Dying for Rain Read online

  I set the jewelry box down beside me and reach for the pink rectangle with wide eyes and shaking fingers. The plastic sticks inside rattle when I pick it up. Opening the box, I notice that one of the tests is missing. I know Mama was pregnant for a while back when I was a kid, but she lost that baby after a bad fight with Daddy. She told me it was God’s will.

  I knew better.

  I check the expiration date. Then, I blink and check it again.

  These tests aren’t twelve years old. They’re current.

  “Oh, Mama. What did you do?” I whisper, tears blurring the date on the side of the box.

  Whatever that test told her, it went with her to the grave.

  Like mother, like daughter, I think, sliding a stick out of the box.

  I flip it over and read the instructions, noticing that it says this brand can detect a pregnancy seven to ten days after conception.

  God. Wes might actually be right.

  His words echo in my hollow soul as I wander over to the toilet.

  “She’s pregnant,” he’d announced, cupping my belly, his eyes shining with sorrow and pride.

  I couldn’t process those words at the time. I was too busy watching my entire world crumble at my feet. Too busy dismissing it as just a clever tactic to keep me from taking his place. But as I wait for the results—loading bullet after bullet into the magazine of my daddy’s gun, even though I only need one, just to give my shaking fingers something to do—I think about what he said again.

  And realize that I never got my birth control shot in April.

  I never even thought about it. The world was about to end, and my boyfriend—ex-boyfriend—had just left for Tennessee.

  But then I met Wes.

  And the world didn’t end.

  It was handcuffed and ripped out of my arms instead.

  I slide the clip back into the handle and take a deep breath. The gun is heavier when it’s fully loaded, both with the weight of the bullets and the weight of what they could do. But when I pick up the plastic stick lying on the counter, when I read those eight letters glowing on its digital screen, it feels even heavier than the gun.

  PREGNANT.

  I lift my head to look at my reflection in the mirror above the sink, but I don’t even recognize the girl staring back. Short black hair. An inch of blonde roots. Pistol in one hand. Positive pregnancy test in the other. And a dark, desperate madness in her sunken eyes that I haven’t seen since the day my daddy put a shotgun in his mouth.

  I drop both the test and the gun into the sink and take a step backward with a gasp.

  You’re pregnant, the girl in the mirror whispers to me.

  “Honey, we’re home,” a voice calls from downstairs.

  Rain

  Mrs. Renshaw’s cheery voice from downstairs spurs me into action. My jeans are too tight to stick the gun in my pocket, so I tuck it into the back of my waistband, replacing the one Mrs. Renshaw stole. I shove everything else back inside the cabinets and shut them as quietly as I can. Then, I turn off the lights and dart across the hallway to my bedroom. I find what I’m looking for on the floor by the closet, right where I left it—Carter’s oversize Twenty One Pilots hoodie. I pull it on and sigh in relief when I see how well it hides the pistol.

  “Rainbooow!” This time, it’s Sophie’s voice I hear.

  Guilt seizes my chest when I think about what she might have found up here if …

  I push those thoughts out of my mind and try to clear the emotion from my throat. “Hey, Soph!” I croak out, testing my fake smile. I go to tell her that I’ll be down in a minute, but before the words can form in my mouth, I hear the clomping of eager footsteps flying up the stairs.

  “Rainbow!”

  I barely have time to spread my arms before I find myself being tackle-hugged by my favorite ten-year-old. I expect her to begin chattering away about how she got here, but instead, she buries her face in my sweatshirt and bursts into tears.

  “Hey … what’s going on?” I smooth my hand over her long braids and pull her tighter.

  “I’m just … I’m just so happy.” She sniffles, wiping her wet eyes on the soft black cotton. “I didn’t think we were ever gonna get outta that place. I didn’t like it there. There were no beds and we had to shower in the rain and the big kids were so mean. And then your friend beat up Carter and took you away, and I was so scared.”

  Sophie lifts her little face and gives me a grin so big that I notice she’s missing at least two teeth. “But Mama knew what to do. She called the police, and they found you! And they put that bad man in jail!”

