What You Don't Know, page 15
Farrah did a mental scan of the neighbors houses. The Crandalls across the street, the Robinsons next door, the Wexlers on the other side. Her mom told her the Crandalls travelled a lot now that they were both retired. In fact, she had mentioned they were in some couples’ travel club, where they went somewhere faraway and exotic every other month for weeks. So they probably weren’t at home.
The Robinsons. They would probably be around. Even though it was Saturday night, they were older than her parents—like way older—so a quiet night at home was likely all they had going on. Dinner at four, followed by a night of Mr. Robinson dozing off and on in front of the TV while Mrs. Robinson read a book or played solitaire or called a friend or their daughter or something.
The Wexlers. They could go either way. Mr. Wexler was a lawyer. Mrs. Wexler—Dr. Wexler—a plastic surgeon, so between working all the time and galas and dinners and stuff, they might not be home. Of course, they also had a lot of parties, so they might be home—and with a bunch of people around to boot.
The Robinsons were probably the best bet. They were the most likely to be home. And Mr. Robinson loved her dad—not that the other neighbors didn’t—everyone loved her dad. The old man had told her over and over from the time she was five that her father was a national treasure. She overheard him say to another neighbor once that Malcolm was probably disappointed he didn’t get a son to carry on the legacy and what a shame it was the Malcolm Gilbert football prowess would stop with him. Like that meant anything. You didn’t see either of Michael Jordan’s sons—or his daughter for that matter—breaking any basketball records. At least that was what Grandma Gilbert would always mumble when she’d read those stories or heard some announcer mention it in some offhand, poor-pitiful-Malcolm Gilbert way. Besides, she had like eight boy cousins who all played football, so nothing was dying. The Gilbert football dynasty would carry on. Mrs. Robinson, on the other hand, in her sing-song voice, would always want to know if she would grow up to be a singer like her mommy or a cheerleader for a football team. It used to bother Farrah until she learned to shrug it off. Two harmless old people with nothing better to do than say stupid shit followed by even stupider questions.
Either way, Mr. Robinson would love the idea that he’d been the one to save the Gilberts. Running to the Robinsons maybe wasn’t the best idea, but it was the best she had.
Farrah banged her foot against the floor and grunted, squirming around as much as she could to get their captors’ attention. The heads of both her parents whipped toward her, alarm stamped across what little she could see of their faces in the darkening room with all that tape over them—wide eyes, furrowed brows, heaving chests.
Tree ran his tongue along his bottom lip as he looked at her. Like she was meat or something. God, he was gross. He told Cookie to pause the movie before he flicked his chin toward Farrah.
“What you need, baby?”
Cookie shot him a confused look before narrowing her eyes at Farrah. She tried to avoid looking at her, focusing on Tree instead, since he was supposed to be the one in charge.
She moaned and whimpered, continuing to wiggle around. Tree stood up and walked over, standing over her with that same stupid grin on his face.
“T—” Cookie started.
“Shut up,” he said, never looking in her direction. He bent down until he was eye level with her. He puckered up his lips in a mock kiss before laughing. Next to her, her mother’s breath seemed to explode in a frenzy, and her father, sitting next to her mother, tried shifting closer to her, as though he might be able to reach across and stop Tree.
“Something I can do for you, baby?” he asked Farrah.
She bobbed her head in the direction of her crotch and banged her foot on the floor again, continuing to groan.
He reached up to her face and Farrah flinched, wanting to yank herself out of his touch. He laughed before falling silent, his gaze boring into her with an unsettling combination of desire and contempt. She hoped the disgust she felt wasn’t evident as he cupped her cheek with his hand, running the cracked, dirty pads of his fingers across her cheekbone.
“Damn, you got soft skin,” he murmured as he continued stroking her cheek. “I ain’t never felt nothing so soft in my life.”
Cookie flew across the room, her claws digging into Tree’s shoulder. Shock flashed across his face and he turned around, grabbing her flailing arms.
“What are you doing?” she screamed. “Why you have to do that? Why?”
