I share pleasantries with my professor and start making my way out of the lecture hall, but I don’t make it far before I hear my name.

  “Presley!”

  It’s his voice, and for a moment I consider stopping. Instead, I pull out my headphones and pop them into my ears, blasting music in order to drown him out.

  I’m thinking he’s given up as I approach the library, but the hand that grabs my arm lets me know that I am sadly mistaken. Spinning around so that I am face to face with Emerson, I hold my breath. His jaw flexes as though he’s trying to bite back his annoyance and I take out my headphones, stuffing them back into my pocket, studiously avoiding his gaze. “Why are you avoiding me?” he asks, slightly breathless from the chase I just put him on.

  I shrug. “I wasn’t aware that I was avoiding you.” I barely recognize my own voice, dripping with venom.

  “That’s bullshit. You’ve barely said anything to me since the day we went to the movies.”

  My throat dries out and feels like sandpaper as I swallow. How is he so in tune with everything? It’s infuriating. “Well, I have said something to you. Avoiding you would constitute totally ignoring you.”

  “What is it with you?” he asks, stuffing his hands into his pockets.

  “I could ask you the same.”

  “Jesus Christ, Presley. I just want to get to know you.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, at first it was because I thought you were cute, I’ll admit that. But now . . . well, now I’m not so sure myself.”

  His brutal honesty strikes me. I owe him the same courtesy. Honesty. Be honest. Tell him, Presley. “I’m trying to do you a favor.” I back away from him, hoping to create a little distance between us. His cologne is intoxicating and it’s clouding my mind. “I don’t have time to deal with someone who’s just chasing me.”

  “Who said anything about me chasing you? Yeah, sure, that may have been my game in the past, but maybe—just maybe—I actually see something in you. Something that makes me want to know you. Something that makes me think we can be better, together.”

  Part of me believes him. Or rather, wants to believe him. But the other part of me, the realistic side, knows it’s a crock of shit. A line that I refuse to listen to. “You just like the idea of me—the mystery. You like that I won’t give in to you. Golden boy can’t seem to get the shy girl to give him the time of day. It’s nothing but the thrill of the chase.”

  He shakes his head in disagreement. “Don’t tell me what I’m doing.”

  “Then leave me the fuck alone.” Biting my bottom lip, I turn and bolt into the library before he has the chance to say anything else. Every word I said, I believed. There’s no reason for this nonsense to have gone on this long. Why would a boy who could have any girl he wanted want to get to know me? It just doesn’t make any sense, and I’m not about to take a chance based solely on lust.

  Finding a seat in the back, I throw my stuff on the table, drop into the seat and attempt to calm myself. Somehow he always manages to work me up. It can’t possibly be good for me to react in such a way. But I do because I can’t control my emotions around him.

  Once my breathing steadies, I pull out my book and start doing my reading for class. I attempt to study for the next few hours before I have to take my last final but thanks to Emerson, I can’t seem to focus on anything but him. It’s maddening, and it makes me hate him for real. Even though I keep my attention on the pages in front of me, my eyes keep reading the same line over and over again.

  Unable to shake the feeling deep in the pit of my stomach, I give up. Tossing my books into my bag, I almost don’t notice the paper airplane that lands on my table. Confused, I look and see no one but it doesn’t matter. The flutter in my stomach tells me who flew that damn plane at me. I think about throwing it in the trash without reading it, but something inside of me won’t allow it. With shaking hands, I open the paper and see the poem scrawled in familiar messy penmanship.

  Friendship

  My eyes roll as I read the title. Another Ralph Waldo Emerson original. He really needs to get some new material. He’s going to wear me out on Emerson poems. Not that it stops me from reading it.

  True love transcends the unworthy object,

  And dwells and broods on the eternal,

  And when the poor interposed mask crumbles,

  It is not sad, but feels rid of so much earth,

  And feels its independency the surer.

