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Description
The Gypsy’s Niece
CHAPTER 14

Bibio* called at home to tell me it’s a busy night, and that she’s working till ten.
That should give me enough time to talk to Raphael…

I sit, as unmoving as stone, on the porch. A plane flies overhead. To entertain myself, I imagine the people in there.
Though I’m not a child anymore, my childish imagination has not run out.
I close my eyes, imagining a mother trying to calm her baby, reaching for some cinnamon gum in her carry-on, pointing out the shapes of the clouds…
No, no, I do NOT need to imagine that.
I envision Jerkface from Train, sitting in his plushy first-class seat. The blonde, busty flight attendant comes by with his drink, a martini that involves tomato. He eyes her, then smiles flirtatiously. Her eyes narrow because she doesn’t want to put up with that crap, so she accidentally-on-purpose drops the martini, spilling and staining his $100 pants in a place that makes it look like he’s having feminine problems.
I smile, then open my eyes to see Raphael pull up. He gets out, hands in his pockets. It occurs to me that I should probably get up, but I don’t.
He sits on the railing and says my name softly, like a question.
I can’t meet his gaze when I tell him this. It’s literally impossible.
“I’m pregnant.”
I risk a glance, and he has the expression of someone who’s just been slapped in the face.
“What-I-wh- Am I the father?”
What is it about this statement that renders people so totally dense? First Harper with the whole, “Wait…you had sex?” thing, and now this…
“What do you THINK? Yes, of course. God, Raphael. Try to stay with me here!”
“I…” he shakes his head and jumps off the railing, landing to the crinkle of the bushes below.
“I can’t handle this,” he says, backing away.
Something inside my snaps. My eyes tear up and I stand up, joints stiff from staying in sitting position for so long.
“You’re leaving.”
“Nadya, I…I mean…what can I do?”
I laugh harshly.
“You’re LEAVING. You’re seriously LEAVING. You’re leaving…”
My voice cracks.
“Me.”
“No! Yes. I don’t know…”
No way am I going to be the last one standing. I sprint to the bike I begged my aunt to get me at a garage sale, sliding on it, and pedal rapidly.
But he’s already pulling out, speeding down the road.
I hit my fist on a handle and pedal in the opposite direction he’s heading.
“Bastard,” I mutter, loathing everything I pass.

I stop at “Burger City” downtown, an overpriced restraunt with the same food as any fast-food joint on the menu, except for the once-in-a-blue-moon orders of salad, tablecloths, and fancy pickles on the side.
Mirthlessly, I check my wallet. I only have five bucks on me.
Great. So, I can buy soda, a fry, and a slice of tomato.
There are other places here I can probably afford, but I know from experience that a)the bathrooms stink b)the service sucks and c) there will be people from my school there, and I don’t want to see any of them.

I sip my glass of water slowly, waiting for my grouchy waitress, Irma, to bring me a root beer(they don’t have Coke here. Are they absolutely mental?).
Once I get my root beer, she asks me what I want to eat. I haven’t read a single word on the menu, so I dejectedly prepare to give her the money for the soda and say “nothing”, but a guy I’ve never seen before slides into the booth across from me, then says, “She’s with me.”
Irma of the withering expression and gruff tone brightens, her pack-a-day voice lilting.
“You want fries, sugar?”
“Yes ma’am.”
Observing mystery-guy, I see that he has reddish-gold hair, poofing a little just behind his ears, clear blue eyes, and a muscular stature.
Yummy.
He could be a god. A Greek god. A god of light! Apollo…
He is looking at me admiringly, and with a pang I realize this is what I want, what I need…to be adored and worthwhile, to flirt. To not have him know what’s inside me. To be safe.
“So,” I say casually, “she was awfully friendly. You a regular or something?’
“Just the owner’s son.”
Just slightly a braggart way of informing me this, but I push it aside.
“Really. And do you usually invite yourself over to eat with innocent girls?”
“No, just special girls.”
“By ‘special’ I assume you don’t mean ‘safety scissors special?’”
“Apollo” grins. Oh, what a grin!
“Correct.”
“I see,” I say, taking the bait. “What kind of ‘special’ girls?”
“You know…gorgeous brunettes that look like a challenge. Who look like they take everything in with their gaze…”
“How many of those have you encountered?”
“Hmmm. One.”
“Do you like her?”
“We’ll see. I’m pretty sure I do, though.”
Raphael who?

Two burgers, a shared plate of fries with “special sauce”(what is so “special” about ketchup mixed with mayo, anyway?), Apollo(right. He told me his name is Alex. Whatever.) pays.
I try not to think about the fact that after I went to the bathroom, my drink tasted funny. I try not to think about the fact that my head doesn’t feel connected to my neck…it feels like it’s floating somewhere else, far away…in Guatemala, maybe?