“Yo—get off me! Stop! Stop it!”
The two tussled for a few moments. Farrah’s breath was heavy in her chest and the pounding in her heart was all she could feel and hear. She tried to stay still, afraid any movement on her part would either indicate interest, or telegraph her fear. She didn’t see either one having a good outcome for her.
Tree got the upper hand, straddling Cookie before he slapped her a few times as she screeched and cried. Finally, he stood up and she rolled onto her side, cradling her cheek in her palm. Tree wiped his forehead with the back of his hand as he struggled to his feet.
“Stop all that noise and go somewhere,” he said.
Cookie didn’t say anything, crawling back in the direction of the couch, rocking back and forth and whimpering.
Her father grunted again and banged his own foot to get Tree’s attention. Tree reached over and slapped Blair before he pointed a finger at Malcolm. Farrah’s heart leapt and tears sprang to her eyes. She could see her father’s shoulders tighten and the veins in his neck pop like massive clusters of blisters as he attempted to lunge toward Tree, stymied by his restraints.
“Shut up.” He pointed a finger in Malcolm’s face. “Stop all that noise. Me and Ol’ Girl—what’s your name?”
Farrah stared at him dumbly. Confusion flashed across his features for just a second before the leering returned. He let his hand slither across her face once more. Without warning, he ripped the tape from her mouth and she screamed, her skin burning. She clamped her mouth shut, determined to keep the tears in.
Determined not to let him see he terrified her.
“What’s your name?” he repeated.
“Farrah,” she said quietly.
“That’s real pretty.”
“Thank you.”
“Sound like a fairy. Like a little fairy angel. You an angel, girl?”
“I’m just a girl,” she said. “Nobody special.”
“Oh, you’re special. Yeah. ’Cause you real sweet and soft, just like an angel. I’m gonna call you that. My little Farrah Angel. You like that?”
“It’s very nice, thank you,” she said. Her throat burned, her mouth glue. Fear choked the words.
“Good job, Mommy and Daddy,” he said to Malcolm and Blair as he clapped. “You all done real good, making this … fine-ass girl.” He looked her up and down one more time. “And then gave her a pretty name.”
“Tree—” Cookie tried again as Malcolm and Blair grunted.
“I told you to shut up,” he said, never looking in his girlfriend’s direction, only focused on Farrah. “I’m trying to have a conversation. Now … what did you want, little Farrah Angel?”
“I have to use the bathroom,” she whispered. She cleared her throat and tried again, forcing more bravado into her voice than she felt. “I need to use the bathroom. Like really bad.”
“What would you do if I made you hold it?” he asked, a grin spreading across his face. “You shit all over yourself? Pee your pants?”
“Please?”
“You let me watch?” he whispered. “Huh? You let me watch you go?”
She hoped he couldn’t see the revulsion on her face. “I don’t think I can.”
He laughed, like it was the funniest thing he’d heard all day. Farrah gulped.
“Hmmm … you probably right. I wouldn’t want to make you nervous or nothing. Besides, that’s kind of nasty, and I ain’t no freak,” he said, his voice still low, his gaze still on her. She could swear his hands were twitching, itching perhaps to touch her again.
“Can you help me stand up?” she asked, turning so her bound hands were out toward him. “Please?”
He didn’t say anything for a moment before reaching out to pull Farrah to her feet, making a point to yank her harder than he needed to so she would fall into his arms. He snaked a hand around her waist, holding her to him until they were doing a bit of a dance. Farrah went stiff.
“I’m sorry. I don’t know how much longer I can hold it.”
He released her, begrudgingly, it seemed. He ran his thumb across his lower lip as he continued to survey her, his eyes traveling up and down her body several times in the space of a few minutes.
“That’s all right, baby girl. We’ll dance later. Malcolm, you ought to take a lesson from your little girl. See how polite she is? How she don’t talk back? How she asks nicely for things? You should teach your daddy some damn manners. He don’t know nothing about respect.”
A shudder rumbled deep inside Farrah. She felt dirty. “I learned everything I know from both my parents. My father included.”
