'll reach the deli way before she does.
I look up the street, waiting until traffic stops before cutting to the other side. I narrowly miss an old man who pops up around the corner, and I resist the urge to laugh as he yells grumpily to my back.
Soon enough, I'm on Change Street, a narrow road lined on both sides with shops, restaurants and cafés. It's pretty busy since it's lunchtime on a Sunday, forcing me to get off and walk with my bike.
Man, it's chaos here. Everyone from couples to housewives to yuppies bustle past me, self-absorption being the only thing they have in common.
Stores are boasting summer sales and low, low prices. Mannequins in pretty sundresses. Gift shop memorabilia. Musical instruments that glint and gleam in the sun. I catch the wonderful, familiar smell of cookies from the bakery, and remember how hungry I am.
I walk faster, counting off the stores until I reach the Stop-By Deli. Four, three, two, one ....
"Alex?"
To my surprise, she's just getting out of someone's car. It doesn't take me long to realize whose. That bright red Cabriolet could only be that of Derek Hughes', her next-door neighbour.
After Alex outgrew me and turned into a walking bombshell this year, guys have been paying attention to her, and Derek's no exception. He never used to look at us twice before, but now here he is, giving her a ride.
"Oh, hey, Clare," Alex notices me. She straightens up to her full five-eight frame, pushing her long, silky hair over her shoulders. "I was just saying bye to Derek." She gives him a grateful wave. "Thanks for the ride. I really appreciate it."
"Anytime," he says, leaning his head out of the car and smiling up at her. "And I do mean anytime."
She laughs, while I roll my eyes.
"OK. So, I guess I'll be seeing ya'."
"Yup."
"Bye, Cassie," he says to me, sticking his head back in the car before either of us can correct him.
Ooh, how I hate that guy. He's met me like a dozen times, and he still can't get my name right.
Alex glances at me, doing an apologetic smile. Waves of black fall past her shoulders, while her outfit - a crop top and skinny jeans - are perfect against her slender curves. She's gorgeous, and worst of all, she looks like she didn't even try to be gorgeous.
It's envy-inducing. I wonder why I can't look in the mirror and see something like that for once?
She cocks a thumb toward the deli. "Come on. I'm starving."
I nod, propping up my bike before following her inside. As soon as we've placed our orders, we hover near the counter for a while, waiting for our food. As I should have expected, the place is full up, and I wonder how we're going to find a table.
"So, Clare." Alex tilts her head, glancing at me. "What've you been up to?"
"Me? Not much."
She and I haven't seen each other in weeks, and I realize that I've actually quite missed her. It can get kind of lonely at my house sometimes - like today.
"What about you?" I return the question. "Anything interesting?"
"Well ... Adam Hayes asked me out on a date."
Adam has been a classmate of ours since kindergarten. He's a nice guy, cute, definitely a better candidate than Derek Hughes. "Wow. What did you say?"
"I said yes. We're going out tomorrow."
"That's great, Alex."
She blinks at me. "But?"
"What?"
"It sounds like you have a but waiting."
"I just want you to be careful."
"I'll be fine."
"Of course you will. You have me looking out for you."
She smiles. "I know. Thanks."
"At least he's not Derek."
"Derek?"
"Yeah, that leering creep."
"Clare, you are awful."
"And you are too trusting."
Before she can retort, our order is pushed towards us. We decide to head over to the park and eat, since the deli's too crowded.
A minute later, we are out in the sun again, heading down the street. I tell Alex the story of my adventure last night, and she listens in fascination. I don't say anything about my dad getting angry afterward of course. For some reason, I also don't tell her about the boy from the gang I ran into (literally). I feel as if it's not for anyone else to know, only him and me, if that makes any sense.
"Clare, I'll never understand why you like doing stuff like this, sneaking out at late hours and going to places like Toledo Avenue."
"I like it."
"Why?"
Why? I can't tell Alex why. She wouldn't understand how badly I need to get out of that house sometimes. It's my way of forgetting - losing myself in the city. In the streets, I can imagine I'm free and uncontrolled, even for just a little while.
Alex could never know what that feels like. With the kind of family she has, an argument over the last piece of pie is exciting enough.
"I just like it," I say again, shrugging. "It's no big deal."
"You know what kind of stuff happens there, what kind of people are on those streets."
Yeah. Losers like me.
"You know what I think? I think you have wanderlust."
Wanderlust. If only that was all it was.