  Her hug lit a candle of joy in my heart, but her words blew it right back out.

  “When Mama came back, she said God was so proud of her that he blessed us with a new house and a new baby!” Her little overwhelmed eyes fill with tears again, and all I can do is hug her tighter so that I won’t have to look at them anymore.

  Instead, I have to look at her brother as his six-foot-three-inch frame fills my bedroom doorway. His shirt is splattered with blood. His lips and one eyebrow are split open. His left eye is swollen shut. His nose is puffy and slightly crooked, and his usual cocky swagger has been replaced by a dark thundercloud of anger.

  His one open eye narrows at the sight of me. Mine widen at the sight of him.

  “Is it true, Rainbow?” Sophie squeals. “Are you really gonna have a baby?”

  I hold Carter’s stare, feeling the same question hanging in the air between us. Then, I sigh and tell her the truth, “Yes, sweetie, I am.”

  Carter’s gaze drops to his sister’s back as he takes in those four little words.

  “Are we really gonna live here? With you? Forever?”

  “Of course we are, shrimp,” Carter grumbles through his mangled mouth, cutting me a warning glance. “Look.” His eyes dart to something over my shoulder. “Rain’s already got your bed ready.”

  Sophie and I both turn, and I’m shocked to discover that he’s right. The last time I saw it, my bed had a shotgun blast right through the middle, but now it’s covered in a pristine unicorn-mermaid-cat comforter. Wes must have gone next door and swapped out my mattress and bedding for Sophie’s. He mentioned that he was able to salvage some stuff from the front half of their house.

  I didn’t realize he’d meant a whole bed.

  With every step I take toward it, I feel closer to him. Closer and yet so much further away. I lift one knee and crawl onto the soft surface, my hand sliding across the place where a giant hole used to be. I lie with my back to my uninvited guests and pull the spare pillow to my chest. It doesn’t even smell like smoke.

  It smells like fabric softener.

  He even washed it.

  Closing my eyes, I surrender to my tears. The first ones I’ve let fall since he was ripped from my arms.

  Wes might be the one who was taken away in handcuffs, but I’m the one facing a life sentence. This house is my prison. This baby and that little girl behind me—they’re my wardens. As long as they’re alive, I’ll be here, suffering, because I can’t take the easy way out if it means causing them pain.

  “Rainbow? Are you crying?”

  “Nah, she’s just snorin’. Growing a baby makes you real tired. Why don’t you go tell Mama that your bed’s here? She’ll be so happy.”

  “Okay!”

  I hear Sophie stomp back down the stairs just before the door closes with a quiet snick.

  The hair on the back of my neck stands up as the floorboards creak under Carter’s heavy feet. I expect to feel the bed sag under his weight, but when it doesn’t, I turn and find him pacing back and forth across my matted carpet.

  His eyebrows are furrowed, his swollen lips move as if he’s mumbling to himself, and his long fingers are tugging on his overgrown black curls.

  I’ve never seen him so distraught. It makes me nervous.

  “How did you guys get here?” I ask, hoping to take his mind off of whatever has him acting this way.

  �
�My mom went back to our house, got my dad’s truck out of the garage, and drove to the mall to pick us up.” He shrugs. “Told us she was takin’ us home.”

  “How did your dad get to the truck with his broken leg?”

  “I pushed him in that rolly chair you gave him.”

  “And y’all didn’t see any Bonys?”

  Carter turns and glares at me with his one good eye. “Can we not do this?”

  “What?”

  “Pretend like everything’s fucking fine.”

  I sigh and roll onto my back, feeling my dad’s gun dig into my spine. “Fine with me.”

  Carter doesn’t say anything. He just keeps pacing, and I just keep staring at his battered face.

  “I’m sorry,” I finally mutter, not knowing where else to begin.

  “It’s not your fault,” he replies without taking his eyes off the floor. “Birth control is only, like, ninety-nine percent effective.”

  Wait. What?

  “I just … I’m not ready to be a dad.”

  Oh my God. That’s what he’s upset about? He thinks this baby is his?

