Emerson’s Story

Chapter 1-2

It must be anything except the obvious: that I’m turning out just like my mother.

I try to keep my gaze focused on the ground at my feet the rest of the way home, not wanting to see anything I shouldn’t be seeing. It’s a much longer journey than if I’d used the street I was supposed to use. The street the cloaked figure was on. It’s dark by the time I reach our driveway, and I almost run up it and around the side of Chelsea’s house. I’m never this eager to get home, but I’ve somehow convinced myself that I’ll be safe once I get inside. I let myself in through the kitchen door and take a moment to breathe as the door clicks shut behind me.

A boiling pot containing something that smells like it could be pasta sits on the stove. Through the open door that leads to the garage salon, I hear Chelsea and Georgia chatting. My earlier fear begins to seem silly in comparison to the ordinariness around me.

I cross the kitchen without calling hello to Chelsea and Georgia. They won’t particularly care that I’m home, and I don’t particularly care to greet them. Instead, I head straight for my bedroom, removing the money from my pocket as I go. I force my door open, shoving it past yet another box of Chelsea’s salon supplies that seems to have found its way into this room since this morning. I let my messenger bag slip off my shoulder and onto the bed, my focus now on counting out my commission from the money Slade paid me. The rest, of course, goes to dear Aunt Chelsea. She’s the one who makes the weird herbal remedies.

I pull my ice cream tub of toiletries off the shelf above my bed and look inside it for the resealable plastic bag I keep my savings in. I’ll count it all now and make sure I have enough, then buy a bus ticket tomorrow. I riffle through the various bottles, my fingers feeling for the crumpled plastic bag.

It’s gone.

My stomach drops as I empty the tub’s contents onto my bed, just to be sure. I spread everything out, but the little zipper bag definitely isn’t there. My skin grows cold, then hot. That was months and months of savings, all so that I could visit Mom, and now it’s gone?

My hands become fists as I storm out of the room and head straight for the salon. I find Georgia lounging in one of the chairs, staring at herself in the mirror as she combs her hand through her sleek blonde hair. On the opposite side of the room, Chelsea stocks the shelves with more of her homemade herbal products.

“Where’s my money?” I demand.

Georgia jumps in fright and almost slips out of her chair, but Chelsea is still for a moment before turning to face me. “Your money, Emerson?” she says. “I think you mean my money.”

“Excuse me?”

“You’ve been stealing from me for months.”

“Stealing from—I have never stolen a single thing from you. I always give you exactly what you’re due and only keep the percentage I’m allowed. You know that.”

“Right.” Chelsea crosses her arms and nods. “And then you go back to my bedroom afterwards and steal whatever you want. Money’s been going missing from my purse for months now. At first I thought I was imagining it, that it must be my mistake, but then I started keeping track of exactly how much was there.” She gives me a triumphant smile, as if she’s done something wonderfully clever. “And you know what I discovered? Small amounts of money started to disappear every week or so. And look where I found it.” She digs in her pocket and pulls out a plastic bag. My plastic bag.

“That is my hard-earned savings,” I tell her, feeling a knot of nausea forming in my stomach. “That is not yours.”

“Don’t lie to me. I know how you girls spend money. As if it grows on trees and you have no responsibilities in the world. What I want to know is where is the rest of it?” She shakes the bag in the air between us. “Because you’ve taken way more than what’s left here.”

“I didn’t steal from you!” I shout. I glance at Georgia, who’s watching the two of us with a small smile. My anger increases a level as I point at her. “You want to know where your money’s been going? That’s where you should be looking.”

“Don’t you dare pin this on Georgia. She would never steal from me.”

“Well it isn’t me, so that doesn’t leave anyone else, does it.”

Chelsea lets out an incredulous laugh. “I cannot believe you, Emerson. After everything I’ve done for you. I work so hard to take care of both of you, and this is how you repay me? You steal from me and then you run all over town doing that useless parkour nonsense.”

“Everything?” I repeat. “Did you say after everything you’ve done for me?” Normally I’d keep my mouth shut. I’d bite down my anger and let her try to convince herself how amazingly charitable she is. But not this time. Not when she’s taken my one chance at visiting Mom. “You mean giving me Georgia’s second-hand clothing, making me sleep in what is essentially your storeroom for five years, and using me as your live-in maid?”

“I gave you a home,” she shouts. “You should be grateful for the roof over your head. What would have happened to you if there’d been no one to take you in after they locked your mother up? Your father sure as hell didn’t want you. He seems to be covering all your mother’s medical bills in that fancy faraway hospital, but is he interested in supporting you? Nope. I’ve never even met the man.”

