Be My Bad Boy

“It'd only be for a few days," Dad said. "It's not like it's a big deal."
"You're kidding, right? I can't believe you’re asking me that."
I hugged the cash box to my chest. This was money I'd earned with my own sweat and brains. My precious money, well some of it was my precious money. Most of it, of course, had to go to the band. But I had a nice cut of it just for me.

Not only had he got me to agree to him staying with me for a few days, Dad now wanted to borrow the money we'd made on the merchandise sales. When Dad realised I had a box full of cash, he'd come straight out and asked for it. He said he knew someone who could help him but he needed a few grand to tide him over. I could see his point – maybe he could use the money to get out of trouble – but I couldn't just give it to him like that.

Dad had settled down on a mattress on the floor. He had a small bag with him and not much else. He hadn't told me what he'd been doing since he left. I sat on the edge of my bed, removing my makeup.
I wanted to curl up in a little ball in my bed and have a good cry but I couldn't even do that with Dad there. I had to pretend to be happy to see him. This room, with its crappy furniture, worn and stained by lifetimes of random strangers using it, the draught coming up through the cracks in the floorboards, the stains on the walls – it'd been barely as much as I could deal with when I thought it was just for a few weeks but now, now I realised I'd be here much longer than that. There was no end in sight. I crumpled inside as though I'd fallen into a big, black hole, and the only way out was to scrape my way out inch by inch. There was no rescue team. I couldn't depend on Dad after all.

I'd always believed that Dad would return and, on that day, he'd have regained all his money and the house and the cars and my life. He'd come charging in and take me back to that life, handing me a fist full of bills to go shopping. All this poverty would dissolve away like the grime on my skin in the shower. I would never have to have another night of listening to the weird sounds of that house or worrying that I'd get home and find my door kicked in and all my stuff gone. I'd not have to catch the train and have to walk past that guy holding up the sign asking for money, the one who sat curled up with his clothes all turned to a sludgy grey. I'd not have to dress up in stupid costumes and hand out promotions to stupid, greedy people.

Instead he was in a worse position than me. Since he got back he couldn't even meet my eyes when he talked, and instead of bellowing in roars of laughter that shook his whole body, he'd become quiet.
I threw the used makeup wipes in the bin and turned out the main light.
I couldn't sleep though. All these emotions boiled up in me. Out there, my life, my real life, carried on without me in it. Like a soap opera when you missed a few episodes. My friends at uni got together for coffee and went to parties. Tom probably had a new girlfriend because he sure as hell hadn't called me. There would be an empty desk in the exam room. It wasn't fair. I didn't deserve this life. My muscles quivered and my eyeholes prickled. It was okay for people who were born poor. They knew how to deal with it. I'd grown up not even knowing how to use a washing machine or cook two minute noodles. I had no life skills. Then people laughed at me for not knowing stuff. I tried to choke back a sob.
"Are you okay, princess?"

Hearing him call me princess just made me want to sob more.
"What do you need the money for anyway?"
"It's not that I don't want to tell you, you’re just better off not knowing."
That didn't reassure me.
"I can't, Dad. If it was my money, I would in a heartbeat, but it's not."
He turned away from me and faced the wall. A lump rose up in my throat. I wasn't a princess anymore. I was a girl who had nothing.

I had to put the cashbox somewhere while I slept. If I hid it, Dad would see where it was. A band squeezed tight around my chest. Did I really not trust my own father? He'd do anything for me. He always had. But the look in his eyes when he'd asked for the money scared me. It reminded me of the sludgy grey man outside the station. It wasn't that I didn't trust him; I just didn't want him to have that temptation around. I put the box in my bed. Just in case. If I slept with it in my arms then I'd know where it was.
Dad still had his back to me but he wasn't asleep. I could tell by his breathing. It felt strange, having him sleeping in my room, yet familiar in a way. I'd almost drifted off to sleep when a flood of memories came rushing back. I didn't even know if they were real or just something I'd imagined.
"Dad, I want to know something? Dad?
"Yeah?"
"When I was a kid, we went away somewhere, right?"
He turned slightly.
"Huh?"
"Somewhere in Asia, I think? We stayed with a man and you slept on my floor like this."
He turned but didn't answer me for a long time. Just when I’d given up trying to get an answer, he spoke.
"Yeah. After your mother died. I couldn't cope with things and Harry got me to come and stay with him. What made you think of that now?"
So it was true.
But the dates didn't seem to match up. By my adding up, it didn't seem right. I'd been two years old when Mum died but, when we went away, I'd been in school.
"Where did we live before that? Where did we live with Mum?"
I tried to picture the house but all I had was a memory of a kitchen, a green and orange kitchen. On the top of the cupboard, she had a big, brown jar that had cookies in it. Those cookies were mighty tasty. I'd look up at the jar, hoping she'd notice and hand me a cookie and the whole kitchen smelled like cinnamon. That house had been small with that nice, warm kitchen.
Then it turned cold without Mum, and I was on my own a lot. One day, I climbed up on the bench and got down that jar. If Mum wasn't around to give me a cookie, I'd get one myself. It took me so long to get the lid off the jar. It was on tight or maybe I was just a weak little kid. Anyway, I finally got it off.
The cookie jar was empty. That's when I realised Mum wasn't around. She was gone. She'd never come back.

Notes

Crie. XC