Juilliard or Else (2 page)

God, I hated cats.

I turned down the stereo in the living room and walked into the kitchen to get a beer from the fridge. When I opened the fridge door, it smelled as if something had died in there because of all the rotting food. Mold contaminated a full loaf of bread; I don't know which revolted me more – the rotting food smell or the loaf of bread that had just gone to waste.

When I was a kid, that bread would have lasted me at least a week. When my dad left us, my mom stopped trying to take care of me. I taught myself to make peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for my main meal of the day and wash my own clothes in the bathtub. Sometimes it was days before I could eat because she went on a drug spending spree. Now sitting here in the fridge was a loaf a bread, just fucking rotting away.

Out of anger and pure disgust, I slammed the door shut, causing the fridge to rattle and bang into the wall behind it. I stalked my way to my mom's room and turned the doorknob, but it was locked. I banged on the door with my closed fist and yelled for her, but no one answered… no sounds… no movement. I tried again...nothing.

With my hands clenched in fists, I yelled, "I'm gonna break down the damn door if you don't answer!"

Nothing.

"Mom!" I pounded on it again, hoping Skinner or my mom would finally answer.

I hated to cause more damage to this shithole of a place and have Skinner bitch at me for more money that I didn't have…or so I told him. I banged on the door once, but no one answered. Grabbing the doorknob, I slammed my body into the door. It gave away fairly easily and I watched as the door fell back into the wall, barely hanging by its broken hinges.

My mom, who was beautiful at one point in her life, was motionless; her body was sprawled out on the bed in her dirty pink nightgown, which just barely covered her body. Her eyes were closed as Skinner crouched over her right arm.

Heat blazed my face as I saw the rubber strap wrapped tightly above her elbow. Skinner was drawing a needle out of the vein from the crook of her arm. He whispered to her, "Sleep now, baby girl," and then kissed her cheek.

I walked over to her in two short steps and pulled her nightgown down to cover her more modestly. "Damn it, Mom." I pulled on her free arm but she didn't move. I expected her eyes to flutter open, but when she was high like this, she never opened them. I looked up at Skinner, who was now injecting the same crap in his own arm, using his belt and the same damn needle he just injected into my mom's arm.

Shit!

He inhaled a rush of air and looked up at me. "Now that's some good shit."

I watched as his eyes rolled into the back of his bald head. He deeply exhaled and opened his eyes to look back over at me. I just wanted to punch him in his stupid fucking face for always doing this to my mom…to us. So what did I do? The answer was simple; I punched him in the face.

He didn't even see it coming. I reached over my mom, grabbing the front of his white shirt, and punched him straight in the nose. Blood sprayed across my gray sweatshirt and onto my mom's pink nightgown. The punch didn't even faze Skinner because he was so out of it. All he did was smile in my direction with his nose dripping blood. And it covered his teeth, which for some reason pissed me off even more. So, I punched him again and he fell backwards on the bed, and then landed onto the floor. My mom stirred and mumbled something; I tried to shake her awake, but nothing happened.

"Damn it, Mom, every time," I yelled, hoping she would be her old self and talk back to me for yelling at her.

I heard groans coming from the opposite side of the bed and Skinner stumbled to his feet. He dabbed his face and glared across the bed at me. "Did you hit me?" he asked through clenched teeth.

"No. You're a clumsy ass who fell off the bed," I said, turning to leave the room, but Skinner grabbed the cowl of my hoodie, tugging me backwards and spinning me around in the process so I would face him directly.

"You hit me!" he yelled, while spitting blood in my face. I quickly wiped away the splattered blood with my sleeve.

I shoved him hard off me, but he came back swinging, hitting me in the jaw. I heard and felt a pop in my head. Skinner tackled me with a blow of his shoulder, slamming me back through the open door of the room and into the wall in the hall. The wind burned from my lungs and I could hardly breathe.

"You fucking hit me, Tucker!"

Now more than ever, I was really angry. I could feel the rage boiling through my veins; my face burned and my heart started to race faster. "You fucking hit me, too!" I shoved at his shoulders to release the hold he had on me. He stumbled back into the room and fell on his ass, his head hitting the metal bed frame as he went unconscious.

I fixed my sweatshirt and made my way towards the front door. I couldn't stay another damn minute with that jackass; he was a loser. I locked up the apartment and went back down the crappy stairs. I banged on the manager's door and waited for him to answer. Bouncing with rage, I felt like I was going to explode. When he finally answered, he looked at my bloodied hoodie and shook his head.

"Skinner is causing problems again," I said through gritted teeth. Then I started explaining what had happened.

He shook his head some more. "Your problem, Tuck," he told me, then slammed the door in my face.

Shit!

I raked my hands through my long brown hair. Normally, he would call the cops to get Skinner to leave the building; I guess Sam was done helping me and my deadbeat drug addict mother.

Finally leaving the dirty building, I decided to take the subway and two buses to get to Central Park to a little hideout I always hung around. Some of my friends that I'm not proud of hung out there with me. I'll admit that they're not good people, but it's where I belong. They felt more like brothers to me. They came from the same outskirts as I did and always understood my problems with Skinner. Pulling out a fresh pack of cigarettes from my back pocket, I grabbed one and lit it up. Smoking was a bad habit – something I wished I could break, but never could. I sucked the tobacco down in record time and flicked my butt in the street.

