"Lackey, Mercedes - Born To Run" - читать интересную книгу автора (Lackey Mercedes)

“Okay,” she'd said hurriedly, “I believe you.” And didn't bother to tell him that it didn't matter to her if he was gay or straight. Her father had referred to one of her Fine Art Appreciation teachers as “queer as a football bat,” and she'd always liked him. What mattered was that Jamie was careful; that he made sure all his johns wore rubbers, the way she did, and that he stayed safe. That he didn't start on heavy drugs, like the kids in the other room.
Because she'd seen what happened when you got hooked. Especially the guys; they wound up going to a pimp, one who'd keep them stoned all the time and take all their money, and when they got stoned, they weren't so careful anymore.
Laura wasn't much better about taking chances. When Tania did anything besides in the guy's car, she never went anywhere with a guy except a motel room, and then she'd meet him there, and if he wasn't alone, she'd leave. She wouldn't do kinky stuff, either. Laura did things Tania never would; Laura took chances all the time.
But Laura was a lot tougher than Tania.
You'd have to be tough to take what she did. Getting raped by your stepdad, then thrown out of the house for telling . . . her mom saying she was a slut, and that she lied about it all. . . . I guess she figures she hasn't got a lot to lose. Except Jamie, I guess.
Laura spilled the same story every time she came home drunk, which was about once a week, even though she wasn't more than sixteen. Jamie didn't talk about his past. Tania figured it must have been worse than Laura's; sometimes she'd wake up and hear Jamie crying, hear Laura comforting him. She'd seen him nude a lot, and there were scars all over his body.
Tania was getting all wrinkly, like a raisin; she got out of the water reluctantly, and pulled the plug. As she watched the water run down the drain, making a little whirlpool, she remembered the PBS show bit about how you could tell what hemisphere you were in whether the whirlpool ran clockwise or counterclockwise.
Gravity, Coriolis forces . . . her life was running out like the water. It was so hard to think of anything but the next trick, hard to plan past making the rent.
She used to have dreams, plans. When she first ran away, she was going to get a job, maybe learn to be a model . . . or get into a tech school and learn computers . . . or maybe see if her art teachers were right about her being good at drafting. These days, she watched the SCAD students with a kind of dull hatred. They had it all, and they didn't even know it. How dared they pretend they were so tortured, so tormented by art? They didn't know what torture was.
Torture was coming home with cigarette burns on your arms, like Laura; having scars all over your body, like Jamie.
Torture was running fifteen blocks with a guy chasing you, hoping you knew a way to get away from him before he beat you up and took your money. Torture was not having enough to eat, ever; worrying about getting kicked out onto the street because the junkies in the next room couldn't afford their share of the rent.
Tannim had talked about having dreams. What had happened to hers?
She pulled on an oversized t-shirt and curled up in her blankets, waiting for the others to get home. Next week was the end of the month and the bookstores would strip books of their covers, turn in the covers for credit, and pitch the stripped pages into the dumpster. There might be some fantasy or science fiction in there, if she got there early enough. There had been, last month.
If she couldn't live on her own dreams, she'd take other people's. That would do. She thought again about that black-and-white TV she'd seen for ten bucks at the Goodwill store; maybe she could get it with a little of the hundred dollars. . . .
Meanwhile she'd wait for Laura and Jamie to get home, make sure they ate the food she'd brought, make sure they were all right.
They were all the family she had.

She must have dozed off, because she woke up with a start to the sounds of the kids in the other room coming in, all three together, higher than anything. Joe and Tonio were all over each other, and Honi kept telling them to hush in a voice louder than their giggles. Tania didn't know if Honi was a boy or a girl; Honi had awfully big hands and feet for a girl, and a prominent Adam's apple, but she never wore anything but tight black skirts and pumps and fishnet hose out on the street—and this grubby old bathrobe with tatty marabou trim at home.
Joe and Tonio were, according to Jamie, “queer as football bats.” Odd that Jamie and her father used the same expression. They said they were lovers, but whenever they got drunk—as opposed to high—they beat each other up something awful. Laura and Jamie ignored them, but Tania always stayed hidden in bed when they started on each other that way.
She glanced over at the other bed, almost by reflex, and saw one lump in it, with long, fire-red hair. Laura.
“Jeezus, ah wish the hail them queers'd take it outside,” came a loud groan from the lump. Laura had deliberately made it loud enough for the others to hear, and Tonio just giggled harder.
“But baaaby it's cooold outside,” Joe shrieked, and by the thump, fell onto the sleeping-bags he shared with Tonio. The overhead bulb went out in the other room, leaving the harsh light from the cracked ceramic lamp in the corner of their room as the only source of illumination.
