Neighbourhood Watch Rhonda Mullins (my reading book TXT) 📖

Eh?’

No answer.

Steve kicks the door, walks away.

In the bedroom the gunfire starts up again even louder.

семь

7

Violin notes travel through the wall. It’s pretty.

Mélissa, naked, is kneeling in front of the washing machine, her little piece of paper unfolded. She is following the instructions to the letter. She would wash the whole world’s clothes, her little paper in front of her, her mother’s voice in every gesture. She doesn’t even need to try to smell the perfect scent of lost Sundays.

* * *

The big room at the end of the hall. When Roxane walks to her violin class, she walks fast. Practically flies. There’s always sun in the room.

Her seat: always in the middle of the others, up front. She doesn’t need to hide or run away here, so she leaves the window seat to someone else. ‘Hello, sir’ to the teacher who is setting up the music stands in his spotless white shirt. ‘Hello, Roxane.’

The other students come in slowly. The bows take flight, music comes to life, and Roxane along with it.

In this room, at this moment, she is like the other kids. And she wants everyone to know.

‘That’s good, Roxane. You’re good.’

‘What?’

‘You’re good.’

* * *

Mélissa sits in front of the bathroom mirror. Makeup is spread out around her. She applies colour to her face, then her cheeks, lips, and eyes.

With a voice growing steadily less childlike, she talks to herself as she concentrates on her transformation.

‘Hidden behind it … no one can see you anymore … Where is Mélissa?’

She stares at herself in the mirror.

‘Not here.’

* * *

With her long, skinny fingers her chipped red nails there is no woman left there’s nothing there but bones wearing makeup. She opens a new letter left in the crack in the road, mailbox for scum.

‘Come home, Mom.’

Sniffs.

Swallows.

Crumples the paper. Throws it in the gutter.

* * *

‘Mom, there’s going to be a concert.’

‘Huh?’

‘At my school, there’s going to be a concert.’

‘Oh. You want to go?’

‘Uh, no. I’m playing in it.’

‘You’re playing in it?’

‘Yeah, me and a lot of other kids from school, you know, the normal classes.’

‘I see.’

‘There’s going to be guests.’

‘Who?’

‘Well, parents.’

‘Oh.’

Silence.

‘You going to come?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Mom, you have to come. You’re my guest.’

‘I’ll come. Yeah, I’ll come.’

* * *

Steve in the doorway, TV in his hands.

‘I got no choice, Kev.’

Kevin stares at him.

Steve looks down at the floor. Leaves.

A gaping hole in the apartment: there’s no screen left.

Kevin is frozen in the middle of the living room. Escape is no longer possible.

* * *

Kelly in a hoarse voice on her piece of cardboard:‘Got any change, mister?’

Steve from behind his TV: ‘What do you think I’m doing here?’

Steve heads into the pawnshop.

* * *

A corner of the schoolyard. Screams. Two children ripping at each other’s skin with their nails, sinking their teeth into one another, crying together and at each other, hating each other for everything that surrounds them.

Kevin fights, rage in his gut for all that he isn’t.

A teacher cuts through the little jungle and grabs Mélissa by the collar as she keeps spitting in every direction. She’s screaming she’s going to kill someone, kill everyone, she is crying and choking. She goes down the hallway, held up by four solid arms.

On the ground, Kevin wipes the spit from his face with the back of his sleeve. His nose is bleeding.

Roxane goes over to him, holds out her hand. Kevin gets up on his own.

He wipes his bloody nose. Spits at Roxane’s feet and takes off.

• • •

The principal, looking annoyed, lips pinched, holds the phone and lets it ring.

‘There’s no answer.’

‘He’s at work, I’m telling you.’

Mélissa holds a facecloth with ice in it to her forehead.

Her feet are swinging, she wants to take off.

‘Where does he work?’

‘Deliveries.’

‘Where?’

‘Deliveries.’

‘He does deliveries?’

‘Yes.’

‘Of what? Where?’

‘I dunno.’

‘You don’t know. Okay, you’re going to have to help me here, Mélissa, if you want this to turn out well for you.’

‘Potatoes.’

‘Sorry?’

‘Delivers potatoes.’

‘He works in a restaurant?’

‘Yeah. But I dunno which one.’

Silence.

Mélissa gets up and takes off running.

* * *

‘Roooooooox! That’s enough!’

The bow stops. Suspended in scrolls of smoke.

Silence.

In the living room, the television. A game show with people who are winning. Lucky.

The bow gently returns to the strings. Play quietly, so quietly.

A ti. The bow like a wave over the notes, a silent ti so as not to bother anyone, a do that answers quietly, a so that stealthily follows, the whole piece like that, suspended, notes in her head, above the winners, above the smoke, above the world, above the shit.

* * *

Mélissa slows her pace.

On her way, she leaves a note in the crack in the gutter. The one from last night isn’t there anymore. She looks across the road. Not one girl. They’re all busy. It’s cold outside, and guys want a little loving.

There are no prostitutes for little girls. Sucks.

восемь

8

Day breaks on Rue Ontario.

Kelly thinks it mightn’t have bothered.

* * *

Roxane is standing up tall in the entrance, her coat on.

‘Hey, you can’t leave me all alone like this!’

The ruins of a woman in a bathrobe, talking with eyes closed.

‘Mom, I have to go. I said I would go.’

‘Christ, I need you right now.’

She can’t dry out alone.

‘I’ll be back later.’

‘No! Anyway, it’s freezing outside. Stay here, Roxane … Please … Mommy needs you … ’

Roxane goes down the stairs.

‘My whole body hurts!’

Roxane leaves because her father is waiting for her. Her mother’s voice echoes in her stomach all day.

* * *

He looks rough.

Sitting at the end of the bed, his pants too short and his wool sweater full of holes.

He’s too big for the bedroom. Looks like a kid being punished.

The walls are yellow, the bed tiny, but it takes up the whole room. There’s a table where he’s put his ashtray and piles the Journal de Montréal, then three shelves with a box of cookies, pictures, and Roxane’s drawings.

He’ll be holed up here for a few more