  The words tug at my heartstrings. Strings that I thought I could numb. Anger washes over me and I crumple the paper up and toss it carelessly into the trashcan next to my table. Pulling the strap of my bag over my shoulder, I bite back the tears that are threatening to escape.

  I just can’t shake the feeling that this isn’t right. Boys don’t do shit like this just because they like girls. There is always a motive. There’s got to be a reason Emerson is pursuing me. After all, there’s nothing special about me.

  I’m just the daughter of a brothel whore.

  I’M SITTING IN FRONT OF the window of our apartment reading. Tonight is a peaceful night. Neither Momma or I have a shift across the street. She’s sitting on the couch, watching one of her ‘stories.’ Momma has always loved daytime soap operas. Growing up, whenever she had downtime, I’d be sitting next to her as she watched Days of Our Lives and The Young and The Restless. The acting was terrible, but it gave her the ability to lead a romanticized life, whereas I preferred to read about mine.

  Since most of the girls are living in the brothel at the moment, the house is quiet. They’ve apparently all synced their cycles now. I should enjoy it while it lasts because soon enough we will be overrun with them, Momma and I will be forced to share a bedroom again. Of all the things I hate, I hate having to share a room with Momma the most.

  The television snaps off, and I look up from the page I was on. Momma looks at me smiling. “Come”—she slaps the cushion on her right—“sit with me.”

  I do as she asks, like a good daughter would, and she immediately pulls me in close to her. I rest my head against her chest, listening to her heart beating underneath my ear. “You were the only thing in my life I did right, Presley.”

  With tears glossing my eyes, I look up at her. Momma has never been one to shower me with love and affection and moments like this are few and far between. Sure, she takes care of me, feeds me when she can, and she does her best, but love isn’t something I’ve ever had in abundance.

  “I know this life hasn’t been easy for you, baby girl, but I love you.”

  “I know you do, Momma,” I choke out.

  We both sit in silence, clinging to each other while our unspoken words hang in the air. “I want you to understand something about me, Presley. I never wanted this for me—for you.” Her hand smooth’s my hair as she continues to speak. “I’ve never really told you about my past, or how I ended up here. But now that you’re not a teenager anymore, I think it’s time you understood.”

  I shake my head. “Momma, you don’t—”

  “Yes, I do.” She takes a deep breath before starting. “I had an average childhood . . . ”

  The beginning of her story hurts me more than it should. Hearing that her childhood was average ignites something I’m not sure I can deal with. I’m envious of her. Jealous of my own mother. For she was afforded something I’ve never had.

  “But then when my daddy died when I was eight, my momma found a new boyfriend. She was crazy about him. So much so, she figured she might as well allow him to visit me at night.”

  My heart drops to the bottom of my stomach. The hairs on the back of my neck stand up and I struggle to breathe thinking about Momma as a child, being visited late at night.

  “I was so scared that first time. But every time after that got a little easier. The longer it went on the better I got at it. By the time I was twelve I prided myself on my ability to make Momma’s boyfriend squirm and moan. It made me feel like an adult, and it didn’t take me long to figure out that teenage boys loved it just as much as men.”

  “Oh, Momma,” I groan into her shoulder.

  “As I got older, I developed a reputation. I didn’t understand what the issue was. But when I was a senior in high school, I realized that there wasn’t a guy in my class that I hadn’t touched in some way and suddenly I didn’t feel any emotions anymore. No remorse. No pride. Just pure emptiness. I’d become a shell of a girl, and sex started to become the only time I felt alive.”

  I’d always hated my mother for this life, but listening to her story I realize that she didn’t choose this life.

  It chose her.

  “What about my father?” I ask, seizing upon her moment of honesty. I’ve asked in the past, but Momma has never talked about it. She always brushes it off, making me think that there is a possibility that she knows who he is. So now, with her letting me in, I want to know.

  “I’m not sure who your father is, Presley.”

  With her words, I deflate. In a weird way, I was hoping to at least know his name— even though there is no chance of me ever having any sort of real relationship with him.