Tree scoffed. “Take Ol’ Girl to the bathroom,” he said over his shoulder to Cookie. “Watch her every move—”
“You want me to watch her pee?” she asked, incredulous.
“Stand outside the door, all right?”
“Can you?” Farrah held up her hands to their captor again. “My hands? Please?”
He sniffed. “Cookie’ll do it for you. Won’t you, Cookie?”
Cookie struggled to her feet before slouching over to Farrah. Once she was standing next to her, her energy seemed to return and she seized Farrah’s arm, digging her fingernails into her flesh. Farrah sucked in her breath and tried to twist away, but the girl held on.
“Hey!” Tree shouted. “You better be nice to her. Shit … maybe you can learn some manners from her, too.”
Cookie loosened her grip only slightly as Farrah turned toward the stairs as Tree restarted the movie.
“Which way?” Cookie asked.
“There’s a bathroom on the first floor. Guest bath. Right off the kitchen.”
She hoped her voice didn’t betray her. There was a bathroom down here in the basement, tucked into a guest bedroom that they also didn’t know about.
Except there was no window in that bathroom.
“Don’t try nothing.” Cookie sneered as she shoved Farrah in the direction of the stairs. She stole a glance at her parents, hoping to send them a signal, to let them know she was going to try. Cookie hustled her up the stairs before she could.
The two girls stumbled upstairs and Farrah flinched at the sight of the kitchen. It was like staring at a stranger’s kitchen, all that crap everywhere. In fact, nothing about it felt like her house anymore.
And maybe not ever again.
“It’s that one right there.” Farrah pointed her hands in the direction of the bathroom door.
Without a word, Cookie tugged and yanked at the tape to try to unwind her hands. After several tries, Farrah reluctantly pointed to the knife block on the counter, hoping she wasn’t about to make a colossal mistake.
“There’s a pair of kitchen scissors in there. You could use those,” she said.
Cookie snorted but obeyed and grabbed the scissors from the knife block, liberating Farrah’s hands with one cut. Relief and release coursed through her. It felt so good not to have tape or a belt digging into her wrists, slicing into her skin with each rub, each movement. To be able to roll her arms around and to liberate the stiff joints.
Just as Farrah turned to rush into the bathroom, Cookie grabbed her, the sharp steel of the scissors hovering above Farrah’s face. She wilted.
“Bitch, I thought you got the message earlier about staying away from T.”
“I—what? No, no.”
“I will cut you to the white meat you try and step to him.”
Farrah swallowed, the glint from the scissors seeming to blind her. “I promise you, I’m not interested in him. At all.”
Cookie snapped her gum, moving the scissors closer to Farrah’s cheek. “You like girls or something?”
She stifled a laugh. If you could resist Tree’s charms, it had to be because you were gay. What else could it be? Not that he was trash. Disgusting trash.
Cookie trailed the point of the scissors down the length of Farrah’s cheekbone, the cold metal like ice against her skin. She stopped breathing, afraid that one move, one half quiver, would send those scissors plunging into her flesh. Blood squirting everywhere, pain igniting across her body, her nerve endings on fire.
“I asked you a question, little girl. I said, “‘You like girls?’”
“No.” Farrah shook her head, flinching as the point of the scissors dented her cheek. “I have a boyfriend.”
A lump rose in her throat at the thought of Eddie. She’d told him she’d call him this afternoon. Had he tried calling her? She had no idea what Dio had done with her phone after he took it this morning.
Cookie’s breath bloomed out in front of her in a cloud of pepperoni pizza and strawberry ice cream. She retracted the scissors, a snarl on her face as she threw them on the counter and sniffed.
“Well if you going, go,” she said, waving toward the bathroom.
Farrah edged away, afraid to take her eyes off Cookie, afraid if she turned, those scissors would find their way dead center into her back.
She rushed into the bathroom, opening the door just a fraction, not wanting Cookie to see the tiny sliver of light from the window, or glimpse the curtain. She slammed the door shut, locking it behind her.