  The thought seems absurd, but when I think about it, it’s probably only been about two months since Carter and I were together. Two months that feel like two lifetimes. That was back before his family packed up and left me in Franklin Springs without a second glance. Back when my parents were still alive.

  Back when my birth control shot was still effective.

  “You’re not gonna be a dad.” I sigh, trying not to roll my eyes.

  “I’m not?” Carter stops pacing and looks over at me again.

  I shake my head, bracing for the brunt of his anger when he realizes that the man who mangled his face is the same one who knocked me up. But instead, Carter’s split lips spread into a wide grin as he bounds over to give me a hug.

  “Holy shit, girl! You had me worried there for a sec. I’m so glad we’re on the same page! Listen, I got you. I’ll take you to the clinic, I’ll pay for the procedure, whatever you need. Just do me a favor and tell my mom you had a miscarriage, okay?”

  I’m stunned speechless as Carter squeezes me a second time.

  “Hey, boy!” Mr. Renshaw’s gruff voice calls from the bottom of the stairs. “Your mother says the highway’s clear all the way into town now. I’m goin’ on a Burger Palace run. You wanna come with?”

  “Hell yeah!” Carter fixes his one open eye on me and grins.

  That’s when I notice that he’s missing about as many teeth as his sister. Wes really did a number on him.

  Makes me love him even more.

  “Dude, I haven’t had a King Burger in weeks! You want one? Wait. Duh. Of course you want one. Pregnant chicks are always hungry. I’ll get you two!”

  Carter bounds out of my room, leaving the door wide open as I curl even tighter around the pillow in my arms.

  “Will you boys get a King Burger combo for me, a Big Kid box for Sophie, and—oh, what the heck? Grab us some milkshakes, too! We’re celebratin’!”

  “Mama, I found a DVD player! Can I watch a movie?”

  “Of course, princess! You can watch whatever you want! And while we wait for the boys to get back, Mama’s gonna go take a nice hot bath. Praise be to God!”

  I get up and close my bedroom door, locking it as quietly as possible before sagging against it and sliding to the floor. I stare at Sophie’s bed, standing in the spot where mine used to be, and realize that I don’t even have a home anymore.

  This is their house now.

  I’m just the ghost that haunts it.

  Wes

  The ride downtown has taken hours so far, thanks to all the roads that still haven’t been cleared. At one point, the cops pulled over and called for an industrial-sized snow plow to come and escort us the rest of the way in, which has given them even more time to talk about which steroids to use now that they’re legal and what the going rate for pussy is on the open market.

  I checked out of their conversation somewhere near the Mall of Georgia and have been staring out the window ever since. It’s a game I used to play on the school bus to take my mind off whatever the fuck had happened at my foster home the night before or whatever the fuck was gonna happen when I got to school that morning. I watch for road signs, streetlights, telephone poles—shit like that—and give each one a different sound in my mind. Telephone poles are the bass line. Bum, bum, bum, bum. Nice and steady. When a Stop sign comes by, it’s a hi-hat. Ching! Road signs might be hand claps or dog barks or fucking jingle bells—whatever. It doesn’t matter. What matters is that by the time I get to whatever shithole I’m going to, I’ve already forgotten about the one I just came from.

  But when the street signs morph into double razor-wire fencing and the telephone poles are replaced by watchtowers, the symphony in my head fades away. Now, all I can hear is the steady beat of blood rushing into my extremities. Fulton County Jail the words above the front entrance announce. Hell, even the building looks like it could stab you. Beige concrete with hallways jutting out in all directions like a twelve-story high asterisk. I’m sure the inside is even less inviting, but I wouldn’t know.

  I’ve never been to jail before.

  Not because I didn’t deserve it. Just because I never got caught.

  We approach the main entrance, but instead of pulling in and getting cleared by a guard, we drive right past the front gates. The guard stand is empty, and the gates are wide open.

  Then, I remember what that French bitch, the director of the World Health Alliance, said on the April 24 announcement.