  “Once I started working at the brothel, I never slept with anyone outside of my clients. I’ve never loved anyone, until you.”

  I’ve always assumed that my father was a Joe, but knowing without a doubt that I will never know for sure causes my heart to break a little more. A sob escapes my throat, and Momma grabs the sides of my face and makes me look at her.

  “Presley, I spent my whole life pushing love away. Being devoid of emotions is not a good thing, I realize that now. I never stood a chance after that first night with Momma’s boyfriend. But you do. I know you’re scared. You’re scared that you’re not going to escape. But I also know that you’re stronger than I was . . . than I am. So fight, Presley. Live. Let love in. Because the fact of the matter is, love isn’t the sort of thing that will push you into this life. My past is.”

  Her words are so perfect, so beautifully thought out, and just what I need. I wrap my arms tightly around her petite waist and squeeze. “I love you, Momma,” I choke out the words because the emotions and guilt I am feeling are overwhelming me.

  Everyone has a story. Everyone has a reason for living their life how they see fit. No one ever makes a choice to make others unhappy. My Momma is a perfect example. She’s doing the only thing she’s ever known. It doesn’t make it right. It doesn’t make it wrong. And to think that I’ve spent years hating her for bringing me into this life . . .

  “I’m so sorry.” With my face tucked into the side of her neck, I feel her nod. Nothing else needs to be said. We both know what I mean.

  She kisses me on the forehead, before letting me go and standing up. “I’m so proud of you, baby. And I love you more than anything in the world.”

  With my lips pressed into a hard line, I fight the tears threatening to escape from my eyes. This moment with Momma is transparent. She’s coming clean with me for a reason. She knows what’s coming, and it scares me. She forces a smile and turns to walk towards her room, closing the door and locking it behind her. Once I’m alone, I break down, allowing my emotions to overtake me.

  I cry for her. I cry for me. But mostly I cry for all the damage that has been done. However, unlike my Momma, I still have a chance to reach for the life I so crave. I can let people in, allow them to see me—the real me.

  But am I strong enough?

  SUNLIGHT STREAMS THROUGH THE only window in the living room, and I squint. I’d apparently passed out on the couch, the emotions from the previous night exhausting me beyond belief. I yawn and stretch before finally sitting upright, glancing across the room at the clock on the DVD player. It’s lunchtime and it’s unusually quiet. Having most of the girls living at the brothel makes living at the Mansion a little more bearable. I like slow times like this. I could definitely get used to it.

  I look over my shoulder into the kitchen and see the empty coffee pot. Not one person is around this morning.

  That’s strange.

  Standing up, I look down the hallway to see Momma’s door still closed. She must have been as exhausted as me. Not only did she emotionally exhaust herself, sharing all the ugly details of her childhood, but she had the disadvantage of having HIV wreaking havoc on her system.

  With it being the end of the semester, I’m looking forward to a day of just me and my books. It’s time for me to catch up on the pleasure reading that I’ve been so desperately missing.

  I pick up the book I was reading last night and immediately lose myself in the story. It’s about a woman living in New York with her best friends, who happen to be all guys. It’s a cute, easy read, and it makes me giggle here and there, listening to all of their shenanigans. It stays quiet as I read, and I lose track of time. Before I know it I’m closing my book, having finished the adorable story about Shane and Emma. I’m sad to have finished, I usually am. I hate endings. They’re so . . . final.

  Gazing over at the clock again, I realize two more hours have passed. Yet there’s still no sound coming from Momma’s room. I decide it’s time for me to go check on her and I slowly move towards her door. I knock lightly at first, but when there is no answer I call out to her. “Momma? You awake?”

  No answer.

  I reach down to turn her doorknob only to remember that she locked it. Knocking again, this time a little louder, I call, “Momma! Open the door!” Panic sets in as I jiggle the locked doorknob, even though I know it won’t do any good.

  Chrissy steps into the hallway, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. Unlike us, she had to work last night. “Presley, you okay?”

