As Dust Dances, Page 2
Samantha Young
“Hi,” I said as I walked over, staring down at them with sympathy twinging in my chest. It was odd, but I didn’t feel like I had anything in common with them other than that we were all homeless. I just couldn’t picture myself looking as uncared for as these two.
“How ye doin’, Busker Girl?” Mandy grinned up at me. Her teeth were thick with grime and decay that I no longer flinched at the sight of. I bought a new toothbrush every six weeks. It wasn’t electric but it was better than nothing and I used little disposable dental floss harps too. I was vigilant about keeping my teeth and gums healthy.
“She has a name, ye know.” Ham rolled his eyes at his woman.
I’d given them the false name of Sarah.
“Busker Girl is closer to the truth,” Mandy said, giving me a knowing smile.
She saw through me. I didn’t think she recognized me, but she knew I wasn’t called Sarah and she made me squirm with the way she seemed to be able to peer into me. Still, I liked her because she never pushed me for real information.
“Ach, leave the lass alone,” Ham said. Ham, short for his surname of Hamilton, wasn’t the first heroin addict I’d ever met. He was the most tragic. Tall, all lean muscle and tattoos, he had beautiful green eyes and a face that would’ve been incredibly handsome if it weren’t for the physical effects of the heroin. It was thin, drawn, his skin a grayish color, and his teeth were even worse than Mandy’s. Not only yellow and diseased, but his left canine tooth was broken and his right incisor was missing entirely. They had told me their stories the first time we met.
Mandy ran away from an abusive home life. Her mom’s boyfriend sexually assaulted her on a regular basis and her jealous mother liked to slap her around in punishment, as if it were her fault. I’d felt sick to my stomach listening to the casual way Mandy told her story. As if she’d grown numb to it. I understood the numb part.
Living on the streets led Mandy to prostituting herself to survive. She developed severe anxiety and depression and was one more awful sexual experience away from committing suicide when she met Ham. Where Mandy wasn’t originally from the city, Ham was from a place called Ibrox that was less than fifteen minutes outside the city center. He got hooked on heroin at fifteen and his addiction cost him his family, most of his friends, and the ability to hold down a job.
Ham’s addiction didn’t bother Mandy. At least that’s what she told me. I felt sad for them both, not only because of what they’d been through or because they were sleeping on the streets. I felt sad because I could tell Ham loved Mandy. But when Ham had wandered off that day to speak to another homeless guy they knew, Mandy told me she was only with him because he protected her from other men and he didn’t mind the bad days she had with her untreated anxiety. Don’t you love him? I’d asked. As a friend, she replied. But it was clear she was offering him more than mere friendship for his protection, and I wanted to cry for her, because she was still prostituting herself . . . just in a different way.
“What’s up?” I asked, not really wanting to spend much time around them because they were too much of a dose of harsh, cold reality for my liking.
Before either could answer, the first fat raindrop fell from the sky.
“Fuck,” Ham glared upwards. “Knew it.”
“Are you guys going to find shelter?”
“It’s just a bit of rain. First wash I’ll have had in days,” Mandy laughed.
“Where ye off tae?” Ham asked.
I shrugged. I didn’t tell anyone where I camped out. “Going to get a wash, a meal.”
Mandy suddenly scowled at me. “Ye still on yer own? What did we tell ye about that, Busker Girl? Ye need a man. Or ye need tae find yerself some other women.”
Ham gave me a look of concern. “Or stay with us. We’ll protect ye.”
I knew he didn’t mean anything sexual by it, but I still shuddered at the thought. They both insisted that I was leaving myself vulnerable to assault by being on my own. Having wandered the city for a good few months now, I did see quite a few homeless people in pairs or as they’d suggested, women who camped out in small packs.
But I was being smarter than all of them. I slept where no one ventured, far away from the city center. I didn’t need anyone else to keep myself safe.
“I look like a slight breeze could knock me over but it’s only a façade. I can kick arse, you know.” I grinned, trying to reassure them as I took a step back. “I can look after myself. Promise.”
“Ye’re going tae find yerself in trouble one of these days, Busker Girl!” Mandy called after me, and her words sounded prophetic in a way that sent a blast of cold shivers down my spine.
You’re being silly, I told myself, shaking off the feeling. I was fine.
I didn’t have their problems. I was being smart because despite my age, I had a lifetime of experience to fall back on.
This was my life right now. I liked it like this. I worried about important, basic-necessity stuff and all the other shit went away. I’d keep being smart as long as it meant not having to think about who I used to be.
* * *
THE BUS WAS ONLY A fifteen-minute journey north. I got off at a stop that was a mere five-minute walk from the swim center. It was always this particular center because it was a ten-minute walk from the laundromat I used and a twenty-minute walk from where I slept.
Every Saturday it was the same receptionist behind the desk. She was a nice girl who graciously held onto my guitar for me after I paid for my swim ticket. There was a sadness in her smile when she handed me the ticket, so I knew she knew I wasn’t there to swim. Still, she let me in.
