1
Langston
Five Years Old
“Langston!”
My name booms through the small house, rattling my tiny frame as I lie on the floor of the kitchen, staring up at empty cabinets. I wish these cabinets were filled with food, any food, to soothe my aching belly. I’d even take broccoli.
I don’t know why my father has to yell so loudly. Our house is a tiny one-bedroom, one-bathroom, with a galley kitchen and a couch for a living room. My father could whisper in the house and I would still hear him.
I stop daydreaming about a stocked kitchen and pull myself up into a standing position. My bones pop and creak like an old man as I stand. It takes all of my willpower to walk into the living room where my father sits with a beer. He’s staring up at the barely still working TV, watching some football game in between skipping channels.
I walk solemnly in front of him. There is only one reason my father calls my name. It’s better to do what he says or my fate will be worse. Giving in means the pain will end faster.
My three foot nothing body stops in front of my father. I don’t speak, I know better than to do something that idiotic.
“I told you to take out the trash,” my father says.
“I did, but—” Why did I open my mouth?
It doesn’t matter that the trash doesn’t fit in the trashcan, and the trash company won’t take any extra bags outside the designated can.
“It reeks in here! You didn’t take out the trash like I said.”
Smack.
My body is already prepared for the impact as his hand thumps across my cheek. I hold back the tears, knowing I just have to hold on until I’m no longer in his sight before I cry. Crying gets me beaten worse.
“Take out the trash now! Before I beat your ass until you can’t sit for a week.”
I run into the kitchen and yank the lid off the trashcan that is almost as tall as me, before using both of my hands to pull the bag out. It gets stuck—probably a liquor bottle my father jammed into the can.
I sweat and grit my teeth to keep from making a sound, to keep the tears inside. If I let them out, I’ll end up with a broken bone. I do everything I can to get the trash bag out myself.
Finally, the bag comes free, knocking me off balance. I fall back to the ground, the bag landing on my lap. It smells like canned tuna and sour beer.
I wrinkle my nose.
I can feel my father’s stare. I scramble to my feet, heave the bag up with my two tiny fists and carry it out the front door. Once outside, I can take a breath. Father won’t care how long I take; he just wants me out of his sight and the smell gone.
I let the bag fall to the ground, dragging it down the front stairs and down the driveway until I reach the full trashcan.
I consider my options: leave the bag next to the trashcan and get in trouble when the trash company doesn’t pick it up, or find another way to get rid of it.
I look at the house across the street that also has its trashcan out on the end of their driveway. It doesn’t look like it’s overflowing.
Maybe mine will fit?
It’s worth a shot.
I drag my bag across the pothole-riddled street, hoping the bag doesn’t rip. The bags we use aren’t the durable kind; they’re the kind that tears if you jostle the bag the wrong way. There is a high probability I’ll leak trash all over the street—then I’ll really get my ass whooped.
By some miracle, I make it to the neighbor’s trashcan without a significant rip. I lift the lid off their can—there’s room!
I heave my trash bag up…
“What are you doing?” a girl says.
I drop the bag at the sudden voice, and it lands in the trashcan. I snap the lid shut.
I look over at the girl crouched behind a bush, which must be the reason I didn’t see her when I walked over. She’s covered in dirt. I can’t tell if those are freckles on her cheeks or just more dirt under her hazel eyes and shoulder-length blonde hair. The only thing girly about her is her pink shirt with a picture of a pony wearing a tiara on it.
“Disposing of a body,” I say, wondering how she’s going to respond. I figure if she calls her parents or the police and tells them there’s a body in the bag, the relief when they discover no body will bode better for me than the truth.
I also expect my words will get rid of her faster than the truth.
I don’t expect her to cock her head, her eyes to light up, and a smile to lift her lips.
“What are you doing?” I throw her words back at her as I cross my frail arms in front of my body.
“Hunting.”
I raise my eyebrows. “Hunting what? I don’t see a gun.”
Her eyelashes flutter at that, but she’s not afraid. You can’t be scared to grow up on a street like ours.
“I don’t think a gun would help me.”
“What are you hunting?”
“A spider—I think its home is out here somewhere, but it keeps coming into my room at night.”
I’m intrigued by this girl who hunts spiders.
I look back at my house. I should go back.
And do what?
I don’t have any toys.
I don’t have any food.
This girl will be a good distraction.
“I’ll help you,” I say.
“I don’t need your help.”
“Have you found the spider yet?”
“No.”
“Then you need my help.”
“Fine, but you have to do what I say. I’m the one in charge.”
I smile. “Deal.”
I walk over to where she is now crouched down again, examining the outside of a window where there are cobwebs scattered across the corner of the window.
“So, what does this spider look like?”
“He’s big and black and has a red spot on it.”
“And where did you see this spider?”
“It crawled on the floor by my bed last night. He scared the crap out of me. I’m going to find him. I think this is his web he uses to catch other bugs, and then he goes inside to sleep where it’s warm.” She points to a web along the windowsill.
“Uh-huh. What makes you think this web belongs to the same spider as the one you saw last night?”
That gets her thinking. “I don’t know. Let’s go inside and see if we can find a web there.”
I nod and follow her into her house.
She starts crouching down in the living room.
“Where is your bedroom? Should we start there?”
She stops and looks at me with eyes that could kill. “This is my bedroom.”
“Oh.” She doesn’t have a bedroom, either. She’s just like me.
“Is that a problem? Can we not be friends because I don’t have a bedroom? I’d like to see your bedroom then if you are too good for me.”
I smile. I like how strong she is. She isn’t embarrassed that she doesn’t have a bedroom.
“Why are you smiling?”
“Because I sleep in the living room, too. I don’t have my own bedroom either.”
She smiles. “That’s what I thought.”
“Do you have any siblings?” I ask, sometimes kids have to share their couch with other kids.