Free To Have (The Dumont Diaries) by Alessandra Torre

CHAPTER 1
    I step on the dark stage, the cheap plastic of my platforms cutting painfully into the top of my toes, every step bringing a pinch of pain. I keep my eyes down, following the flecks of silver on the unforgiving stage, waiting, exhaling a breath in controlled anticipation, my abs tightening. Then, the lights come on and I have almost three minutes to forget.

    Six hours later.
    My flip-flops smack through the front door and I kick them off as soon as I cross the cheap metal threshold. I drop my purse on the round kitchen table and pull it open, my fingers diving inside and pulling out cash, folded, stinky dollar bills, their edges worn, skin limp. I flatten the bills on the table, stacking them as I count, praying feverishly, that it will be enough. I need at least three hundred dollars. My fingers stop moving and I run out of bills at one hundred and thirty-seven dollars. That’s what I get for a Tuesday night. I sigh, counting out a hundred dollars and putting it in my wallet. I’ll go to the bank tomorrow and deposit that before my shift.
    A belch sounds from behind me and I tighten, stuffing the rest of the bills back in my purse. I grab it and my jacket, glancing over my shoulder and flash a smile at the overweight man who stands in the doorway, his hairy chest exposed, baggy brown sweatpants sagging underneath his large belly. “Hey Dibs. Didn’t think you’d be up this late.”
    He doesn’t respond, his eyes trailing over my sweat pants and t-shirt, a flicker of curiosity in his eyes. “Surprised you’re getting home so late. It’s almost five in the morning. You babysitting that long?”
    “Parents had a late night,” I say casually, moving around him quickly, passing through a wall of cigarette smoke and body odor.
    “You know rent’s due.”
    “I’ll get it to you tomorrow. I’m going to the bank in the morning.” I open the door to my room, and step inside, closing it quickly behind me, hoping that he won’t press the issue, won’t pound on my thin door. I feel the shake of his footsteps, his heavy weight moving to my door, the pause, and then continuation of steps down the hall. I relax, gently locking the handle and dropping my purse on the floor.
    My room reeks of Dibs, musty smells contrasting with the sunny scents I typically flood the room with, scents that try and mask the reality of my grime situation. He’s been in here, doing godknowswhat with my things. I want to shower, want to stand under hot water and rinse off the smell of the club, the smell of strangers and smoke. But the desire to avoid Dibs, avoid a chance meeting in the hall with only a towel between me and him… I decide to skip the shower and undress, pulling on a long sleep shirt and soft pajama pants. I crawl into bed quietly, listening for sounds in the house, hoping for the comforting drone of Dib’s snoring, praying that my tired muscles will bring me to a quick sleep.
    Sleep isn’t coming. I lie for over an hour, looking up into the ceiling and trying to occupy my mind with anything but numbers. The low balance in my bank account. The high balance on my credit cards. The numbers in red on my past-due cell phone bill. At least tonight was a good night. I didn’t do anything that makes me close my eyes in shame, or curl into a ball and weep into a pillow. I danced, nothing more, nothing less. My purse is lighter for it, but at least I will sleep in good conscience. Except I’m not. I’m lying in bed and watching the room’s window lighten, my stresses keeping sleep at bay. Finally, when my room is fully bathed in light, my eyes droop and I fall the final steps into sleep.
    Four hours. Four measly hours is what my body is allowed to sleep for. Then my phone alarm blares, some Miley Cyrus ringtone that I once found cute and now — seventy alarm chimes later — hate with a passion. I reach out and silence the tone, roll onto my back and open my eyes to my life. Whoopee . Another day in paradise.

    Poor