It’s dark outside, and dark in the backseat of his Cadillac where we’re making out. It feels like the stars are sternly watching.
The button of my jeans pops open, and the hot haze over my head slips off to cold, cutting clarity.
I snap them back closed and tell him, “No.”
His eyes darken with fury and my little voice cries, “Get out! Get out! GET THE HELL OUT OF HERE!!!”
Choking on real, live fear, my terror moves me to fumble towards the door handle. I hear a “click” and see him with the controls and the keys.
I pull the lock.
*Click*
It locks again.
I unlock…
*Click*
Two hand grab my shoulder and push me down.
I open my mouth to scream, but he anticipates this and claps a hand over my mouth. A shrill, “Mmm MMMM!” is the most I can manage.
I am drowning.
He tries to peel my shirt off. I kick him, one hand holding on to the button of my jeans, throwing my head back frantically, panic oozing through my mind and senses.
I have to get out of this, I can’t surrender this, I need to escape…
I know exactly where my pocket knife is: under my bed at home.
Tears slide down my face, and I feel cool lips on my temple. Alex murmurs, “It’s all right,” but there is still this terrifying, manic energy.
He tires pulling my hand off the top of my jeans.
“No,” I whisper, then, much louder, “PLEASE, no, stop!” His other hand goes over my mouth again.

Suddenly, I’m watching it. I’m watching my head go Slam! Slam! SLAM! Against the car door, dark mane flying back, my hands pushing, flailing, trying to bring myself up, getting pulled down again…and there’s this voice, not my voice but a different voice, close to my ear, indiscernible but persistent…

“Keep holding on…”

And I’m back. I take one hand behind me, he thinks this means I’ve given up, so he snaps open the button, reaches for the fly…
I shove the turning-end of my cherry chap-stick, with the little edges that make it go up and down, into his eye. He yelps, I shove it in again, hoping his eyeball has popped out, but when he opens it it’s just red.
Now that he’s distracted, I push him, hard, take my other arm up to take the window down.
“I…said…NO!” I scream.
“Help! HELP!” I use all the air in my arms to call for it, kick his hand, unlock the door, and tumble out, feeling the sharp pain on my back and the reassurance of hard pavement. The car door slams.
Someone runs over, a fifty-something man with curling white hair, silver-rimmed glasses, and kind, concerned eyes.
“I heard! I heard you! What happened?” he asks, bending down.
I attempt to pull myself up. Doesn’t work. Alex, of course, is already racing away in his stupid car.
“He…tried…rape,” I manage to get out.
His brow furrows.
“Did he?”
“No…I…got…away…Ha,” I say weakly.
“I was just parking, I should have noticed sooner, I’m so sorry, miss…do you know his name?”
“Alex. His…Dad…owns…that place.” I wave my hand towards the restraunt.
“What is your name, dear?”
“Nadya…Bashalde.”
The older man tries pulling me up.
“Let’s get you home. I’ll call the police. Where do you live?”

When he lets go of my wrist, I fall, and a black blanket blocks everything out….

Description
The Gypsy’s Niece
CHAPTER 14

Bibio* called at home to tell me it’s a busy night, and that she’s working till ten.
That should give me enough time to talk to Raphael…

I sit, as unmoving as stone, on the porch. A plane flies overhead. To entertain myself, I imagine the people in there.
Though I’m not a child anymore, my childish imagination has not run out.
I close my eyes, imagining a mother trying to calm her baby, reaching for some cinnamon gum in her carry-on, pointing out the shapes of the clouds…
No, no, I do NOT need to imagine that.
I envision Jerkface from Train, sitting in his plushy first-class seat. The blonde, busty flight attendant comes by with his drink, a martini that involves tomato. He eyes her, then smiles flirtatiously. Her eyes narrow because she doesn’t want to put up with that crap, so she accidentally-on-purpose drops the martini, spilling and staining his $100 pants in a place that makes it look like he’s having feminine problems.
I smile, then open my eyes to see Raphael pull up. He gets out, hands in his pockets. It occurs to me that I should probably get up, but I don’t.
He sits on the railing and says my name softly, like a question.
I can’t meet his gaze when I tell him this. It’s literally impossible.
“I’m pregnant.”
I risk a glance, and he has the expression of someone who’s just been slapped in the face.
“What-I-wh- Am I the father?”
What is it about this statement that renders people so totally dense? First Harper with the whole, “Wait…you had sex?” thing, and now this…
“What do you THINK? Yes, of course. God, Raphael. Try to stay with me here!”
“I…” he shakes his head and jumps off the railing, landing to the crinkle of the bushes below.
“I can’t handle this,” he says, backing away.
Something inside my snaps. My eyes tear up and I stand up, joints stiff from staying in sitting position for so long.
“You’re leaving.”
“Nadya, I…I mean…what can I do?”
I laugh harshly.
“You’re LEAVING. You’re seriously LEAVING. You’re leaving…”
My voice cracks.
“Me.”
“No! Yes. I don’t know…”
No way am I going to be the last one standing. I sprint to the bike I begged my aunt to get me at a garage sale, sliding on it, and pedal rapidly.
But he’s already pulling out, speeding down the road.
I hit my fist on a handle and pedal in the opposite direction he’s heading.
“Bastard,” I mutter, loathing everything I pass.