Chelsea’s used this tack before to try to hurt me, but it never works. I couldn’t care less about my father or the fact that he has no interest in me. I don’t even know what he looks like. “Please,” I say between clenched teeth. “Just give me back my money.”

“You’re not getting this money back, Emerson. End of story.” Chelsea tucks the plastic bag back into her pocket and turns to her shelves of herbal garbage. Georgia pushes herself out of her chair and leaves the room. I stand there feeling sick, my body shaking, finally realizing that the hope I’ve been holding onto for months—the hope of finally visiting Mom again—is gone. And I can’t even blame Chelsea for it. Not entirely. Not when someone else is responsible for this mess.

I stride out of the salon and head for Georgia’s room. She’s sitting on her bed with a magazine, smiling sweetly, knowingly.

“It was you,” I say, taking a few steps into her room. “You told her where my money was.”

She lowers the magazine. “What could you possibly need all that money for, Em? You know we need it to keep the household running. How could you be so selfish?”

“How could you be so selfish stealing from your own mother?”

“I need things,” she says. “Things you don’t need. Things you wouldn’t understand, and Mom doesn’t seem to understand either.”

I glare at her for another few moments, my anger so intense I could scream. But it would do no good. I still have to get through another few months here, and so I clamp my mouth shut, turn around, and aim for the door.

But that’s when I see it: Hanging from a knob on the wardrobe, the tag still attached to the hem, is a brand new dress. “This is the stuff you need?” I demand, grabbing the hanger, spinning around, and shaking the dress at her.

“Yes.” She sits a little straighter, as if I’ve finally got her attention now that I’m threatening her clothing. “I have a boyfriend and a social life and a future. That kind of stuff doesn’t come for free. You have to look good if you want to—”

I fling the dress at her, and she yelps as it hits the side of her head. “You bought a dress?” I yell. “I’ve been saving for almost a year so I could visit my mother, and you took that away from me for a DRESS?”

Something flashes across the room. Light and heat and the sound of a sizzle. It vanishes as Georgia falls back against the pillows with a scream.

Fear cracks through my anger, drenching me in goosebumps. I rush over to Georgia. “What’s wrong? What happened?”

She shoves me away with one hand, the other covering her cheek. “What the hell did you do to me?” she gasps, her eyes wider than I’ve ever seen them.

“I didn’t do—”

“You threw something at me! Like a firecracker or something. You freak, what is wrong with—”

“I didn’t throw anything!”

“Get off her!” Chelsea’s hands wrap around my shoulders and tug me backward.

In the quiet that follows, all I hear is my heavy breathing and Georgia’s whimpering. She lowers her hand, revealing blood seeping from a shallow gash across her cheek. She glares at me with renewed hatred. “Oh, my poor baby,” Chelsea gasps, grabbing a tissue from the box on the nightstand. She drops onto the bed beside Georgia and presses the tissue against her cheek before turning her scowl toward me. “I can’t do this anymore, Em. You have never shown any gratitude for the sacrifices I’ve had to make for you. You’ve stolen from me, and now you’ve physically assaulted Georgia. The police can deal with you.”

“The police?”

She stands and brushes past me. “You’re not my problem anymore.” I follow her into the kitchen where she picks up her phone from the table. When she taps a few numbers and brings the phone to her ear, I realize she isn’t joking.

Fear dissolves my anger. “Chelsea, wait. I’m sorry. Georgia provoked me, but I shouldn’t have lost my temper like that. It won’t happen again. You don’t have to bring the cops into this. Please.” I feel sick having to beg her, having to plead with this woman who’s made me scrub toilets, do Georgia’s laundry, lie to the various men she’s always stringing along, and then demand my gratitude for the privilege of doing all these things for her. But it’s only for a few more months. Then I’ll be eighteen, school will be done, and I can make a plan to get out of here. But if the police get involved, who knows where I’ll end up.

“No,” Chelsea says. “I can’t believe you’re making me do this, but I have no choice now. I have to protect my daughter.”

“Chelsea, please. Protect her from what?” I step closer, clasping my hands together beneath my chin. “I swear I’ll never—”

“You’re going to end up as crazy as your mother,” she snaps, “and I don’t want you in this house when that happens.”

I reel back as if she slapped me.

“Hello?” she says into the phone, turning away from me. “Yes, um, please can you send someone to—”

I bolt past her toward the back door.

“Hey, get back here!” she yells as I tug the door open and run.

But I don’t go back. And I don’t stop running.