This Wasn't It

Hot Florida sun burns a small spot on Billie’s back, but behind she could hear a storm approaching. Her backpack leaves sweat stains on her black Against Me! shirt, worn thin from the teenager’s reckless love of it. She is walking the mile or so from school back home. It is a poor neighborhood, but not because of a lack of money. The people here had just stopped. Houses half-painted, cars half-fixed. So many lives seemed halted abruptly here. She hoped that hers was not among them. Their yards were a mottled combination of overgrown grass and bare sugar sand. It kicked up into her socks as she walked, irritating her ankles. Her red high-topped shoes were travel-worn and dirty. 

She hated it here, but not because of them. She hated it here because of her. At one time, Billie would say she was her best friend. She would skip school and see the manatees at Blue Springs with her. The lettuce crunched under the splashing of their whiskered mouths as they ate it with gusto. Ice cream at Twistee Treat on the way home. Billie had to eat fast to keep from getting sticky. Florida summers had always been salted beach spray and suntan lotion, driving the hour or so to Daytona Beach. Her mother's hugs were warm and sun-soaked. The wind picks up behind her, a cool breeze that blows the storm her way. 

The street her rented duplex was on rounded a corner lot and switched back to the opposite direction. None of them had any trees and her face had begun to sweat. She wished she had to work today; it would be much better there. The free pizza at the end of the night is a godsend. Her pixie-cut hair dripped warm salted sweat onto the collar of her shirt. She used the sleeve to wipe it from her eyes. The storm was facing her now with the change in her direction. Lightning spread high above in the center of the clouds, but never touched down. Not yet. Since she moved to this side of town two months ago, none of her friends took her home anymore. She did not bring anyone home anymore. She wore her shame begrudgingly, never knowing if she should lash out in pride, or submit to the spineless inclinations toward self-pity.  

Turning the corner, she could see it. Her rented duplex was white-washed and sun-bleached. Her washer and dryer took up most of the empty carport; her mother’s car had long since broken down and abandoned, like so many things the woman touched. She checked to see if there was any laundry to do; anything to stall one more moment out here. She saw her clothes basket tipped over, mud and detritus dirtying her things.  

“Great. Thanks.” She said to no one listening as she threw them all in the washing machine. The soap was almost empty, and she knelt to the spigot to water down the remnants of the jug. Swishing it wildly, she pours it in, starting the machine. She lingered outside for a while. She was reluctant to go in but decided that there was at least water she could drink. She fought the burning desire to close the door again as the frosted air conditioning hit her. It wafted a smell of stale cigarettes and animal urine. The living room was empty, all but the fleas that jumped at her ankles from the thin astroturf carpeting. It felt scratchy on her feet, so she never took her shoes off. The room was barren but a loveseat and a television. A couple of cats that were as neglected as she was. She had a computer desk, but her computer had long since bit the dust. Or so that is what her mother had said. Thunder rolled outside, and the rushing of heavy rain brought the smell of ozone through the potato-sized hole her mother had made in the window. The smell was a small comfort in this cold house with its stale smells. “Stale lives.” Billie thought, only a little bitterly.  

Surprisingly the house was still clean, nothing had been left around, left dirty. A note on the refrigerator caught her eye. It was crumpled, and the penmanship showed small irregularities. Her mom had scribbled a note. “Gone to the train station. I’m going to see my friend in Texas.” Billie ripped the note and threw it away. The trash was full and fetid. Bloat flies ate from it unhindered. Opening the refrigerator, she found what she expected. Nothing but old pizza boxes and a few two liters, long flat. Billie wasn’t sure if she was afraid of her mother returning, or of her leaving forever and just ditching her here. Her checks were coming in the mail here, though. She would be here on the first, Billie could count on that.  