Her kindness pricked my pride a little, but I didn’t have time for pride, I reminded myself as I wandered into the ladies’ changing room. The tiled floors had puddles of water here and there, the tiled walls glistened with condensation, and the large space was thick with the now-comforting smell of chlorine. I found one of the larger lockers free, hauled out my cheap shampoo and conditioner, my shaving cream and razor, a towel, and my body wash. After putting the rucksack into the locker with care not to damage my tent, I stripped down to my underwear.
Growing up, I’d never really been body conscious. As a teenager I developed slim curves, I fit into a size four, and no one ever mentioned my weight to me so it was never a factor. I didn’t fit in with the popular kids but I had a band, a fun group of friends, and we were too busy concentrating on finding success in the music industry to care about stuff our peers cared about. So truthfully, I’d only ever grown insecure about my looks when the band took off.
Anytime we posted to our Instagram, there were always comments about how I looked in the photo. If the angle was weird, had I put on weight? Was I pregnant? Who knocked me up? Maybe I should get a boob job? And I’d be so cute if I got a nose job.
Not all the comments were negative. Most were positive. Some were sexually creepy and invasive. It was amazing how easy it became to concentrate on those negative assholes though. To let them get to me when I’d never worried about my looks before. It was also disheartening that the negative comments racked up when some tabloid magazine announced I was dating a beloved famous guy because we’d been pictured together. They’d done that a few times over my career. Women could be vicious when they thought you didn’t deserve a guy they were fangirls over. Sad, but so fucking true.
Now I didn’t care about any of it. I didn’t have to.
I knew I was too thin now, but if anyone stared at me as I walked across the locker room in my worn underwear with my inexpensive products in my arms, I didn’t see it. I didn’t care.
Thankfully, finding a shower free, I stepped inside, ignoring the strands of strangers’ hair clogging the drain, and pulled the wet shower curtain over for privacy. After carefully stripping off my underwear, I rolled it up in my towel and set it outside the shower, hoping, as I always did, that no rat bastard would come along and steal it.
When the hot water hit, I closed my eyes and salivated over t
he sensation. There was nothing like a shower after days and days of going without one. I’d always taken a shower for granted. Now that it wasn’t a regular thing—being lucky if I could make enough money for one once a week—it was a pure joy. Not that I could really take the time to enjoy it because there was always someone waiting outside to use it next.
So I got to scrubbing. My body. My hair. Then I shaved. Mandy told me not to bother shaving. That leg hair kept you warmer in the winter. I’d been sleeping rough since late April and it had been pretty goddamned cold at night. Scottish summers weren’t exactly hot during the night but it had been manageable. It was September now. In a few short weeks, the nightly temperature would drop to not so manageable and I was trying not to worry about it.
Or the fact that my visitor’s visa was about to expire.
Feeling my stomach churn, I threw the thought out. I’d worry about it when the time came. My life was about working everything out on a day-to-day basis. It was simple. Easy.
After my shower, I felt more human again. I reached out, glad to find my towel and underwear still there. I wrapped the towel around me and walked out, ignoring the huffy look of the woman who was waiting to use the shower next. I locked myself in a nearby cubicle so I could dry off in private.
Back in my underwear, I left the cubicle to retrieve my stuff out of the locker. Once I was dressed and organized, I got out my hairbrush.
I was blow drying my hair, trying not to look too closely at myself in the mirror when it happened.
The feel of a penetrating stare began to niggle until I couldn’t ignore it, and my eyes slid across my reflection to that of the young teen standing next to me. She was staring at me openmouthed with an excitement glittering in her eyes that I recognized. Fear slammed through me and I quickly looked away, blasting that hair dryer all over my head as if it would speed up the process somehow.
When I eventually switched off the dryer, I knew she was still staring.
Crap.
I grabbed my stuff and turned to leave. Quickly.
“Hey!”
Oh God.
I glanced over my shoulder, scowling at her.
Her smile faltered. “Ye look like Skylar Finch. Anyone ever told ye that?”
My English accent in place, I lied, “I don’t know who that is.”
The teen’s face fell at my response or the accent, I wasn’t sure. “Yeah . . .” Her voice lowered to a mutter, “As if Skylar Finch would come swimming here.”
I left without replying, forcing myself not to feel anything about the encounter. Well . . . forcing myself to pretend to not feel anything about the encounter.
My next stop was my focus. The laundromat, or launderette as they called it here. What little clothes I had I put into the washing machine and instead of waiting, I took a walk to the local fish-and-chip shop and bought my dinner along with two bottles of water. It was still raining, so I ate my fish and chips in the sheltered doorway of the laundromat. To be honest, I struggled to finish it, throwing half of it away. Fish and chips were cheap and filling, but after weeks and weeks of eating cheap junk food, I thought maybe my body was starting to reject it.
It was a monotonous wait for my clothes to come out of the dryer, but I didn’t mind. I was warm and dry in the laundromat. Apparently there was a God, however, because the rain cleared up as I headed toward my sleeping quarters. It had taken me a while to get used to the lighter nights here. During the summertime in this part of the country, it didn’t get dark until close to eleven o’ clock at night. But the nights had started to grow dark earlier and earlier over the last few weeks and as it approached seven thirty, the sky darkened.