Of course, in the main part of the city close to Central Park, cabbies honked their horns non-stop. So when I crossed the street and a cab honked at me, it was an instinctive reaction to flip him off. I kept my head down as I walked down the street; the cold air turned warmer with each passing hour, but out of habit, I pulled my hood up and decided to take a shortcut through an alleyway…and that's when I saw
her
.

A car with the darkest tinted windows was parked up against the curb, and a girl like no other was standing next to it. Suddenly, an urge came over me to watch her – to stay still. Everything about her looks screamed innocence as she stepped away from the black
Bentley Mulsanne
.

My eyes took in her pale skin. Her blonde hair was pulled back in a tight bun thing that girls do. She wore jeans that clung to her body with black boots that made her legs look twice as long, and a black leather jacket. I was too far away to know what color her eyes were, but whatever color they were, I'm sure they were perfect. I could clearly see her smile from the alleyway; it was simple, yet wonderful. It brightened up her pale face.

When she walked toward the moving truck, I felt like I could hear every step her black boots made against the asphalt. One of the moving men met her at the back while the rest opened up the big lift and handed each other pieces of furniture.

Everything screamed out to me in a rush of words:
spoiled, rich, snob, brat, daddy's girl,
but I brushed it off. She was the most gorgeous girl I'd ever seen. What was a guy like me doing, checking out a high class rich girl on the Upper East Side of town? And in Central Park West, no less…I had no idea.

She moved back to the
Bentley
as a window was rolling down. She was speaking to whoever was inside, and for some reason this bothered me. Whoever was in the car didn't show much respect to the vision of this beautiful girl I was looking at. They should have walked her to the door of her new place in New York, or at least made sure she had a key or something.

As she stepped away from the car, it sped off. She was alone now with a big purple bag in one hand, just staring at the back of the
Bentley's
taillights. She walked over to the three movers and pointed up to an apartment in the building. The man spoke to her and nodded. She looked back up the street to where the
Bentley
was disappearing around the corner.

Looking up towards the sky in the morning light, she inhaled a deep breath and began smiling like at that very moment, she didn't have a care in the world. She was too breathtakingly beautiful, even for her own good. I couldn't help but stare.

Turning, she lowered her head, the beauty of her neck stretched gloriously around as she looked down the alleyway. I couldn't tell if she saw me. Most of my body was behind a dumpster, and my gray sweatshirt hood covered my head, but I swear I saw her innocent little smile curve up on the corner of her mouth before she turned back to the movers who were starting up the stairs to her new apartment.

"
YES!" I screamed out as I jumped up and down, scanning the letter again for the hundredth time.

Dear Miss Abigail McCall,

We would like to take this opportunity to welcome you to The Juilliard School of Dance for Ballet. Enclosed is your dance schedule and apartment information.

Those were the most wonderful words that I'd ever heard concerning my future. Not only was I accepted into the most prestigious dance school in New York, I was also leaving the parental units' nest. With my letter in hand, I immediately left my room, looking for my mother.

When I found her, she was in the kitchen, shadowing our maid Isabelle. She always made sure to do everything perfectly because my mother was constantly watching her every move. Considering my mother grew up with the
"
proverbial silver spoon" in her mouth, she'd watched my grandmother hover over their maid the same way. I didn't want to follow in either of their footsteps. Simply put, I wanted to live my own life and my dream was finally coming true.

After applying and being denied twice by Juilliard, I figured why not apply again…third time's a charm, right? As luck would have it, I was right. I knew my mother was going to be thrilled I'd finally been accepted…or so I thought.

Rushing to her side, I beamed a smile. "Mother, I got in, I finally got in," I said, pretty much screaming the announcement as I jumped up and down, flinging the acceptance letter in her face. I looked over her shoulder towards Isabelle, and she had a big smile plastered on her face for me, sending me a secret congratulations.

"Abigail! That's not how a young lady presents herself in a room," she scolded, her blue eyes narrowing. "You should be ashamed. Have I not paid enough for your etiquette schooling?" she spat out, hands on her hips, waiting for me to answer her in a more proper manner.

"Mother," I started, choosing my words very carefully as I repeated my announcement. "I have been accepted into The Juilliard Dance program for Ballet," I said more calmly this time while handing her the letter. She snapped it from my hand, almost giving my palm a paper cut as she scanned it over, her face completely impassive.

"Stand up straight," she mumbled towards me, her diamond wedding ring shimmering as I pulled my shoulders back, fixing my posture.

With hands in front, legs erect, spine perfectly straight, I stood there just like I was taught. I stared at her, waiting for a response. She and my dad paid top dollar for my schooling and even etiquette classes on the side, so I knew posture was the key in garnering her full attention and hoped it worked this time.

My mother was a gorgeous woman with short blonde hair that framed her face perfectly and ocean blue eyes. She only wore cream, tan, or beige colored outfits, but occasionally black to a fancy charity event or black tie dinner with my dad.

As I stood there waiting, a memory from when I was ten years old flooded my mind. I had passed a classroom full of ballerina dancers. It was amazing. My eyes watched their long arms stretching gloriously in front of their bodies, circling and bending at their knees. Their feet were delicately wrapped in ballet shoes as they balanced on their toes, wearing their pink leotards with matching tutus. They were gorgeous, moving rhythmically in formation with each other. It was then that I found my passion in life. I wanted to be a ballerina; I wanted to dance to music and make songs that much more beautiful for the eyes and ears of others.