Jeannie tosses her thick black hair as we leave the school building. We wander carefree through city streets in sweltering heat as we head back to our apartment. Street grime coats our skin and sweat soaks our tank tops under our armpits and between our breasts.
Few cars are on the street. People are staying indoors. We step off the curb.
Far down the road, a car appears blaring its horn in one long, continuous blast. Jeannie sticks her middle finger up as we begin to cross quickly now.
Screeching breaks. “Sluts, Bitches”. The car door slams. Jeannie and I are on the run. We separate in our panic.
I bang open the Pawn Shop door, passing the wrinkled shopkeeper with her mouth agape and slide out the back screened delivery door. I cringe as the cracked, wood door creaks sharply. Next door is Chi Wong’s grocery store. I creep in through its back door and cower in the back corner as gritty dirt painfully digs into my knees and I taste the dust stirring in the air.
Lungs heaving. Hands shaking. Tears make rivulets through the grime on my face. I listen for his footsteps, but all I hear is drip, drip, drip as water leaks from the ice cream freezer.
A customer eyes me warily. It is time to move on.
My heart beats wildly as I creep through the neighbor’s backyards, until I finally reach the security of home.
Jeannie is sitting on our door stoop with one leg crossed over the other, nervously jerking her foot up and down, up and down. She grips her cigarette with shaky hands, inhaling deeply. I collapse next to her and rest my head on her shoulder. We sit there silently until the streetlights turn on and darkness follows.
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