Neighbourhood Watch by Rhonda Mullins (best feel good books txt) 📗

face or bite her neck because her neck smells good, so good.

Stupid fifty metres.

Mélissa swallows. Lifts her head, starts walking, says,‘C’mon, guys!’

As she is walking away, her eyes catch the white against the grey. Her letter. She didn’t even pick it up.

She bends over, picks it up, opens it.

Finds twenty bucks and a note:‘Act like I’m there. Nothing different. Take care of the boys, and if anyone calls, say he found a job and he’s not there right now and everything is fine. Don’t tell them you’re alone.’

It’s the first letter she’s ever received from her mother.

She reads it again.

‘Act like I’m there. Nothing different. Take care of the boys, and if anyone calls, say he found a job and he’s not there right now and everything is fine. Don’t tell them you’re alone.’

I’m not alone.

Okay. Okay, Mom.

On the other side of the street, Meg has turned around. A big truck passes.

Then Meg’s not there anymore.

‘Let’s go, guys, c’mon!’

The snails advance, yawning.

Mélissa, her hand deep in her pocket, the letter deep in her hand, goes to school.

* * *

Steve has put on a belt to hold up his pants and shined his shoes. It made his fingers dirty, and for a second (no more), he got emotional (just a little).

Now he is standing in front of a big, thick-set guy who looks off to the side while Steve talks.

Steve is nervous but tries not to show it.

‘Well, I’ve got experience with cars; I worked at a garage for a long time. I’m a good mechanic, I – ’

‘You see any connection between cars and snow blowers?’

‘Well, you drive ’em, I mean, it’s … I like storms, I … can kick up a pretty good one myself.’

The joke falls flat. The guy doesn’t even spot it.

‘Our guys have experience with big cleanup jobs. Handling a vehicle like that isn’t like handling a car … You’d have to start at the bottom of the ladder.’

‘Okay, what’s the bottom of the ladder?’

‘Well, we don’t have anything right now.’

* * *

Roxane leaves the library. Runs into Mélissa in the hallway.

They look at each other and know they would be less alone together, but neither of them knows what a bond looks like.

‘Hi.’

‘Hi.’

So they just cross paths.

* * *

They got her violin lessons at school. They’re supposed to be just for the normals. But they made an exception. For her. The teacher’s name is Caroll. He knows Shostakovich and was surprised Roxane knew him too.

She practises at lunchtime to catch up to the others. She practises on the same floor as the library. The floor with the normal classes. She is normal from noon to one, every day.

Has to practise a lot, because there’s a concert coming up.

A real one. With an audience.

* * *

A video poker bar. In the thick fog of last night’s bender, the guys hide behind their steins, letting their lives dribble into them.

Steve stands tall in front of the bar, staring at a Latino guy squeezed into his tight T-shirt, would like him to tell him about his country some night, at the end of the bar, if he has any memory of it.

‘You know how to mop?’

He’s lost his accent. Or just forgot it.

‘We need a guy on the floor … ’

‘Yeah. Yeah, I can mop.’

‘Nights.’

‘ … I can’t do nights, I – ’

‘That’s what we need.’

‘It’s ’cause I have a kid. I’m on my own with him. I can’t leave him alone at night, he – ’

‘That’s what we need.’

Steve leaves.

He sees the huddle of prostitutes in the street. It’s six o’clock. He needs some affection.

‘Meg?’

His neighbour. All that’s left of her are her eyes. Used to be pretty.

They head off together.

* * *

It’s slushy. Mélissa’s feet are wet, and her pants are soaking up the slop from the street.

Her mother isn’t with the group of prostitutes. Mélissa looks at them one by one.

It’s always the same ones, huddled together. Like a girl gang. There’s one close to her age. She’s skinny; in her high heels she’s like a raggedy stork. She looks back at her. Mélissa spits on the ground. Doesn’t like the girl. Little whore.

She slides a new envelope under the tire, then leaves, staring the girl down.

* * *

It’s dark on Rue Ontario. Meg is freezing.

Has a hard time opening the envelope, her hands are trembling so much. She asks the young girl to help her.

The stork grabs the envelope, tears it, takes out the note, reads it to Meg.

‘I can’t get the washing machine going.’

The stork looks at Meg.

‘Gimme a cigarette.’

‘Here.’

‘Thanks.’

Meg can’t hold the cigarette in her hands. The stork holds it so she can smoke. One puff at a time.

‘Want me to answer for you?’

Meg nods.

* * *

Steve pulls on his tights in front of the mirror.

Kevin is sitting on the edge of the bed, feet dangling. He looks at his father’s reflection in the mirror.

Steve puts on his skin-tight T-shirt, adjusts the sleeves.

‘Did your shirt shrink, Dad, or what?’

Steve looks at him, surprised.

Looks at himself again in the mirror.

‘Huh … I don’t know … Fuck.’ Steve sucks in his gut.

‘Put the cape on.’

‘Huh?’

‘Put the cape on overtop. Maybe it won’t show so much.’

Steve takes the cape out of the closet. Slips it over his shoulders. Attaches it. ‘So?’

Kevin gives his approval.‘That’s better.’

Silence.

‘Dad?’

‘No, little man. Not enough money.’

‘But you promised!’

‘Hey. Next week.’

* * *

From the window, Big looks tiny on the street in the falling snow; even with his cape, people could crush him. Kevin blows warm air on the window and writes fuck you in the condensation.

* * *

In an alley, on a stoop, Meg dictates to the stork, who concentrates on writing.

‘First you put the clothes in. Whites and colours separately.’

‘Wait, slow down!’

‘ … ’

‘ … co-lours sep-a-rate … Okay, then what?’

‘You put the blue liquid in the little holder, the one on the right.’

‘ … in the lit-tle hol-der … ’

‘On the right.’

‘On the right.’

‘Shut the door tight so the …