By the time I reached my destination—the large, padlocked gates of the cemetery—night had fallen. The gates of the cemetery sat on a busy main road. Streetlamps lit the way, as did the glare of headlights as cars frequently passed.
I waited until there were no cars, then I stepped up onto the ledge of the brick pillar the gates were bolted into, grabbed hold of the iron bars, and hauled myself up and over, taking care to not let the spear-pointed tips of the bars bite into me.
Landing on the other side, the impact vibrated up my legs but they were strong from walking everywhere. Taking out my mini flashlight, I lit up the path in front of me and began to make my way through the cemetery.
Weirdly, the place didn’t freak me out at night. It had become my sanctuary where I was safe from the outside world. It was a quiet place to rest my head and I fancied my silent neighbors were somehow protecting me.
It was a large cemetery and I walked for quite a bit toward my spot. The council had been out to mow today—I could smell the freshly cut grass along with the usual familiar smell of damp earth and mingled floral scents from the flowers left by people visiting their relatives. The smell grew fainter as I moved toward the small copse of trees way up in the back that I liked to set my tent by. The stones close to the trees were so old, the engravings had faded until some were near impossible to read.
Once I had my tent up, my sleeping bag out, a pillow, the throw blanket I’d got on sale and used for extra warmth, I got in, got comfy, and pulled out one of the two books I carried with me.
Poison Study by Maria V. Snyder. I’d read it a million times, but it had become a comfort read. It and Graceling by Kristin Cashore. I was a fantasy fan. And I loved reading about wicked-strong heroines who kicked ass despite the odds.
As I read, I forgot about where I was, or that it was cold. I forgot about the outside world entirely for a while. I knew Ham, Mandy, and a lot of the other homeless folks in the city kept in touch with the outside world with their phones. I didn’t know how they got phones. If they stole them or stole money to buy them. Or if they saved up all the money strangers gave them to buy a cheap phone so they could connect with each other and the world. But they did it. They charged them at charging points in coffee shops and used free Wi-Fi there to go on the internet. Some of them even had Facebook pages. No home. But they had a Facebook page.
I, however, didn’t want anything to do with the outside world. The outside world was a distant memory.
Instead I read about Yelena learning about poisons as she studied to be a food taster. I read about her survival and her strength. And that night I closed my eyes and fell asleep in the cemetery that had become my home, knowing I had what it took to survive this life I’d chosen.
* * *
THE AIR HELD THE COPPERY scent of rain. Diesel fumes, coffee, and rain. However, I wouldn’t let the thought of impending rain worry me as I stood on Buchanan Street the following Saturday. I was too busy trying not to let the little shit who had set up close beside me with his PA system bother me.
He was trying to bother me, making that clear when he’d thrown a smug, arrogant smirk my way as he halted closer to my spot than was polite to set up. There was a code among buskers, and he was breaking its most important rule; he was deliberately attempting to drown me out. And doing a great job of it. Anyone who took the time to stop was stopping to listen to him mimic Shawn Mendes.
Yet, I continued. I’d become a master at pretending young male musicians weren’t getting under my skin. I mean, I’d been in a band with three of them and we traveled on a tour bus together, for God’s sake. This kid had no idea how good I’d gotten at pretending assholes like him didn’t exist.
And when to take my opportunity for payback.
It happened as soon he lowered his voice to sing a Coldplay ballad.
I belted out “Chandelier” by Sia. A notoriously difficult song to sing and one that tended to impress people when you could. People drew to a stop, crowding around me as my voice rose above the kid’s PA system.
Then the camera phones came out, making me lower my head, shielding my face with my fedora. One of these days, those goddamned camera phones were going to get me in trouble. How long before someone on the internet went, “Hey, she sounds exactly like Skylar Finch. Wait . . . that is Skylar Finch!”
I shook off the worries and kept singing.
As the applause died down, someone in the crowd called out, “Gonnae sing ‘Titanium’?”
Between the constant rainfall during the week and the dropping temperatures in the tent at night, I’d had to spend most of my money on a raincoat and a couple of fleece-lined hoodies to wear in bed. What little it left me with I’d spent on a shower and the laundromat. I needed the money, so I sang “Titanium,” particularly enjoying the moment when the kid with the PA system started to belt out a rock track and was told to shut up by one of the guys standing in my crowd.
My amusement died a sudden death, however, when the sky abruptly opened up—fast, hard, fat raindrops drenching people in seconds and causing them to yelp and duck for cover. They left me, dripping cold and wet, with a guitar case full of small change that wasn’t even enough to buy a coffee. There was only enough there to buy fries from McDonalds.
I took a deep breath, bracing myself to go to bed hungry, trying not to let the panic set in that my life here was taking a turn for the worse because of the weather. Deep down, I knew it was only going to get more difficult, but I’d have to find a way to survive it.
Part of me wanted to go over to the kid who was hurriedly packing up his PA system with the help of some friends and kick him in the nuts for ruining most of my day. He was dressed in good clothes, wearing expensive sneakers, and he looked well fed and taken care of. He didn’t need the money. He just wanted the attention. I felt like screaming over to him, “We’ve already got one Shawn Mendes. We don’t need another, sweetheart!” But that was petty and I didn’t have the energy.
