Stray
Page 87
Good thing I wasn’t vain. Much.
Ryan flipped the switch, and Abby gasped, stil staring at my face. Evidently the light was unflattering. Even without a mirror, I understood her alarm. In the weak overhead glow, I saw the swollen edge of my cheek at the bottom of my vision, like a purple half moon on the horizon. “It looks worse than it feels,” I said, wondering if that was even possible.
“Good, because you look like shit.” Ryan stared at me from the bottom step, again holding two fast-food bags.
“You should see the other guy.”
“I have. Miguel’s furious. He’s been stomping around for two hours, cussing in Portuguese and making everyone else miserable.”
At least there’s an upside. I smiled at the thought of Miguel’s mutilated face.
“You should have listened to me, Faythe,” Ryan said, coming to a stop in front of my cage. He dropped the food on the ground and reached through the bars to turn my face toward the light, inspecting my injuries with his brow furrowed in concern. “He’s talking about replacing you.”
My pulse jumped. “Does that mean I get to go home?” Please, please, please let that mean I get to go home. But I knew better.
“Hardly.” He tilted my face to the right. “He and Sean are going after another girl first thing in the morning. If you aren’t a little easier to deal with when they get back…well, he won’t really need you then.”
I stepped back, jerking my chin from his grasp. If he was real y concerned about me, he’d do something to help instead of lecturing me on acquiescence. “Just say it, Ryan,” I snapped, angry over much more than my brother’s inability to say exactly what he meant. “Just say he’ll kill me.”
He bent over to pick up the bags, too much of a coward to meet my eyes.
“Yeah. He might. I don’t think he’d do it on purpose, but you have this way of bringing out the worst in people…” Ryan shrugged, leaving the rest to my too-fertile imagination.
My throat felt thick as I swal owed, ignoring his insult in favor of his actual point. Death marks the end of pain and humiliation, but captivity only marks the beginning of it.
Ryan shoved a paper bag through the bars of my cage, but I stood in front of him with my arms crossed beneath my breasts, refusing to accept it. “Take the food, Faythe.” He shook my dinner as if it were a box of Nine Lives, but I just stared at him. “Fine.” He opened his fist and let the bag drop to the ground.
I didn’t even glance at it, choosing to glare at him instead. Ryan rolled his eyes at me and marched toward Abby’s cel . He slid her bag into the cage, seeming first surprised then pleased when she took it with no resistance. “Now, see? Abby’s being cooperative, so why can’t you?”
“I have to go to the bathroom.”
“So, go.” He waved his hand at the empty coffee can.
“You’re not listening.” I didn’t bother to screen irritation from my voice. “I want to go to the bathroom.”
He shrugged. “I couldn’t help you even if I wanted to. I don’t have a key.”
Oh, shit. I’d forgotten. “That’s right. Miguel doesn’t trust you.”
“Look, pee if you need to, and I’l empty the can for you. That’s the best I can do, and pissing me off isn’t going to change anything. Unless I decided to let your can sit for a while.”
Okay, he had me there. The situation wasn’t going to improve, so I might as wel get it over with. Glowering, I bent to snatch the canister from the floor. “Turn around.”
“Happy to.” He turned with his back to the bars, and I glanced at Abby. She sat facing the back wal of her cage, chewing something crunchy. Ryan huffed impatiently. “You’ve done this before, so hurry up.”
“Yeah, well, the indignity of peeing in a can wasn’t something I thought I’d ever have to repeat.”
“Just get it over with,” he snapped.
I did, and briefly considered making them both plug their ears. But that would have only emphasized my embarrassment. I used another napkin from the burger bag to wipe, and dropped it into the can too. A girl has her standards, even behind bars.
Carrying the container to Ryan was an exercise in degradation. “I’m going to write to my senator,” I said, trying to cover my humiliation with sarcasm. “These prison conditions are appal ing.” I slid the coffee can through the bars to Ryan, and he took it with both hands.
“Your senator. That’s good. While you’re at it, tel him my salary is below the minimum wage, and my hours are inhumane.” He carried the can through a doorway beneath the stairs, which presumably hid a smal bathroom. I heard the toilet flush and smel ed vanil a-scented soap as Ryan washed his hands. When he returned, he sat on the floor across from the empty cage, facing both me and Abby.
“I don’t suppose you have any hand sanitizer?” I said, holding my palms up for inspection.
“Nope. Sorry.” He shrugged.
“There’s a wet wipe in your bag,” Abby said, now facing me with a half-eaten chicken breast in one hand.
“Thanks.” I rummaged through the bag until I found it, careful not to touch the food. Ripping open the little foil package, I cleaned my hands as wel as I could, even wiping off the last flecks of Miguel’s blood. Then I dove into my meal. Two fried-chicken breasts, potatoes and gravy, a half ear of corn, and a biscuit. No butter, no salt. “It’s not as good as Mom’s but hardly reason to complain,” I said around a mouthful of chicken. They’d even given us silverware. Well, plasticware.
