Music Girl

The morning I awoke in my mom’s little Boston house, I didn’t believe my eyes. It was a dream, too good to be true. There was no way I could have escaped that hell that Rachel had created. But here I was, lying on an old mattress and staring up to the cream-coloured ceiling. I rolled out of bed and walked to the bathroom.

My mom’s house was two stories. On the bottom floor was a living room, kitchen, and dining area. Upstairs were two bedrooms and a bathroom. The house had a cramped feeling that I certainly wasn’t used to, but it just felt homier. I failed to find words to describe it.

I showered and got dressed into a tank top and jeans. I walked downstairs to find my mom tying her hair up in a bun while waiting for her coffee to finish brewing. She wore a sort of restaurant uniform. “Um, going somewhere, Mom?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Oh good, you’re up. Sam, I have to go to work, so you7’ll be with Ms. K, alright honey?” she said as she poured a cup of coffee.

“Who’s Ms. K?”

“She’s my neighbor. You’ll like her, promise,” she said, taking my hand and leading me over to the house next door. It looked a bit bigger than our house, and maybe a bit more run-down, but that’s how all the houses around here were; small and not the cleanest.

My mom knocked on the door urgently, and there was an answer almost immediately. I gasped slightly at the woman standing there. She was at least six feet tall, and no skinny wimp. She could have knocked any man cold with one hit. Her massive amounts of black curly hair went simply everywhere, and her skin was the darkest I had ever seen in that it was almost a velvety black.

“Rebecca! So this must be your daughter,” the black woman said, peering down at me. She had a voice as smooth and rich as her skin. I shyly adverted my eyes.

“Willomena! Yes, this is Sam. I was wondering if you could watch her today, I’ve got to work until seven,” Mom asked, glancing down at her phone’s clock.

Willomena blinked and said, “Sure, that’ll be fine.”

“Thank you so much. I’ll repay you. Now Sam, be good for Ms. K, all right?” Mom asked me, kissing my forehead.

“Yes Mom,” I replied. Without further ado, my mom was gone and I was being swept into the house by Ms. K.

Despite how big the house looked on the outside, the living room was crammed FULL of books. Not electronic books, but honest, paper and ink books. My jaw dropped in awe. Never before had I seen so many real books. Not even in a library.

“H-how?” I stuttered out. Ms. K smirked and chuckled.

“I collect. As do my children.”

“You have kids Ms. K?” I asked as I attempted to navigate the piles and piles of books.

“In a way. I sort of adopted them. And please, call me Mama K. Everyone does… except, well, your mother. She’s stubborn.”

We finally made it into the kitchen. There were dirty dishes scattered everywhere, and at the round table was a girl of about seventeen or eighteen, writing something and sipping on a juice box. She had layered, long black hair with bright purple highlights, and she wore a black V-neck with slashes of colour on it, purple skinny jeans, and a black skirt.

“Miryah,” said Mama K, and the girl looked up. She had a silver eyebrow piercing and heavy black eyeliner around her hazel eyes. She gave me a quizzical look. “This is Sam, Rebecca’s daughter. Rebecca had to work all day, so Sam’s here. I’m going to go work on some blocking issues, so do you think you can get this cleaned up before the boys get home?”

Miryah nodded and said, “Sure Mama K.” With a smile, Mama K was off to another room, leaving Miryah and myself alone in the kitchen.

“What’cha writing?” I asked, only realizing after the phrase had left my mouth that that was probably a rude question. But Miryah just smiled and picked up the papers.

“A new song,” she replied, setting them in a neat pile in the center of the table. My jaw fell slightly.

“You’re a musician?” I whispered as if afraid the walls would hear me and take note. But Miryah just nodded and began collecting dishes for washing. “Isn’t that illegal for us? For… women?” At least, that was my understanding at the time.

“What’s something you really like to do?” Miryah asked, catching me off guard.

“Uh… reading,” I replied.

“And if the government or church told you you couldn’t read books anymore, you’d still do it, wouldn’t you?” Now I understood. She made a good point.

“But how do you not get caught?”

“I don’t play outside of the house. And if I do, I dress up as a guy,” she explained as she turned on the water and started washing dishes by hand.

I stood there awkwardly for a moment, and then asked, “Can I help?”

“Sure, you can dry.”

As I started drying, Miryah picked up the conversation again. “What’s with the bruises?” she asked casually, mentioning to my upper arm. Crap. I had forgotten about those. My heart froze momentarily as I tried to cook up an answer. But nothing came to mind but the truth, so I told her that.

“They’re from my dad’s girlfriend,” I said simply, as if they were nothing. But I flinched at the memory. Rachel had made sure to give me a particularly painful beating for me to remember her by.

Miryah’s eyebrows touched her purple bangs. “What for?”

“Oh, I don’t know. She just hates me. But it probably has something to do with the fact that I hit her in the face with a tea tray,” I said nonchalantly, trying to manage a smile. I don’t know why I was telling Miryah this. After all, I had only just met her, and my trust in humanity had been wavering lately, but… she just gave off this air of understanding and trust. So the words just slipped out of my mouth before I even knew what I was saying.

“I really don’t get it. When we first me, she was wonderful. And then she just turned…”

“Into a total bitch?” Miryah supplied.

“Yeah, that. And then, she started beating me and drugging me, and-” I paused for a moment to shiver. “And then she got my dad into it. So now I’m here.” Miryah’s eyes were narrowed now.

“That’s not right,” she muttered darkly. “That’s not right at all.”

There were a few minutes of nothing but the sloshing of water and the squeaking of the drying cloth on the plates. I was extremely surprised there weren’t a dish washer and dryer, because that’s what I had known all my life. And I had no idea if I was drying anything acceptably. But, then again, we were pretty much in the poor section of Boston, so I didn’t think it really mattered.

Miryah broke the silence. “But, you know, you’re not the only one,” she said, placing the last dish in the sink. “Who’s been abused, I mean,” she added when I sent her a questioning look. “Myself for instance; I’ve never known my parents. My earliest memory is wandering the streets when I was like three, and then Mama K found me and brought be here. She raised me. I haven’t the first clue about my parents, whether they’re dead or they just abandoned me.” She paused and her hazel eyes connected with my grey ones. “But you’re among friends now, so don’t worry. Here, you’re safe from the world.” These words comforted me more than anything else said to me in a long time.