PART ONE
poppy
chapter one
Clean sheets. That’s what I’m dreaming about when something wakes me up. I groan, swearing. Sleep is the only time I have to myself—the only time I’m free from the motel and the other girls in it. The sound grows louder, people coming up the stairs outside the room.
I force my eyes open. It’s still dark, but there’s always a sliver of light that comes through the window—neon blue from the vacancy sign, and yellow floodlights. Shadows pass, strobing the light. It’s too late for business. If Mitch let us go to bed, it has to be not much before dawn. We’re his nighttime girls.
I took some pills earlier, after the last john left, so maybe I’m imagining things. Mitch came by and gave us all a little “treat.” I’d been greedy. I’m always greedy when it comes to my medicine, and Mitch spoils me. I’m his favorite—he told me.
There are six of us on the second floor of the motel. The manager gave Mitch a deal on the rooms for a cut of his take—and a piece of each of us. I wonder if that’s what this is, the slimy piece of shit coming to get a little somethin’ somethin’ before work.
There’s a crash, followed by a scream. I sit up, head swimming. Fear takes hold, sobering me. I crawl out of bed, stagger to the other one. Ivy is out cold. I shake her shoulder—it’s bony. Too bony. “Wake up. Ivy, wake the fuck up.” How can she sleep with all the screaming?
“Poppy?” She clutches at my hand. “What’s going on?”
“I don’t know, but you need to get up and put some clothes on.” She’s naked. I’m in a tank top and my underwear. I stumble to the dresser we share and pull out a pair of jeans that should have been washed days ago. I tug them on, fastening them low on my hips. I grab a sweater and shove my feet into a pair of sneakers. Behind me, I hear Ivy getting out of bed, the sheets rasping against each other.
More screams. I run—lurch—to the door and try to open it, but the manager locks us in after the johns leave. Most of us have nowhere to go even if we were straight enough to run, but every once in a while a girl tries to take off. They never get far before they turn around and come back on their own. Mitch has that effect on us.
“What is it?” Ivy asks as she stumbles into a pair of jeans. Her voice is slurred, her eyelids barely open.
“I think it’s the cops,” I say. Either that, or it’s a rival of Mitch’s. I don’t want to think about what’s going to happen to us if that’s the case.
The door to our room flies open. I jump backward, putting myself between whoever it is and Ivy. The cops. We stand there watching them like cornered dogs, beaten and meek. We know the drill. Don’t say nothin’.
“Are you girls okay?” a woman cop asks. She’s tall with long, curly hair and dark skin. Beyoncé wishes she were this beautiful.
“We ain’t done nothing wrong,” I tell her. “You can’t arrest us.”
She gives me a funny look. “Honey, we’re not here to arrest you. We’re here to get you out of here.”
“Yeah? Where you gonna take us?”
“The hospital, then home, if we can.”
I snort. Home. Yeah right.
She holds out her hand. “Come on. You can’t stay here.”
Ivy clings to me as we inch toward the door. As soon as I cross the threshold, I start to run. Ivy’s feet tangle with mine and we go down, hitting the cement walkway hard.
Ivy grunts. There’s blood on her lips. A male cop hauls her up, carries her away.
“Hey!” I cry.
“Da fuck?” someone yells. I smile at the sound of Daisy’s voice. She’s gonna fuck somebody up. “Get off the floor, you stupid bitch.”
I push up onto my hands. The female cop takes my arm and pulls me up.
“Ow!” My left ankle doesn’t want me to stand on it.
“Lean on me,” the cop says, putting her arm around me. Her hand is on my ribs. I wait for it to creep higher, but it doesn’t.
My foot really hurts. I should have grabbed my pills. What am I going to do when these wear off?
“What’s your name?” the woman asks as we begin walking. She’s taking a lot of my weight, but she doesn’t seem bothered by it.
“Poppy.”
She smiles a little. “Your real name, sweetie. So we can let your parents know you’re okay.”
I’m not sure my mother would even care. “Alexa,” I tell her. “Alexa Marie.” It doesn’t feel like mine anymore—it belongs to someone else.
“You’re safe now, Alexa. You’re going to be okay.”
I laugh. Who does she think she’s talking to? She don’t know shit. “Bitch,” I say. “We ain’t never going to be okay. Never.”
* * *
They say I’m safe. I don’t feel safe. My skin itches and twitches like bugs are crawling underneath it. I’ve left fingernail scratches on my arms from trying to get to them—long, raw furrows in my skin that felt so good at the time, but burn like hell.
I’m in the hospital. Why doesn’t Mitch rescue me? Why doesn’t he come take me home? He’s a bad guy, they tell me. I know, but he’s my bad guy. He’s all I got.
“How long have I been here?” I ask the nurse, but she doesn’t seem to hear me, because she doesn’t answer. It has to have been a while. I don’t feel right. I need my medicine.
My clothes are gone. I’m wearing a thin cotton gown that smells weird. I’ve been photographed, poked, and prodded. They swabbed my mouth and got me into stirrups so they could swab down there too. They said they were going to check me for STIs, and would I consent to a pregnancy test? Sure. If I am pregnant, I want it out of me.
So many tests. So many questions.
“You okay, baby?” the nurse asks.
I want to ask her if I fucking look okay. “No,” I say instead, scratching.
Her lips form a thin line and she nods, like she understands. “I’ll see what we can do to take the edge off.” She leaves the room, but she’s back in a few minutes. She gives me a cup of water and a little paper cup with pills in it. I don’t even ask what they are, I just flush them down my throat and start counting the seconds.
“Give me your arm, honey,” she commands. She has a tube of lotion that she rubs into the scratches and dry patches. It feels good, takes away the sting and itch.
“You’re pale as milk,” she comments. “Skin that delicate needs to be protected.”
I don’t know what to say, so I stay quiet.
“I’ll be back later to put some more on, okay?”
She smiles at me, and tears burn in my eyes. I blink—hard. No one is going to see me weak.
I’m watching cartoons on TV a little while later when another woman comes in. This one’s wearing pants and a blouse and carrying a bag big enough to hold a small child. She has curly blond hair and blue eyes.
“Hello, Alexa,” she says. “My name is Jill. I’m with DCF. Do you know what that is?”
“Yeah,” I reply. They came by to talk to Mom once when I went to school wearing the same clothes three days in a row and didn’t have lunch.