She decided to turn the air off and open the windows. The fresh air brightened up the room, though it was still muggy. Walking past the trash again, she put her laundry into the dryer. Sighing a breath of relief, she felt herself becoming tired. She knew that no one would wake her. No one would be yelling or stomping through the hallway. No one would be here to ‘lose’ her child support from Dad. She lay down in her bed, her room a place of order in the chaos that was this life. Her trophies and sports pictures lined the top of her bookcase, and her favorite books were neatly stacked beneath. She considered reading one but knew that her eyes felt heavy. Taking off her shoes and socks, she lay on her rod-iron daybed, squeaking herself into a comfortable position, she drifted off to sleep.  

Her dreams were placid, all grey and muddled. It was a stillness after so much chaos. This had been her first good sleep in months. Not that she knew that. The time was so tumultuous she never had time to plan or think, she was always pivoting. Her joints were sore from being torn back and forth at the whims of her parents, their lives, and the end of their love for one another. The sound of rain was the only sound as the voice came to her, as it often does. “Run.” She rouses before the door slams.  

“Billie! Billie, where’d you go?” Large legs thunder down the hallway bursting open her door. The sun had gone down, she had slept so long. Her voice was grating and unpleasant when it finally came out.  

“What, Ma?” Sleepily she gets up. She could feel the peace leaving the room. Sucked out by the breathy voice of her mother standing in the doorway. Her heart sank, and she fidgeted with her blankets. White knuckling them she held her breath.  

Her mother took up the doorway, her bulky frame looming. “The train station was closed. I’m home. There is nothing in the fridge. Why were you sleeping all this time?! Get us some food at the store. She throws a handful of crumpled bills. It was not nearly enough to get anything decent.  

“Run,” her heart cried out. But this time she didn’t push down that little voice. The little voice, the pulling of intuition that the other version of her had taught her to listen to. That person was gone, and the memories of the love she had known were all that remained. She had known that all along, but now she was finally ready to listen.

The thought of leaving had never occurred to her until this moment. She knew she should hate her. She knew she should not let her walk all over her. But her mother was a manipulator, and she always got what she wanted. Billie had lied to all those social workers. All those teachers. “Myself,” She thought. Her friends’ parents had forbidden them from speaking to her. She was ‘doomed’ and ‘lost,’ but not because of her actions. No, because of theirs. They were ‘like that,’ so why wouldn’t she be? She realized all the things she was too afraid to say. She realized now that the fear came in response to instability, but if she said what she meant and left, well, there were no consequences were there? She wondered about everyone in this neighborhood just stuck in this cycle of losing time and getting nothing for it. Was that all there was for her? All her future holds? A feeling of needing to run as fast as she could overtook her in the stillness of her body. Her mother had already gone into the dark room with the T.V. that never shut off. The burn holes in the coverlet. The sweat-smell of unwashed sheets.  

The dryer made a Buzz! that brought her back to the present moment. She went outside and loaded them into her basket. It was a wire basket with a canvas clip-on insert. She pulled the canvas out, clothes and all, and tied it like a sack, putting her backpack beside it. “To hell with this place.” She thought. She could feel the stagnation and bland noises filtering from other houses. She could smell the fresh cigarette her mother lit. She coughed wetly, but it sounded muffled through the brick walls. It was raining torrentially now. Water puddled in rivers that ran down the sidewalk. She thought honestly about her options but figured she could call her friend from a pay phone. Regardless of what she had said, there were options.  

She walked into the dark room, dank with cigarette smoke and atrophy. Her face was numb with the fear and the hope that filled her simultaneously.  

“I’m leaving.” Her mother didn’t look at her. Didn’t acknowledge the severity of which she said those words. “Did you hear me? I’m out of here.” Her mother turned to her, wrestling her attention from the blinking T.V. screen. “The store’s closing. You better run if you're going to make it!”  

“I hate you. I hate what you’ve become.” Billie does not listen to the reply. She closes the back door, passing the fetid trash as she goes. “Dig in.” She says to them, knowing that the garbage would remain overflowing until maggots sprouted and overcame the kitchen. Knowing that everything would just stop. Like everyone else on this street.  

The rain running down her back feels cool as she hoists the laundry up higher. The nearest payphone would be a few miles away, but she knew Starr would be there to get her. She knew that this wasn’t it.