Not at all a stranger to chores, Logan is unsurprised by the list of tasks Mr. Carlisle rattles off following their measly breakfast every morning of day-old bread – generously gifted to them by the local bakery – and occasionally runny eggs washed down with not-quite-clear water. They are given a list to complete by midday and then the afternoon is theirs to do what they want with, within reason of course. It is a routine that Logan has gotten used to in the few weeks she's been here.
She doesn't know how to feel as she settles into her new life in Small Heath. She's getting comfortable, getting used to life without both of her parents. Nevermind the nights she wakes up gasping, throat sore from a scream she refuses to let out. Eyes wet and weeping, lungs aching. She dreams of guns pressed to her temples and missing jaws. Of weak, shaking fingers, and hearts that never beat right. Waking up early in the morning, and for a split second she doesn't remember any of it. A blissful moment that crashes down when she recognizes her surroundings.
Logan often spends those mornings playing her violin, composing on the scraps of paper and spare charcoal she's scrounged up through her time spent in town. She'll use the hours after completing her chores practicing, just as her mother always taught her. Her door is always closed, but Logan knows a few of the boys huddle outside her room to listen. She doesn't mind, even if they have been less than welcoming to her.
That morning as she's scrubbing the floor of the kitchen one morning, her socks tied around her knees to avoid splinters, that one of the younger boys approaches her. He's as thin as they all are with a diet of stale bread, water, and occasionally ham or eggs, with sweeping black hair and gray eyes – like the rest of the town. His hands shake, he looks nervous. She knows they've been talking about her behind her back. They're not as quiet as they think they are. Logan thinks he's going to speak to her, ask her about her parents, about why she's intruding on them. Maybe ask about her music. Instead, he pulls her dress over her head, exposing her underclothes, and runs away.
Logan can hear the others laughing at her. Chanting about how she should get used to it, about how she'll be a whore one day. I want to go home.
With cheeks red in embarrassment and eyes shining with tears that won't fall, Logan readjusts her dress. She goes back to scrubbing the floor, her movements jerkier than before. She thinks about how she doesn't have a home to go to.
She remembers the chair she learned to read in.
Later that afternoon, as she's practicing her music, she hears them again. Ears pressed to her door. Whispers about her songs, giggles about her future. Her father would have opened the door and yelled at them to leave. Her mother would have kindly asked for some privacy to practice. Logan does neither and just keeps on playing. She plays late into the night and contemplates what chores she'll have tomorrow.
Mr. Carlisle has decided to trust her, which is rather strange since Logan's barely been here a few weeks. Perhaps he trusts in that she's a girl, she's less likely to get into trouble. Maybe the other boys are just that untrustworthy. Logan thinks Mr. Carlisle could probably trust Amos, as kind and welcoming as he is. Maybe it's not about trust, just convenience. Maybe he wants her out of the house as much as she wants to be. Whatever the case, Mr. Carlisle gives Logan a few coins to gather their supply of bread and eggs for the week.
Perhaps, after she returns with the groceries, Logan could make her way over to the bookshop she found on one of her strolls through her new grey town. She wants to get to know the town, the people. She's never lived so close to anyone before. Mrs. Higgins was the only neighbor she knew by name. The shop owners, Mr. and Mrs. Stephenson, let Logan read books in the corner of the store. As long as she doesn't distract customers, it's all right. They both know she couldn't afford to purchase one of her own.
She has a small stack of books too aged, torn, and muddied to sell in her room. The Stephensons give them to her. Her favorite is a little torn copy of Peter Pan, tucked safely under the folds of her pillow. It has a stained purple cover and it's missing pages, but she smiles at the thought of the book. Sometimes she wonders what it'd be like to be Wendy, swept off her feet and taken away from the gray.
Logan's walking down the road, bare feet slipping through the wet gravel, when she sees them again. That big family she saw the day she came here.
Well not the whole family, assuming the group she saw before had been the whole family. This time, it's the two youngest and one of the curly haired women. The one with the eyes that don't match the children. Perhaps an Aunt? What's that like? And the lad, the one with the nice blue eyes.
Logan doesn't realize she's staring again until it's too late. The little girl with short black hair like her mother's is skipping towards her with a wide smile. Her dress is really pretty, yellow – bold in a town so grey – and ruffled on the ends, and she has shoes.
"Hello, my name is Ada Shelby," the girl, Ada, says. "I like your hair, never seen red like that before. You're new around here, right? What's your name?" She's holding out a hand as if she's expecting Logan to know what to do with it. Logan is still trying to process the speed at which the other girl spoke.