Farrah surveyed the window. It was higher up on the wall than she remembered. And smaller. A little box of a window letting in a tiny ray of rapidly fading daylight. There was a possibility she would get stuck.
There was also the possibility she would slither through and make the short drop to the grass below with no problem.
She flung the lid of the toilet up, making sure it clanked against the tank, just in case Cookie could hear it. Her mother hated the toilet lid to be left up. She flipped on the fan, cocking her ear toward the door to ensure the girl wouldn’t try to come barreling into the room, shattering her ruse. Quietly, she set the lid of the toilet back down and stepped onto it. Her foot wobbled a little on the shiny porcelain top and she reached for the latch on the window and tugged.
Stuck.
“Come on, come on, come on,” Farrah chanted to herself as she pulled on it again, throwing her weight into it. The metal pinched her fingers and her joints cracked. Her foot slipped and she yelped as she held on to the ledge of the window to keep from toppling to the marble floor below.
Farrah took a deep breath and closed her eyes, mumbling inspirational mantras to herself about how she could do it and she wouldn’t know if she could do it if she didn’t try.
Daddy would be proud.
She attacked the latch again, grunting to herself as she played push/pull with the stubborn metal.
The hushed room exploded with Cookie’s pounding. Farrah’s foot almost slipped again as she gripped the ledge to keep upright.
“Hey! What the fuck you doin’ in there? Hurry up!” Cookie’s muffled screams were accompanied by even more furious hammering. The door rattled with the girl’s fury and Farrah was certain it would fly off the hinges.
“I’m not done!” Farrah yelled. “Just give me a minute.”
The jack hammering ceased and Farrah waited a second before turning back to the window latch. She pushed at it again, the tips of her fingers burning, threatening to snap off under the pressure. She squealed to herself when she felt some give, imploring the lock to go a little further. She pressed again. This time, the latch turned with a soft pop.
Farrah clamped her hand across her mouth to keep from squealing with happiness. She looked at the door before hooking her hands underneath the slender ridge of metal and tried to pull it up softly.
It didn’t budge.
Farrah wiped sweat from her palms across the back of her boxer shorts and flexed her fingers. She took a deep breath and pushed again. With one big whoosh, the window snapped up and smacked the top before Farrah could stop it.
“Hey. Hey!” Cookie pummeled the door again. “What the fuck you doing in there?”
Farrah’s head whipped toward the door. Would she run downstairs for Tree to come and blast the door open or would she try to do it herself?
Farrah jumped to the floor, flushing the toilet as she did. She swept the soap dispenser down with one swoop of her hand before turning on the faucet.
“I knocked something over. I’m washing my hands,” Farrah called out.
“You got to come out right now!” Cookie screamed as she rattled the doorknob.
“Shit.” Farrah bounded back up onto the toilet and pushed against the screen, her fingers scratching against the mesh as she tried to pop it out of the window. She punched against it, bending the flimsy net in half, and pushed it out. It landed with a soft thunk on the lush grass below.
Cookie had stopped pounding and rattling and was now throwing herself against the door, screaming her head off. Farrah hoisted herself up, her arms trembling as she poked her head outside, relishing for just a moment, the clean air, the warm evening wind. She grunted as she shimmied her way through the window, like a worm wiggling its way through the wormhole. The top of her thigh caught on the jagged handle of the window, digging into the soft flesh, tearing it open, marking time until it became a long, ugly scar to add to her collection of scratches, burns, and other ill-healed scrapes.
The ramming against the door had stopped, which likely meant Cookie had run downstairs for backup. Farrah looked down at the ground, took a deep breath and jumped. The grass tickled her bare ankles and the snap of crickets filled the evening air. She ignored the throbbing in her thigh and the stinging of her left foot from the minor impact of the fall, but almost instantly, she was up and running in the direction of the Robinsons’ house, relieved when she could see the warm glow of a light emanating from the house. Just a few hundred feet.
She glanced over her shoulder to see the scrawny Dio easily slithering through the bathroom window. Lines of sweat trailed down her face as she whipped her head back around. The Robinsons’ house was so close.