Ryan flipped the switch, and Abby gasped, stil staring at my face. Evidently the light was unflattering. Even without a mirror, I understood her alarm. In the weak overhead glow, I saw the swollen edge of my cheek at the bottom of my vision, like a purple half moon on the horizon. “It looks worse than it feels,” I said, wondering if that was even possible.
“Good, because you look like shit.” Ryan stared at me from the bottom step, again holding two fast-food bags.
“You should see the other guy.”
“I have. Miguel’s furious. He’s been stomping around for two hours, cussing in Portuguese and making everyone else miserable.”
At least there’s an upside. I smiled at the thought of Miguel’s mutilated face.
“You should have listened to me, Faythe,” Ryan said, coming to a stop in front of my cage. He dropped the food on the ground and reached through the bars to turn my face toward the light, inspecting my injuries with his brow furrowed in concern. “He’s talking about replacing you.”
My pulse jumped. “Does that mean I get to go home?” Please, please, please let that mean I get to go home. But I knew better.
“Hardly.” He tilted my face to the right. “He and Sean are going after another girl first thing in the morning. If you aren’t a little easier to deal with when they get back…well, he won’t really need you then.”
I stepped back, jerking my chin from his grasp. If he was real y concerned about me, he’d do something to help instead of lecturing me on acquiescence. “Just say it, Ryan,” I snapped, angry over much more than my brother’s inability to say exactly what he meant. “Just say he’ll kill me.”
He bent over to pick up the bags, too much of a coward to meet my eyes.
“Yeah. He might. I don’t think he’d do it on purpose, but you have this way of bringing out the worst in people…” Ryan shrugged, leaving the rest to my too-fertile imagination.
My throat felt thick as I swal owed, ignoring his insult in favor of his actual point. Death marks the end of pain and humiliation, but captivity only marks the beginning of it.
Ryan shoved a paper bag through the bars of my cage, but I stood in front of him with my arms crossed beneath my breasts, refusing to accept it. “Take the food, Faythe.” He shook my dinner as if it were a box of Nine Lives, but I just stared at him. “Fine.” He opened his fist and let the bag drop to the ground.
I didn’t even glance at it, choosing to glare at him instead. Ryan rolled his eyes at me and marched toward Abby’s cel . He slid her bag into the cage, seeming first surprised then pleased when she took it with no resistance. “Now, see? Abby’s being cooperative, so why can’t you?”
“I have to go to the bathroom.”
“So, go.” He waved his hand at the empty coffee can.
“You’re not listening.” I didn’t bother to screen irritation from my voice. “I want to go to the bathroom.”
He shrugged. “I couldn’t help you even if I wanted to. I don’t have a key.”
Oh, shit. I’d forgotten. “That’s right. Miguel doesn’t trust you.”
“Look, pee if you need to, and I’l empty the can for you. That’s the best I can do, and pissing me off isn’t going to change anything. Unless I decided to let your can sit for a while.”
Okay, he had me there. The situation wasn’t going to improve, so I might as wel get it over with. Glowering, I bent to snatch the canister from the floor. “Turn around.”
“Happy to.” He turned with his back to the bars, and I glanced at Abby. She sat facing the back wal of her cage, chewing something crunchy. Ryan huffed impatiently. “You’ve done this before, so hurry up.”
“Yeah, well, the indignity of peeing in a can wasn’t something I thought I’d ever have to repeat.”
“Just get it over with,” he snapped.
I did, and briefly considered making them both plug their ears. But that would have only emphasized my embarrassment. I used another napkin from the burger bag to wipe, and dropped it into the can too. A girl has her standards, even behind bars.
Carrying the container to Ryan was an exercise in degradation. “I’m going to write to my senator,” I said, trying to cover my humiliation with sarcasm. “These prison conditions are appal ing.” I slid the coffee can through the bars to Ryan, and he took it with both hands.
“Your senator. That’s good. While you’re at it, tel him my salary is below the minimum wage, and my hours are inhumane.” He carried the can through a doorway beneath the stairs, which presumably hid a smal bathroom. I heard the toilet flush and smel ed vanil a-scented soap as Ryan washed his hands. When he returned, he sat on the floor across from the empty cage, facing both me and Abby.
“I don’t suppose you have any hand sanitizer?” I said, holding my palms up for inspection.
“Nope. Sorry.” He shrugged.
“There’s a wet wipe in your bag,” Abby said, now facing me with a half-eaten chicken breast in one hand.
“Thanks.” I rummaged through the bag until I found it, careful not to touch the food. Ripping open the little foil package, I cleaned my hands as wel as I could, even wiping off the last flecks of Miguel’s blood. Then I dove into my meal. Two fried-chicken breasts, potatoes and gravy, a half ear of corn, and a biscuit. No butter, no salt. “It’s not as good as Mom’s but hardly reason to complain,” I said around a mouthful of chicken. They’d even given us silverware. Well, plasticware.
