“No.”
“You can wear one of my shirts until we get you girl clothes.”
“No,” she says, still bouncing.
I grab her midjump and hold her still. My big hands grip her too tightly. I’m barely in control of myself. If she weren’t here, I’d smoke pot until my edge softened. Maybe drink until I passed out. But those aren’t options, and I feel myself spiraling.
Pixie stares fearfully at me first, then she balls up her fists and looks ready to hit me. I don’t know what she sees on my face. Instead of attacking, she throws her arms around my shoulders and hugs me.
“Your heart is too heavy,” she says, nuzzling my throat. “Something hurt my grand sequoia.”
When her gaze meets mine, I try to explain what’s happening in my head. No words come out. She can’t understand how much my grandparents hated me. Her family loves each other dearly. I see all the warmth in her eyes when she mentions any of them, even her stepdad. No way can she comprehend the kind of disgust my family felt for me.
But Pixie does understand I need her to do as I say. I don’t know why I carry her to the bathroom. She feels good in my arms, and I get to touch her without seeming like a sick freak.
All my thoughts are dark now. I see my big, ugly hands on her soft, innocent skin. I struggle against the urge to hurt her. If I do something fucked up, I can prove everyone right about me. I am evil. Nothing will ever change.
But I don’t hurt Pixie. When I set her down in the large master bathroom, she turns away and investigates. Her reaction to her reflection digs me free of the darkness. Only a little, but it’s enough to get me to turn on the shower.
“No,” she says, seeing the water. “The government place had one of those.”
“It’s like rain. You’ve danced in the rain, right?” I say through gritted teeth.
Pixie ignores my tone. She has no idea how close I am to hurting her. I haven’t felt this on edge in a long time, and there are no easy outs for me tonight.
“There’s no music,” she says.
I nearly snap my phone in half as I dig it from my pocket and find the music app. Each song that she frowns at only sends me deeper into a dark hole.
Finally, I start “The Seashores of Old Mexico,” and she smiles at the light plucking of the guitar. I remember how she prefers softer music like bluegrass and the folky stuff. This country song by George Strait inspires her to sway around the bathroom.
Then she proves just how much of a gazelle she is in a world of predators. Without a care in her pretty head, Pixie quickly strips out of her clothes and runs into the large stone shower.
I should look away. But Pixie’s so carefree, dancing around under the rain showerhead. She even laughs when the soap bar flies free of her grip and bounces around the stall.
Her light heart acts as an antidote to my grandparents’ nagging voices in my head. I’ll never be good enough for the people who raised me. If Pixie’s right about alternative realities and living new lives, I’m sure my grandparents already hate me something fierce in their next story.
But those fuckers aren’t here right now. Pixie is, and I’m her only ally in the outside world. I need to calm down and find a way to be worthy of my flower child.
PIXIE
Anders doesn’t like naked people. He eyeballs me in that strange way of his when I finish in the shower and walk out on his slippery floor. He hands me a towel and looks away. Does he not want me to smell like him?
“Are you shy?” I ask, drying off with the soft towel. “Does naked scare you?”
“You’re a girl. This isn’t normal.”
“What’s wrong with it?” I ask, looking down at my wet body. “Is there a part you don’t like?”
“Are you trying to make me crazy?” he growls like a big blond bear.
“First, you say to take a shower. Now, you get angry about the shower. You’re like a squirrel with a broken tail.”
Anders exhales deeply. “I’m a man,” he says, gritting his teeth. “I think you’re beautiful. And you’re fucking naked. That makes me want to touch you.”
“Then touch me. I already told Mama that my heart belongs to you.”
The anger in Anders’s handsome face disappears, leaving him looking like a scolded little boy. I move toward him, thinking a hug will fix his broken heart. He just walks out of the bathroom.
“Bears have claws,” I whisper to myself while drying off. “They can slice you up with the slightest effort.”
My heart burns with wild emotions after Anders’s strange behavior. I walk to the bedroom, where he hands me a shirt while keeping his eyes on the wall.
“Put on this one.”
“Is this yours?”
“Of course. I don’t have other people here.”
“Not even Bronco?”
“Why would he come to my bedroom?”
“I don’t know. I don’t have a bedroom. What do people do in here? Just sleep?”
“Yeah,” he mutters, walking out of the room.
I slide the shirt over my head and then run to the bathroom to see how I look in the mirror. The fabric hangs every which way and reaches my knees. Anders’s shirt is my dress.
After the soda drink, my energy remains high, but my stomach rolls angrily. I walk to the kitchen, where Anders stands with his arms crossed and a pout on his face.
“You need a hug.”
“Stay away from me.”
“Then take me home.”
“I can’t.”
“Do you want to?”
Anders’s blue eyes study my face. Then he lowers his head and shakes it. “No.”
“Can I have a treat?”
“Dinner’s on its way.” Anders walks to the room with all the seats and then throws his hands up. “I should have asked Jena to bring you clothes.”
“Is Jena your sister?” I ask, crawling onto the couch and stretching out.
“I don’t have any sisters. Not that I know of. My dad might have made kids with other women he fucked. I don’t know. It doesn’t matter. Stop asking me questions.”
I just watch him and listen to the music playing from the box near the ceiling. “Your house smells good.”
Anders frowns at me like the people do at the Village when I’m bad. He wants to punish me.
Then he shakes his shoulders and sighs. “Thanks.”
“Why are you sad? Is it because I got water on your floor?”
“No. I want you, but you’re a little kid.”
“No, I’m not,” I say, rolling my eyes. “I have all the grown-up stuff like Mama.”
“So does Dove, but she’s not a grown-up.”
I think of my sister. “No, but she isn’t a kid either.”
“She’s a teenager.”
“Am I a teenager?”
“I don’t know.”
“What does it matter?”
“If you’re a little kid, then I’m a gross weirdo for wanting to touch you.”
Smiling, I stretch out on the couch until my toes touch one end. “I’m not a little kid.”
“How old are you?”