Laura sat up, shaking her hair out of her eyes, and peered through the doorway into the other room. “Weahll, theah goes the rent,” she said glumly. Tania pulled her blankets back and sat up too, her heart sinking.
But then Laura took a second look. The trio in the other room were already snoring. “Or mebbe not,” she said thoughtfully, and slipped out of her bed to creep quietly into the other room.
She came back with a handful of something. “Damnfools didn't spend it all, this tayhme,” she said grimly. “Got thutty from Tonio's pants, foahty from Honi, an' twenny from Joe. I got foahty put by. How 'bout you?”
Tania dug into her purse and came up with Tannim's five twenties, handing them over without a qualm. After all, she didn't have to worry about eating for a while.
Laura looked at her with a dumbstruck expression on her face. “Whut in hail did y'all do, gal?” she asked. “Ah found the sammiches. You go to a pahty, or didja get a delivery kid?”
Tania giggled, and shook her head. “No,” she said, and the story of the strange guy in the bar spilled out under Laura's prodding. But to her surprise, Laura wasn't pleased.
“Jee-zus!” the girl finally exploded, tossing her tangled hair over her shoulders. “Whut in hail didja thank you was doin'? This ain't no fairy tale, girl! Man don' give away money foah nothin'! You ain't gonna go back theah, are you?”
“Not while he's there,” she replied, resentfully. “But the tab's real, Laura; I saw the charge slip. I think we oughta eat it up before he changes his mind—”
Laura wasn't convinced, and she scowled, then interrupted her. “That's 'nother thang, now ah'm glad I didn' eat them sammiches—he prolly put dope in there. First taste is free, but—”
“Laura, they came straight out of the kitchen. He didn't touch them! Kevin Barry's is straight-edge, you dummy, they wouldn't do anything like that!” At Laura's continued scowl, she added, “Besides, I already ate one, and it was okay.”
“Jeezus,” the older girl said explosively. Then, “I reckon it's all right. But don' go near him agin, you heah me? He's prolly a pimp, all that crap 'bout dreams and do-good bull. Only dreams man like that has come in white powdah, or lil' brown rocks. He jest wantsta get you off, get you stoned, an then he's got you.”
Tania sighed, and bowed her head in acquiescence. It would have been nice to have somewhere to go for help. She had vague memories of a dream, where Tannim was some kind of warrior, in leather and blue jeans, and he fought monsters to protect her. . . .
But this wasn't a fairy tale or a movie; Laura was right. Nobody gave money away for free, and dreams had a way of vanishing when the rent needed to be paid. Laura was nibbling tentatively at a corner of one of the sandwiches, as if she expected to bite into something dangerous.
That much was real, anyway. Food today, and food for the next week or so, and just twenty more dollars from Jamie and the rent would be paid up.
“Where's Jamie?” she asked, and Laura stopped chewing. Her scowl turned to a frown of worry.
“Ah don' know—” she began, and then they heard the rattle of a key in the lock. From the sound of it, Jamie was having a hard time finding the lock.
When he stumbled through the darkened outer room, it was obvious why. He was even higher than the others had been. But this was a manic kind of high that made Tania sick inside. There was booze on his breath, but that wasn't all.
Crack. He's been smoking crack.
She sat in dumb silence, while Laura scolded him out of his clothes and into bed, holding out one of the remaining sandwiches. But even she went silent at the sight of rope burns on his wrists.
“Whut happened?” she asked, after a long pause. Jamie laughed and snorted.
“I did a party, baby. There was a birthday, and I was the favor. They got a little rough, but they made it up to me.” He snatched at the sandwich she held, and devoured it before she could say anything; dove into the bag and got the cookies and ate them, then the second sandwich.
How? With dope and booze? Or did he get that after?
“How many?” Laura asked, finally, flatly. He gave her an owl-like stare, as the food made him sleepy.
“I don' know,” he replied, his words slurring. “Four. Five. I wanta sleep.”
“Did you make 'em use rubbers?” she snarled, as he lay down. When he didn't respond, she shook him. “Answer me, dammit! Did you?”
“Yeah. Sure. I'm gonna sleep now.” And he pushed her away. He didn't so much fall asleep as pass out.
Frantic now, Laura scrabbled through his pockets, turning them out on the cargo-blanket and pawing through them. A pocket-knife, a butterfly-knife, assorted change. Keys. Three crumpled twenties. Gum wrappers and half a pack of gum.
Three condoms.