Suffer Little Children
" 'Because Bitches Do It Better?' "
Missie ignored her mother's observation on the slogan emblazoned across her jumper. "It's clean," she snapped, slamming down the plate of cheese toasties meant for the new arrival. Nine o'clock had came and went, and still this Amy Belefort-or-something-like-that still hadn't shown up.
"I'll deal with the paperwork and then you can get her ready for bed," Tori yawned, confirming Missie's suspicions she was going to be saddled with the brat, "I'm all tuckered out."
"What about pyjamas and stuff?" Missie asked, trying to suppress her panic. She wasn't exactly the maternal type, barely able to look after herself never mind a brat.
" 'Stuff?' " Tori said innocently, lighting up a cigerette. "What kind of stuff are you talking about?"
Missie didn't answer, choosing to pour out a glass of milk instead, not trusting herself to speak.
"The stuff that you took earlier, that was my gear, my own personal property," Tori snapped, taking a long drag, "which you will of course recompense me for. But the kids' supplies or 'stuff' as you call it– I keep all that in the hall closet at the top of the stairs. It's all own brand shit but it passes muster."
Missie nodded, putting the milk back in the fridge. "What's the brat's story?" she made herself ask. "Anything I should know about?"
"Um, she's ten, African-American, no family," Tori reeled off, exhaling the smoke out of the corner of her mouth, "mom was some sort of crackhead who dragged her kid from place to place. Maybe because she owed money or the law was after her. I don't know. Probably just looking for her next hit. Anyways her last known address was Georgia, before that Baton Rouge."
"Where do they live now?" Missie asked, pulling out a chair, before sitting down. "I mean, where did they live before the shit hit the fan?"
"Some motel," Tori said, stubbing out the cigerette on a saucer, "where her mom could entertain her clients, if you get my drift. Mommy dearest then OD's and we're landed with her brat, as you so eloquently describe her."
"That's a lot for a little kid to handle."
Tori shrugged. "I'm not interested in the details," she said, "as long as the state signs the cheques, I don't give a shit."
I bet you don't, Missie thought, leg ticcing, tracing a circle on the table-top with the tip of her finger. An uncomfortable silence fell, her mother glancing out of the window every few minutes, tapping her foot impatiently. Then there was the sudden squeal of car tyres, making them both jump violently, the stream of headlights flooding the kitchen before dimming into darkness.
"Finally," Tori muttered, tossing her cigerette into the trash. There was a knock on the front door, sharp, stacatto, her mother going out to answer it, Missie leaning back in her seat, dreading what was coming next.
Footsteps filled the hall, voices rising and falling, a female police officer then appearing in the doorway, hair pulled back into a severe bun. "You have a lovely home, Mrs. Costello," she said conversationally, glancing around as she stepped into the kitchen, carrying a manila folder under her arm, a little girl trailing at her heels, shoulders hunched.
Tori preened. "Thank you," she replied, adopting an ingratiating tone that had always grated on Missie's nerves. "This is my daughter, Melissa," she then said hastily, answering the police officer's questioning glance in Missie's direction, "she's... she's recently just moved back into the neighborhood."
"Nice," the police officer said, frowning as she read the slogan on Missie's jumper. "So what are you doing?" she then asked Missie, startling her. "Work, study, something like that?"
"I'm... I'm considering my options," Missie said awkwardly, making the little girl glance at her, before looking away again.
"Good, good," the police officer said distractedly, "well, it's been nice meeting you." She discreetly made eye contact with Tori, the two of them then stepping into the hall, leaving Missie alone with the little girl who just stood there, head bowed, a turquoise backpack dangling from her arm.
"Um, nice hair," Missie said awkwardly, making the little girl glance at her again, "very Princess Leia. She was one cool broad."
The little girl just looked at her, her small face swollen from crying, her eyes red-rimmed, the sight making Missie shift uncomfortably in her chair.
"I'm Melissa," Missie said, trying again, wondering at herself for even bothering, "Missie for short. They tell me you're Amy Belefort."
"Amy Bellafonte," the little girl flared up, her dark eyes instantly angry, jaw tightening.
She speaks, Missie thought dryly. She glanced over the girl, seeing she was presentable enough, if a little thin, her clothes clean, her backpack looking almost brand new. "Nice gear, who gave you it?" she asked, gesturing to Amy's outfit, trying to build a picture of what she was dealing with. She had been expecting some snotty undersized kid who would wet the bed, not this small mortal who looked like she could spit fire any moment.
"My mom did," Amy glowered, "who else?"
"What's in the backpack?"
"None of your beeswax."
"O-kay," Missie snapped, "be like that then."
"I will," Amy retorted, both of them glancing up as Tori and the police officer came back into the kitchen.
"I'll be on my way now, Amy," the police officer said, Amy ignoring her, turning away instead. The police officer and Tori exchanged glances. "Well, take care," she then said, nodding at Missie and her mother, "I'll show myself out."
As her footsteps receded, the front door clicking shut, Tori going out to lock up for the night, another awkward silence fell, making Missie shift in her seat again, wishing herself a world away. "Um, we thought you might be hungry," she said uneasily to Amy, "but I don't know if you dig cheese toasties. The milk is for you. It's – it's good for growing bones, or so TV says. TV might just be lying though, so don't trust TV, okay?"
Amy raised her eyebrows at this outburst, but didn't say anything smart back, making a big show of sitting down by dragging the chair out from under the table, its legs screeching across the tiles. Missie slid the plate across to her, Amy eying the cheese toasties as if they were arsenic, her mouth pursing in distate.
"I can personally assure you they're not poisoned," Missie snapped as Tori came back into the kitchen, "and you can put the backpack down. You're not going anywhere, not unless you have a freaking trip to Vegas booked that we don't know about."
Amy scowled at her, but carefully set the backpack down on the ground anyways, checking to make sure the floor was clean first. She gingerly lifted up a cheese toastie to her lips, hesitating before taking a bite, making Missie roll her eyes.
"Get that down your gullet," Missie then said as she passed Amy the glass of milk. "Here, you can wash it down with that." She frowned as acrid smoke filled the kitchen, her mother lighting up yet another cigerette. "Mom," she snapped, "do you mind?"
"Yes, I do," Tori retorted, but she left the kitchen anyways, going out onto the back porch instead to smoke in peace.
Missie leaned back in her seat again, watching out of the corner of her eye as Amy took another cheese toastie, her hand shaking. Hanging around Amy's neck was a key on a long silver chain, probably her last link to the past. Only ten years old and alone in the world, a nowhere girl, just like Missie.