With fingers tangled in the ends of her hair, Logan just looks at Ada's outstretched hand dumbly. Ada's hands are very clean; she has a beaded string bracelet on her left wrist. Logan's never talked to another girl her age before. Belatedly realizing what Ada wants, Logan hesitantly grips the other girl's hand and shakes it. It's awkward and Logan's not sure if she's squeezing too hard. Her hands feel sweaty, and she has to look down at Ada because she's a few inches taller. She still doesn't want to talk, not if she doesn't have to.
"Um…?" That's all Logan manages before taking a step or two back and wiping her hand off on her dress. Her own dress is not as pretty, she twists it self-consciously. Though scrubbed, Logan hasn't warn the flower patterned dress since that night, the night of a single gunshot.
It's not that she hasn't spoken at all since arriving in Small Heath. There have been situations requiring apologies, situations that call for politeness with a "please" and "thank you". Logan remembers the manners her mother instilled in her. She doesn't like how she feels obligated to respond to Ada. "My name, um, I'm…" She doesn't quite know how to start, and Ada is being so kind, so patient with her. The others are staring at her expectantly from a few feet away. "I'm, uh, I'm Logan. Logan Porter." She nods, congratulating herself. Logan's a little proud she managed to get her name through her lips, it's more than she's said in weeks.
Ada's smile widens. She has nice teeth, clean and white. Logan curls her lips over her own teeth. "Logan, huh? That's an odd name for a girl," Ada giggles, and it sounds so light, so free that Logan can't bring herself to be offended. "Hey! Can I call you Lo?" She rocks on her heels, head tilted to the side. Logan doesn't know how to refuse, doesn't feel like she can with the way the other – what was her last name? Shel-something, Shelby? – the other Shelbys are looking at her, as if denying Ada could be Logan's greatest mistake.
She doesn't want to be called Lo.
"Ada." It was the older boy, the one with the icy eyes. I really need to stop thinking about his eyes. It's childish. His tone is commanding for someone who barely looks a teenager. "Leave the poor girl alone." Logan likes to think he didn't mean anything by it, but suddenly she's very aware she doesn't own any shoes.
"Uh, um…" Logan trails, shuffling her feet. She ignores how a particularly sharp rock digs into her sole. "I, um, I have to…have to go." She swallows passed the lump in her throat and turns around, her sack of bread and fragile eggs clutched in her arms.
"Lo! Wait!" But she doesn't, she refuses to respond to that name. "Tommy! Why'd you have to scare her away? You always do that! John, stop laughing! I just wanted to make a new friend." Ada's voice carries, even as she pouts to her Aunt Pol. Something about new shoes.
His name is Tommy. Logan doesn't stop until she reaches the orphanage, ankles sore and arms aching from the strain of her bag. At only nine years old, she's not expected to be strong, but she'd like to think a bag of bread and eggs isn't enough to prove challenging. She huffs a few breaths and treks up the steps to the peeling front door. She doesn't want to be called Lo.
Amos is sitting by the stairs when she gets back, hands folded over his knees and long yellow hair pulled back like always. He's older than Tommy, she's pretty sure. She doesn't know where that thought came from, so Logan pushes it away and moves towards the kitchen.
"That took you awhile," Amos says, coughing into his fist. He's hiding a cigarette between his knuckles. She didn't know he smoked; the smell reminds her of nights with gun shots and spattered picture frames. "Almost went out to go looking for ya, the bakery ain't that far."
Logan shrugs, mumbles a little apology, and keeps going down the hall. Amos' heavy footsteps thud behind her. Her shoulders seize and she looks at his shadow on the wall out of the corner of her eye. She doesn't feel safe.
He leans against the counter as she starts putting away the goods she got. "What's that then?" Amos' brow furrows, hesitance evident in his tone. Logan only gets confused. Mr. Layton, the baker, was kind enough to gift them some milk as well for one of her extra pennies. She hopes it'll be a nice treat for the lads in the house. "You shouldn't have done that." There's an edge of warning in his words.
Just then, Mr. Carlisle's heavyset form appears in the entryway. Logan briefly marvels that she didn't hear him stomping through the halls. "Porter, little lass, you're back. I'd like my change please," he requests gruffly, but not unkindly. Logan nodded, digging through the pocket she had sewn into her dress one boring afternoon. She presses the three, small coins into his outstretched hand. He has scars on his fingers.
Mr. Carlisle scrunches his brow, counting the coins repeatedly in his palm. He stares incredulously down at Logan.
"Where's the rest? There should be another penny here, girl," he nearly growls, taking a threatening step towards her. Logan swallows, not understanding what she did wrong.
