Free Rabbit Ears by Maggie De Vries Page A

Revulsion rumbles through you, starting deep, deep down. Bile gushes up into your throat, and you retch. Instantly, his hand flees your scalp. He leans away, scrabbling at his crotch. In one movement you turn away, open the door and half roll out of the car. Hands against the nearby wall, you vomit. Behind you, you hear him swear, you hear the car door slam shut, you hear the car drive away.
    And there you are, alone, in an alley, in the rain, your pockets still empty and your stomach still emptier. The vomiting has cleared your mind, though the nausea will not leave you until you get yourself a fix. That is what all this is for, you remind yourself, that and a roof over your head that is not Jim’s. Or your mother’s. You can do this.
    You straighten your back and start off, stepping up to the curb whenever a car passes. Within half an hour you have slid into your second car of the day. This time you keep your head up, you speak first, you even raise your price. And you do not gag. Not once.
    You end the day with enough money for that fix and for a meal, and you pay a woman the few dollars you have left to sleep on the floor of her room. You lie there, wrapped in a dirty blanket, listening to drunken shouting, doors banging and endless traffic, and feel withdrawal easing its way back into your system, taking hold. You’ll wake up sick. And out you will go to do it all again.
    That woman helps you out, though, the next day, and others do too, in exchange for some of your money. You mention keeping an eye out for Jim, and “I started off with Jim too,” a scraggly young woman tells you, sneering as she speaks. She coughs hard before she goes on. “He can be rough, but he’s not the sort to come after you. A lot of them do. Once they’ve got you, you’re stuck.”
    These women aren’t always nice about it, but they show you the ropes, how to work the street, where to stand, how to keep off others’ toes. They don’t ask a lot of questions, and you are grateful.
    Sarah is different. Sarah won’t let you work her corner, but not because she’s guarding her turf. She seems to be protecting you. Or trying to. If Sarah had her way, you wouldn’t work at all. “Go home, kid,” she says to you every time she sets eyes on you.
    You still like seeing her, though, even though you ignore her advice.
    Most days, “Hi, Blackie,” you call out, grinning, using her nickname, lifted up by her energy, the gorgeous boots, the wide smile in the perfectly made-up face.
    “Hey, kid, I’m working here,” Sarah replies, but there’s no meanness in her voice. “Get a move on.”
    One afternoon in spring, as you walk away down Princess, you find yourself turning and looking back just in time to see Sarah’s foot disappear into a slick silver car. You make a mental note of the look of the car, though you’re at thewrong angle to see the plate. A car like that could mean a good haul, you think. It’s been a while since you had a john with real money, but you are having a good day.
    You wander through Oppenheimer Park in the sunshine, heels clicking on the cement, hips swishing just like those other girls’, insides gathering together into something strong, something fabulous, something everybody wants. You light a cigarette to complete the picture, cough a little on the first puff, watch the smoke whoosh into the air.
    You suck in deep on the cigarette as you turn into a lane. The ball of fabulousness in your gut softens. You feel a bit like puking. But on you go.

CHAPTER FIVE
    Beth
    “I’m not leaving you home on your own,” Mom says. “You can stay with Jane or Samantha or come with me.”
    “What about Kaya?”
    “Kaya is gone.”
    “But what if she comes home?”
    Mom’s face is red and blotchy. She hacks at a carrot as if she were executing it. Veins stand out on the backs of her hands. “It’s been weeks, Beth. Weeks. I’ve been out looking. I’ve talked to the police. I don’t believe she’s coming home