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The snow began to fall on Tuesday, and by Wednesday morning we are sitting under four inches. The snowplows started early, and all of the roads were clean by the time the buses rolled. I ran out to the bus as it slowed in front of the trailer. I hated not having my bike for later, but the thought of riding in this crisp, frigid morning is more than I can handle. I walked from school to work, where I am working the register in the last twenty minutes of the day. Rob is out closing the buildings, and Mr. Billups is in his office, finishing up a deposit that he’ll leave at the bank drop on his way home. The door jingles, and a man comes through the door. He shakes his head and a spray of water spreads away from him. We are back to rain, frozen, slushy rain. Air catches in my throat, and my stomach clenches when I realize that there stands Warren, in all his glory. He doesn’t notice me and passes by me without even looking, heading into the store for whatever he needs.
He brings about two feet of plastic tubing to the counter for me to ring up. “Hey.” He smiles. His full lips spreading over neat teeth. Teeth that braces probably graced in times gone by.
“Hey.” I am stunned and startled by the current of electricity that is coursing through my body as he moves closer. “How are you?” I put aside my calculations and try not to meet his eyes.
“Wet.” He smiles more broadly. I let my eyes meet his, and there is nothing there, absolutely no recognition, nothing to tell me he ever met me. It’s been five, six weeks, and every day he has pounded into my mind, leaving me confused and embarrassed because of the way that he haunts me.
“How’s your Mom?” So he does recognize me. I am more confused than before, but then I don’t know what I had expected when I should see him again.
“She’s fine, doing good. How ’bout you?”
“Good. Been real busy.” I can see that he’s older than I first thought, probably in his late twenties, early thirties.
“I’m sure.” He is looking around the store. “You here alone?”
“No, there’s a couple of us left.” I indicate the one-way glass that lines the top of the building. Mr. Billups is up there, with the files, and I hope he is not watching this. I just want Warren to pay and be gone.
“You know, I’ve thought about calling you a couple of times, but didn’t know if I should.” His eyes soften, and he glances away, pulling bills from his jeans. I don’t bother to tell him he couldn’t have called because we don’t have a phone anymore. “About Christmas . . . I didn’t know he put something in that drink.” His voice drops to a hushed whisper, and his finger traces a small, freshly healed scar above his left eye. He’s trying to explain something, but I can’t seem to wrap my mind around it. My lips part to speak, but close again, dumb, not knowing what to say. I know that my cheeks are burning, the red creeping under my skin.
“You okay?”
“Yes. What are you talking about?” I look at his lips, then back to those storm-cloud eyes.
“Maybe I’m wrong. You just went down so quick I thought . . .” His voice trails off.
“What happened?” I remember the aching, the bruises on my hips, and the sore, bruised flesh between my legs. I had assumed that Warren was the cause of it all, that his were the hands I remembered running over my body. A sudden jolt of memory shows my hand being held at the wrist by a strong, tattooed arm, the black ink wrapping around the thumb. I glance down at Warren’s hands; his arms are un-inked to at least where the cuff of his shirt drops just below his elbow. A gorge of bile rises in my throat, and I cover my mouth with the sudden impulse. It’s not Warren who has tattooed hands; it is Cal. Oh God. I know my face has drained of color, and I feel small pricks of sweat under my hair all across my scalp. “Something in my drink?” I ask, keeping my voice steady.
“Yeah, like a ruffie, you know.” He smiles, nervous, almost whispering the word. “I had no idea, but you just went out so quickly, I didn’t think a drink would do that.”
“A ruffie?” I ask. My mouth falling slack. “It wasn’t you?” My voice is slow, controlled.
“God no. I don’t use that shit. If a girl doesn’t want to be with me, why would I want her?” That’s not really the question I was asking. But the back door breezes open, and Rob’s bulky frame wrestles through it. It’s the interruption I need to get my face under control, and I find my voice as Warren hands me the money. I don’t take my eyes off of his lips as I say coldly, “I have no idea what you are talking about.”
“Good,” He says, real relief on his face. “I was worried, you know.” His finger draws along the scar above his eye.
“How’d you get that?”
He blows a puff of air from his nose, a laugh, a snort. “Oh, he was waiting for me when I locked you in. Knocked me cold, man. He may not look like he’s much, but he’s got a mean hook.”
“He hit you?”
“Yeah. A couple of times.” He nods. “Then he picked my ass up and threw me out of the house.” He isn’t too proud to say this, and I like him a little more for it.
“Wow,” I say.
“He’s a tough bastard.” Now it is his turn to shift uncomfortably as Rob passes the register. “Maybe I’m wrong. I’m wrong. I just assumed, you know. Why else would he kick my ass like that?” He sighs, still looking worried, confused.
“Yeah. I just slept. You know, I don’t drink, and I hadn’t eaten much that day. It must have just hit me hard.”
Warren lets loose a deep breath, and the relief that etches across his face is stark. “I’m so glad.” He reaches out and touches my hand, letting out another deep breath. I hand him his change, and he steps back from the counter. Running his hand through his wet hair. “See you around, Alison?” I nod, and he nods, then turns and heads to the front door.
“Damn, it’s getting cold out there.” Rob shakes his head, much like Warren had when he came in. Warren is passing through the door, and a whoosh of air races through the building until the front and the back doors both fall shut. A nervous, out of control laugh breaks from me, and I hold the counter for support. I must make some sound, and laughing is better than crying, and crying is better than screaming, which is what I really want to do. “What’s so funny?” Rob asks, still shaking his head, water dripping from his chin.
“Nothing, just a joke. Such a joke.” I pull myself together before I fall into a full bout of hysteria, the bile churning in my stomach. How can I go back there? How can I go back to my home and risk seeing him again? How can I ever look at my mother again? She has kicked him out; he’s gone, I remind myself but feel no better. Does she know? Sudden flashes of memory flood me, the words outside my door, the banging against it—that would be Warren falling into it when Cal attacked him. I close my eyes and see a vision of Cal’s hand holding my wrist, then a single word hissed into my ear. “Whore.” I lean over the trash can and vomit into it.