  “No!” I cry out. “It’s Momma. She won’t open the door!”

  Springing to life, Chrissy hurries to join me in front of Momma’s door, banging her fists against the chipped paint and calling out to her. It’s no good. The door remains closed. The room behind it silent.

  “We’ve got to break the door down.”

  I nod as Chrissy grabs my hand and backs us away from the door. “On three,” she commands. “One . . . two . . . three!”

  Chrissy and I launch ourselves at the door, but it doesn’t move. Undeterred, we throw our bodies at the wood again and again until the frame cracks under the pressure, the door falling inward.

  My eyes immediately find Momma, curled up on her mattress, her hands tucked under her cheek. She looks like a porcelain doll, lying on the bed, motionless. Her hair covers the pillowcase and I can see the lace trim of the satin pajamas she always wears to bed peeking out from under the covers. The air feels strange. It hasn’t rained recently, yet there is a musty smell that assaults my senses, clogging up my nose and leaving a metallic taste in my too-dry mouth.

  I look again at Momma, taking in all the small details that I missed at first glance. Her skin is waxy, and her neck is at an awkward angle. Her chest isn’t rising and falling as a sleeping person’s should.

  Because she isn’t sleeping.

  I fall to my knees, Chrissy catching me under my arms, softening the fall by wrapping her arms around my waist and sliding down to the floor with me. A tortured scream reverberates through the house, and it takes me a second to realize that the sound is coming from me. Chrissy pushes my head into the crook of her neck, rocking me back and forth, her hand clamped to the back of my head.

  “No!” I scream.

  Chrissy attempts to console me but I continue to cry. I’m trying to speak, but my sobs overtake my words and eventually I just give up, letting the sadness overtake me. We stay clutching each other for what seems like hours before I’m able to get my breath back.

  “I don’t understand,” I whisper. “It wasn’t terminal yet. HIV doesn’t kill someone over night!”

  Chrissy doesn’t answer. She just clutches me closer, and I begin to cry again. This goes on for hours before my head clears enough to move.

  Standing up, I walk toward her and pull the covers back from her body and press my hand to her chest, hoping to feel a heartbeat, desperately wanting to be wrong. But instead, I feel nothing. Disheartened, my eyes fall away from her lifeless body and see the bottles of booze and pills that surround her. I sit next to her on the bed, wiping my tear stained face as I take in the scene. “She killed herself,” I whisper to the room.

  Chrissy places her hand on my shoulder and gives me a reassuring squeeze. “I’m so sorry, Pres.”

  Suddenly calm, I speak very frankly. “Don’t be.”

  “Babe, don’t talk like that.”

  “No, I’m serious,” I say confidently. “Don’t be sorry. Because at least now Momma is in a better place. She’s someplace where Big Earl can’t force her to suck a dick. She’s not hurting. She won’t have to ever worry again.”

  Chrissy sniffles next to me.

  “Hell,” I scoff. “I think I might even be a little jealous of her.”

  “Don’t talk like that,” Chrissy scowls.

  “It’s true. I’m so tired, Chrissy. Aren’t you? Tired of worrying. Of trying. All of it sucks. I’m just plain old tired.”

  Chrissy doesn’t say anything because she knows there’s nothing she can say. It’s true. We’ve had to be grown-ups for far too long, and this is proof of just that.

  My thoughts shift from relief and jealousy to anger in a flash. Momma was a coward. How dare she leave me here to take care of her mess. Alone. It wasn’t fair of her to come clean to me, professing her undying love in the process, only to take it all away from me. “What the hell am I gonna do, Chrissy?”

  She squeezes my hand. “We’ll figure it out, just like we always do.”

  “It’s not fair. She gets to be carefree, yet again. And here I am worrying. Just like always.”

  Reaching into my pocket, I pull out my cell phone and dial 911. The operator answers. “911. What’s your emergency?”

  A single tear runs down the length of my face. “My momma. She’s dead.”

  And I have no idea what I’m going to do.