"The – I…um," she stammers, wringing her sweaty fingers together. "He-Mr. Layton, um, milk. He gave me some milk – for the…for, um, the extra coin. I, um, I didn't – I'm sorry!" Logan finishes in a rush, head down and eyes closed in fright. Amos just stood to the side, watching.
Mr. Carlisle slams his hand on the counter, the combination of the metal coins and the flat muscles of his hands booms in her ears. It sounded like a gunshot, but less echoing. Logan can't remember how to breath. "You did what?!" Mr. Carlisle is a loud man, but the way his voice weighs on the room, bouncing of the walls, has Logan's nerves on edge. "Girl, you – but that's just it, isn't it? A little girl, cute and orphaned. I'm sure you think you're oh so special, some kind of exception in this house of boys!" He towers over her as she cowers, back pressed to the wall. "It's time to show you your place, you do what I say, when I say it. No ways around it. I've been patient, what with your muteness and your supposed trauma. But no more, you're no different than the lads here, and I'll make sure you know it."
His fingers, fat and covered in dirt, curl around her arm so tight Logan worries he might break it. There will definitely be a bruise. He starts dragging her towards a drawer to their left.
Why isn't Amos doing anything? Help me! She can't bring herself to actually say it. Amos is just standing there, leaning against the counter. There's a weird kind of fascination in his eyes, a smirk he seems to be holding back. Logan can only feel confused and scared, so incredibly scared.
There's a terrible scraping noise as Mr. Carlisle pulls open the drawer. The cutlery shakes inside. He pulls out a knife, and Logan starts panicking then.
"N-no, no!" Logan manages, nails scraping against his wrist in a sad attempt at freeing herself. "Please! I'm – I'm sorry! So sorry! I'll…I'll get the – the penny! I'll take the milk back! Please!" She screaming now, louder than she's been since the night of the gunshot.
"Oh, she speaks!" Mr. Carlisle mocks, and he releases her arm, only for his fingers to lace through her hair. He yanks, hard. His face is close to hers. Logan can smell his breath, can hear his teeth grinding. "That penny was worth more than you'll ever be." And the knife starts cutting.
"Please, please stop," Logan sobs, though she's given up the fight, voice soft and broken. Her hair, red like her mother's, drops to the floor in tangled masses. Tears leave tracks down her cheeks. She stares at the floor as Mr. Carlisle cuts her hair.
Logan remembers how much Ada liked her hair, just a little bit ago.
The knife clanks on the counter. "There," Mr. Carlisle sighs, proud of himself. He breathes heavily, as if shearing her scalp was a tremendous effort. "Now you're one of us. Not special, not an exception. You'll learn your place here, lass." He adjusts his pants, like it'll help hide his belly, and waltzes out of the room like he hasn't just taken Logan's only real link to her mother from her.
She slumps in the pile of her hair, legs huddled close. One hand grazes over her uneven new haircut, the other hesitating over the long strands littering the floor. Her fingers shake. Her head feels light and itchy. Her arm aches, and her chest heaves.
Amos left at some point. She thinks about how she'll never be worth more than a penny. Time passes in a blur; she's wasted her free afternoon. Some of the other boys walk by, but they don't do anything. Just stare. Some laugh.
Logan sweeps the hair, her hair, into a pile with her palms. She dumps them into the trash, feeling hallow and detached. She moves slowly, deliberately, and keeps her gaze on her feet. The floorboards creek as she makes her way up the stairs, down the hall, and to her room. A room she never wanted in a place she wishes she could escape from.
Her wardrobe is open, she forgot to close the doors that morning. Her mother would be disappointed at Logan's forgetfulness. Fresh tears roll as she looks at her reflection in the foggy mirror. Her arm is already bruising, angry and purpling quickly. Her hair is short, so short and patchy along her scalp. It stings in some areas where the knife got too close, the red of her blood blends with the red of what's left of her hair. Logan looks away, somehow ashamed and guilty. Maybe she shouldn't wear her dresses anymore. There are some trousers with her other clothes and a couple tattered shirts.
Mr. Carlisle said she needed to learn her place. Logan thinks how her place may be with her parents, like it always has been. She thinks about the knife in the drawer downstairs.
She gets into bed, doesn't bother pulling the blanket over herself, and she pushes away her flat pillow. Logan just curls up, shaking. Her fingernails dig into her shins where she wraps around herself. Her forehead presses tightly to her knees. Her tears wet the mattress by her head. Breathing in through her nose and out through her mouth, Logan adjusts. This is her place for now, alone. Five four touch, four for sight, three for sound, two for smell, and one for taste. She starts counting.