Neighbourhood Watch Rhonda Mullins (my reading book TXT) 📖

floor …

Louise sits down. A weak fuck on her lips. Then, head in her hands, cries. Cries for the stupid corn on the floor, the ruined shepherd’s pie, the goddamn violin pissing her off – why does it piss her off? – cries for her ugly, ruined life, the smacks she’s received, the shit she’s eaten, her daughter who’s messed up because she’s fucked everything up, even the goddamn shepherd’s pie …

‘Mom?’

Louise is bawling, her head in the onions.

Roxane cleans up the corn from the floor.

Sits beside her mother.

‘It’s okay, Mom. It’s good without corn too … ’

‘Noooo.’

‘Yes, it is … ’

Loud sobs move in waves along her back.

Roxane puts her hand over them, rubs her mother’s shoulders.

A long pause.

Louise slowly lifts her head, sniffs.

The two women look at each other.

Mirror.

Don’t fuck up like me. Don’t fuck up.

Roxane stands up, takes the meat out of the freezer, gets out the bag of potatoes, sits across from her mother, hands her a knife.

‘First you need potatoes.’

Louise wipes her eyes, pulls a potato toward her, starts peeling it.

Roxane does the same.

Louise and Roxane cut potatoes in silence. Sometimes they lift their heads and look at each other.

* * *

‘Reptile and slow … ’

‘Turtle! Turtle!’

The real point of the game is to answer with your mouth as full as possible.

‘You got it!’

‘Yesssssss!’

Watching a crappy game show hosted by a guy who smiles too wide, they eat their shepherd’s pie without corn and too much ketchup and it’s really good.

* * *

Salvation Army.

Marc in his small bedroom.

A mickey on his table less than three feet from him – a bitter oasis. Marc closes his eyes. He’s hot. He’s cold. He takes a deep breath.

The wood cracking, the wind blowing, the comforting fire – the ocean – its smell reaches him. Feeling alive. He misses it all so much.

Don’t do it.

Feeling his feet on the ground somewhere, feeling part of the world.

Don’t drink, you idiot.

Marc is trembling.

The boat on the window ledge.

Think of his dreams – come on. His house in the woods on the edge of the cliff perched over the proud sea.

Feeling alive.

His entire body, resisting, trembles from desire and crushing fear.

Don’t drink.

Don’t drink.

* * *

Roxane holds the phone in both hands, tight, as if she might drop it.

‘Hi, Dad?’

‘( … )’

‘Good. You?’

‘( … )’

‘You sound tired.’

‘( … )’

‘Are you moving out of there soon?’

‘( … )’

‘Oh.’

‘( … )’

‘Hey, Dad, tomorrow’s my concert. You didn’t forget, right?’

‘( … )’

‘Yeah, tomorrow. You’ll come, right?’

‘( … )’

‘Yeah, I can’t wait!’

‘( … )’

‘Lots of pieces.’

‘( … )’

‘Why now?’

‘( … )’

‘Okay.’

Roxane puts the phone down on her bed and sets the violin at the base of her neck. She plays for her father.

* * *

The violin is nice; maybe one day she will play too. Romantic music or music from some movie about the olden days, where people dance in a big room with big dresses and potential lovers while outside a war is starting. Or something like that. She could ask Roxane to show her the notes. She may be weird, but she’s good. She can really play.

Mélissa roots through a big case, takes out some lipstick. Red red red. She likes that one.

‘Fuck!’

The lipstick breaks in her hands; she has red grease everywhere. They say it’s made with seal blubber … Dying on an ice floe to end up on a girl’s lips. Not such a bad fate, really.

She runs her index finger over the red and spreads the colour over her lips. She wishes her lips were thicker. Smutty lips.

They already look better with the red.

Her mother would have wet her finger and wiped away the stuff outside the lines.

But she’s not here.

Black now. Around her blue eyes it looks tough. She looks like a rocker.

Her hair is bugging her. She has baby hair. Too soft. They’ll never believe her.

She pulls it back. A ponytail. Like her mother.

That’s better.

There’s no long mirror, so she sees herself only in little bits, detached pieces.

She slowly moves the little mirror over her face. Her big blue eyes are made up with very black black, top and bottom. Her cheeks are pink on her pale face. Her mouth is red and shiny. She looks a bit less like a kid … Anyway, it should be fine in the dark.

She keeps moving the mirror around. She has on her mother’s little leather top. And underneath, fake tits. Stuffed with pads. It works.

The skirt is a bit too big, but still sexy. The nylons aren’t great; they have runs. But in the dark, no one gives a shit.

Slowly she brings the mirror down to her shoes. It’s the black shoes that make it. Shiny. High. Real shoes. Meg’s shoes. Her shoes now.

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11

Steve and Kevin are walking side by side. Kevin takes twice as many steps to keep up with his father’s. He likes walking beside him.

They get to the pawnshop at the corner.

‘Bye, Dad.’

‘Bye.’

Steve quickly adjusts his son’s toque. Takes out his keys, goes into the store.

Turns on the lights.

Knock knock. Turns around.

Kevin presses his face up against the window, makes a funny face.

‘Hey, you’re getting my window all dirty!’ Steve smiles. ‘Get out of here. Scram!’

Kevin takes off running.

The pawnshop window is spotless, and a cleaner is carefully mopping between the piled screens where a hundred times over Superman saves lives that count. He bends over, pulls the plug. Everything goes out.

Steve wrings out the mop with one hand and keeps cleaning.

* * *

Roxane ties a red scarf around her head. Like Anastasia.

She leaves a few tendrils of hair showing.

Pretty. She thinks she is pretty. Her long dress hangs down to her shoes. She has lengthened her eyelashes with mascara. It’s the first time. She has smoothed her short hair with gel and even put on perfume from the little bottle in the bathroom. Pretty. She thinks she is pretty.

She picks up her violin case just to see what she looks like with it.

The dress, the shoes, the violin.