  “In an effort to protect the law of natural selection going forward and to ensure that our population never again faces extinction due to our irresponsible allocation of resources to the weakest, most dependent members of society, all social services and subsidies are to be discontinued. Life support measures are to be discontinued. Government-provided emergency services are to be discontinued, and all incarcerated members of society will be released.”

  The jails are empty.

  “Where are you taking me?”

  “And if you pay her in hydro … ooooh-wee! She’ll do this thing with her tongue where—”

  I debate raising my voice and asking again, but then I realize that it doesn’t fucking matter.

  Nothing matters anymore.

  I turn and look back out the window. As I follow the razor wire with my eyes, a sizzle beat begins to float into my head. Like the sound of an electric chair being warmed up.

  A few turns later, just as the shiny gold dome of the capitol building comes into view in the distance, we encounter something I haven’t seen in weeks. Maybe months.

  Traffic.

  Cars are parked and double-parked along every main street and side street as far as I can see. Some aren’t even facing the right direction, and some are pulled right up onto the sidewalks—probably so their drivers can solicit the services of the naked ladies Officer Friendly and Deputy Dickface were talking about. That, or they’re buying drugs from the pop-up bong stands a few feet away. They definitely aren’t down here to window shop. Every store I’ve seen since we passed the jail has either been looted or burned.

  Downtown Atlanta feels like Times Square on New Year’s Eve—only instead of confetti, it’s raining ashes from a nearby car fire; instead of fireworks, you hear gunshots; and instead of wearing stupid plastic sunglasses and carrying inflatable noisemakers, the women aren’t wearing anything, and the men are carrying machine guns.

  The cops flip on their siren to try to get through, but nobody pays them any attention. Nobody, except for the working girls who turn and twiddle their fingers at their best customers.

  “Damn it!” The cop driving slams his palms against the steering wheel. “We’re gonna have to call Hawthorne again.”

  “I’m on it.” The cop in the passenger seat snatches the CB radio off the dash. “Hey, Sheryl. It’s Ramirez. Can you send Hawthorne to help bring us in? We’re on the corner of Northside Driv
e and MLK.”

  “Again? Don’t y’all know not to go that way?”

  “It’s blocked every damn which-a-way, Sheryl. Just send Hawthorne. I ain’t walkin’ this suspect ten blocks down MLK.”

  “Okay, fine. You don’t have to be so salty about it.”

  “And tell him to hurry up!” Ramirez slams the CB back in its cradle.

  Gunshots ring out in the distance, but like the siren, nobody on the street seems to notice.

  “They really need to get us a damn helicopter. This is bullshit,” Ramirez huffs, crossing his arms and shifting in his seat. His knee is bouncing so fast it’s making the car shake, and I realize that he’s jonesing for something.

  “Hey, I’mma go get a blow job real quick. You want anything?”

  “Come on, man. Hawthorne’s gonna be here in less than ten minutes.”

  “It’ll only take me five,” Ramirez sneers. As soon as he pushes his door open, white noise explodes into the car—a deafening mixture of hip-hop, techno beats, gunshots, car horns, dogs howling, women screaming, and alarm systems going off. But when Ramirez slams his door shut, it goes almost completely silent again.

  Must be the bulletproofing.

  “Fuckin’ dumbass,” Officer Friendly mutters under his breath.

  Opening the center console, he takes out a flask and unscrews the cap with a flick of his hairy-knuckled thumb. As he brings it to his lips, his eyes, shadowed by a Neanderthal-like brow bone, cut to mine in the rearview mirror. He takes a swig. Then, he turns to face me.

  “Want some?” he asks, holding the flask out and giving it a little shake.

  When I shrug, he chuckles, his meaty face contorting into something even uglier.

  “Oh, right. You’re a little tied up, huh?”

  Suddenly, something slams into the windshield, causing Officer Asshole to drop his flask and scramble for his gun. I look up to find a guy crouching on the hood of the car, peering in at us through the eyeholes of a King Burger mask. Skeleton features have been smeared onto it with neon-orange paint, matching the bone-like stripes spray-painted on his black hooded sweatshirt.