are women’s clothes.
I expect to feel different. Lighter, happier, better, something other than nothing, but I don’t.
In my bedroom, I dig through the plastic bins and pull out some shorts, slide them on, then right as I’m about to head toward the kitchen to get the phone, a loud pounding on the door stops me in the middle of the hallway. I lean against the wall and peek around the corner. Through the crack of the green curtains in the living room, there are red and blue lights.
That’s impossible.
No cops are ever out this way.
I don’t have time to answer the door because someone kicks it in. I cover myself, the courage gone, replaced by the boy who pissed himself in the bed.
“Houston Police Department!” a cop yells, followed by a stampede of footsteps. The steps come closer until I see a pair of boots in my line of sight. “Hey, I got a kid here!” the police officer shouts over his shoulder to his partners. He squats, and his knees pop. “You okay, kid? Does Jeremy Cooper live here? Can you tell us anything?”
Don’t make a sound.
“I know you must be scared. You’re safe now. Look at me. Let us help you.”
“There’s a dead body back here!” another voice booms from Uncle Jeremy’s room.
I whimper, shake my head, and start to rock.
“Do you have something to do with that?” he asks. “Your uncle was involved in some pretty shady things, kid. You aren’t in trouble here. I just need you to talk to me.”
I can’t.
I lift my head and meet his eyes.
“Holy shit,” he hisses and clicks the button on his radio that’s attached to his shoulder. “We need an ambulance to…”
I tune him out when I see an officer coming out of my room holding my journals. I run toward him and try to yank them from his hold, but the cop that called the ambulance holds me back. All I do is grunt and shake my head, pleading with them not to open the journals.
They hold all of my secrets.
“Did Jeremy Cooper do this to you?” the man opens my journal to the middle and flips through page after page, showing images that I drew.
Pictures of what Jeremy did to me.
“Did he do this?” the same man asks, waving his hand over my body.
I nod.
“Jesus Christ, we knew the guy was fucked up, but we never knew he had a kid.” He seems guilty, like he should have known better.
Maybe he should have. I don’t know.
“You’re safe now. We’re going to get you to the hospital. We’re going to find you a good home.” The officer that called the ambulance stands in front of me, taking the place of the cop holding the journals. His name tag says Lionel. I reach for his arm and squeeze it tight, trying to tell him that I don’t want to stay with strange people.
But I can’t get the message across because I can’t make a sound.
Present day
There is nothing like the smell of old books. Flipping the worn, discolored pages sets my soul on fire. I love the ink embedded in the paper. Someone’s mind came up with an idea, and letter by letter was written until the story was complete. It’s fascinating.
We have a book by Emily Bronte, but it was published under Ellis Bell, and it’s titled ‘Wuthering Heights.’ It’s from 1847, the original publication date. It’s a freaking classic. Everyone needs to read it.
I’m not allowed to touch the book. No one is. It’s on display, safely guarded in a glass box, flipped to the title page.
It’s unfair. It’s like my boss enjoys tormenting me. Imagine a kid going through a toy store and their mom says, “Don’t touch that. Keep your hands to yourself.” It’s like that, but much worse.
One page.
That’s all I want. I only want to flip one page, and my life will be made.
And only the manager’s key can open the gosh darn box. I’m only an Assistant Manager.
“Daphne, step away from the glass box,” Andrew, my boss says from the front desk. He isn’t even looking at me. He’s indexing a new arrival of books.
“I’m not even near it.” I stretch my leg behind me and take a big step back, nearly running into the bookshelf where all of the non-fiction reads are.
Blah. Non-fiction is my least favorite. Who in the world wants to read something real? Real life surrounds us every day. If I want to read a book, I want