Such a Pretty Girl by Laura Wiess Read Free Book Online Page A

“Don’t drop me, Daddy!”
    “Never happen,” he promises, pulling me in even closer….
    The memory slams me back into myself. I glance around my room, find what I need, and walk to the bathroom. Turn on the exhaust fan and the shower.
    I go back out to the hall linen closet, closing the bathroom door behind me to contain the billowing steam, and as I open the closet I call, “Hey Dad, will you make me a fresh pot of coffee, please?” I pause, listening to his silence. Is he suspicious of my sudden capitulation or will his ego chalk it up to a wooing well done?
    “Sure,” he calls back, sounding pleased. The newspaper pages swish and his chair grates away from the table.
    “Thanks!” I dart into my bedroom instead of the bathroom, closing and locking the door, praying his task and the steadily drumming shower will blunt the stealthy sounds I’m about to make.
    Because I’m leaving. Not for good, but for now. I need to get a grip and rethink my original plan. Being older and obnoxious isn’t going to drive him away and I hadn’t counted on my mother disregarding the supervised visit guidelines so quickly. I can’t be caught unprepared like this again.
    I pull on a fresh tank top and the overalls lying in a crumpled heap where I left them. Stuff my cigarettes into the bib pocket. Grope under my pillow for my pocketknife—a fifteenth birthday gift from Nigel—and wedge it into my front pocket.
    I hurry across the room. Raise the blind and grasp the bottom of the window, pressing the metal release clasps. I am about to slide it open when I see my mother’s car meandering around the blind curve.
    “Crap,” I mutter and pull back out of sight. Will she notice the raised, crooked blind breaking the symmetry of all our windows as she approaches the front of the building? Of course she will.
    I bite my lip, glance at the bedroom door. The lock is standard and flimsy. Once she parks and comes in, I’ll have only seconds to raise the window, bust through the screen, and climb out before she asks my father why my blind is hanging at such an odd angle. Only seconds to bolt in broad daylight from the front of my building to the back of Andy’s and get inside. I pray his mother hasn’t had milk for breakfast as she’s lactose-intolerant and becomes bathroom-bound whenever she dips into dairy.
    I spot my watch on the nightstand, crawl across the bed, snag it, and slip it onto my wrist. The knife bangs against my thigh and I realize I’ll need it to slice through the screen. I open the blade just as I hear the muffled thunk of a car door slamming outside my window.
    Her keys jingle.
    My heart booms.
    The front door opens.
    I wrench up the window as the front door closes behind her. My hair swings in front of my eyes and I jam it behind my ears. The scent of fresh coffee fills the air. I plunge the knife into the screen and yank downward, surprised at how little resistance the mesh gives. The slicing makes a harsh, zipping sound.
    “Chirp?” my father calls from the kitchen. “Get a move on. The bagels are here and they’re still hot.”
    I jam my leg through the gash, wincing as the rigid frame bruises my groin, and bend myself in two trying to get out. My head collides with the metal frame and stars dance in front of my eyes. I wiggle through the jagged tear, clutch the sash, and drag my other leg through.
    “Chirp?” Out in the hallway.
    The drop is seven feet and I’m five foot six. The lawn slopes away from the building and I stumble backward as I touch down, then sit hard. I scramble up and cast a panicked glance at ancient, wide-eyed Grandma Calvinetti and one of her twin grandsons sitting on her front porch across from us.
    She crosses herself and covers his eyes.
    I take off around the blind side of my building, down the lawn in four lightning strides, across the court, behind Andy’s building, and up his back steps.
    I rap the glass and press up against the door. If my father comes out our back door