I stop at “Burger City” downtown, an overpriced restraunt with the same food as any fast-food joint on the menu, except for the once-in-a-blue-moon orders of salad, tablecloths, and fancy pickles on the side.
Mirthlessly, I check my wallet. I only have five bucks on me.
Great. So, I can buy soda, a fry, and a slice of tomato.
There are other places here I can probably afford, but I know from experience that a)the bathrooms stink b)the service sucks and c) there will be people from my school there, and I don’t want to see any of them.

I sip my glass of water slowly, waiting for my grouchy waitress, Irma, to bring me a root beer(they don’t have Coke here. Are they absolutely mental?).
Once I get my root beer, she asks me what I want to eat. I haven’t read a single word on the menu, so I dejectedly prepare to give her the money for the soda and say “nothing”, but a guy I’ve never seen before slides into the booth across from me, then says, “She’s with me.”
Irma of the withering expression and gruff tone brightens, her pack-a-day voice lilting.
“You want fries, sugar?”
“Yes ma’am.”
Observing mystery-guy, I see that he has reddish-gold hair, poofing a little just behind his ears, clear blue eyes, and a muscular stature.
Yummy.
He could be a god. A Greek god. A god of light! Apollo…
He is looking at me admiringly, and with a pang I realize this is what I want, what I need…to be adored and worthwhile, to flirt. To not have him know what’s inside me. To be safe.
“So,” I say casually, “she was awfully friendly. You a regular or something?’
“Just the owner’s son.”
Just slightly a braggart way of informing me this, but I push it aside.
“Really. And do you usually invite yourself over to eat with innocent girls?”
“No, just special girls.”
“By ‘special’ I assume you don’t mean ‘safety scissors special?’”
“Apollo” grins. Oh, what a grin!
“Correct.”
“I see,” I say, taking the bait. “What kind of ‘special’ girls?”
“You know…gorgeous brunettes that look like a challenge. Who look like they take everything in with their gaze…”
“How many of those have you encountered?”
“Hmmm. One.”
“Do you like her?”
“We’ll see. I’m pretty sure I do, though.”
Raphael who?

Two burgers, a shared plate of fries with “special sauce”(what is so “special” about ketchup mixed with mayo, anyway?), Apollo(right. He told me his name is Alex. Whatever.) pays.
I try not to think about the fact that after I went to the bathroom, my drink tasted funny. I try not to think about the fact that my head doesn’t feel connected to my neck…it feels like it’s floating somewhere else, far away…in Guatemala, maybe?

It’s dark outside, and dark in the backseat of his Cadillac where we’re making out. It feels like the stars are sternly watching.
The button of my jeans pops open, and the hot haze over my head slips off to cold, cutting clarity.
I snap them back closed and tell him, “No.”
His eyes darken with fury and my little voice cries, “Get out! Get out! GET THE HELL OUT OF HERE!!!”
Choking on real, live fear, my terror moves me to fumble towards the door handle. I hear a “click” and see him with the controls and the keys.
I pull the lock.
*Click*
It locks again.
I unlock…
*Click*
Two hand grab my shoulder and push me down.
I open my mouth to scream, but he anticipates this and claps a hand over my mouth. A shrill, “Mmm MMMM!” is the most I can manage.
I am drowning.
He tries to peel my shirt off. I kick him, one hand holding on to the button of my jeans, throwing my head back frantically, panic oozing through my mind and senses.
I have to get out of this, I can’t surrender this, I need to escape…
I know exactly where my pocket knife is: under my bed at home.
Tears slide down my face, and I feel cool lips on my temple. Alex murmurs, “It’s all right,” but there is still this terrifying, manic energy.
He tires pulling my hand off the top of my jeans.
“No,” I whisper, then, much louder, “PLEASE, no, stop!” His other hand goes over my mouth again.

Suddenly, I’m watching it. I’m watching my head go Slam! Slam! SLAM! Against the car door, dark mane flying back, my hands pushing, flailing, trying to bring myself up, getting pulled down again…and there’s this voice, not my voice but a different voice, close to my ear, indiscernible but persistent…

“Keep holding on…”

And I’m back. I take one hand behind me, he thinks this means I’ve given up, so he snaps open the button, reaches for the fly…
I shove the turning-end of my cherry chap-stick, with the little edges that make it go up and down, into his eye. He yelps, I shove it in again, hoping his eyeball has popped out, but when he opens it it’s just red.
Now that he’s distracted, I push him, hard, take my other arm up to take the window down.
“I…said…NO!” I scream.
“Help! HELP!” I use all the air in my arms to call for it, kick his hand, unlock the door, and tumble out, feeling the sharp pain on my back and the reassurance of hard pavement. The car door slams.
Someone runs over, a fifty-something man with curling white hair, silver-rimmed glasses, and kind, concerned eyes.
“I heard! I heard you! What happened?” he asks, bending down.
I attempt to pull myself up. Doesn’t work. Alex, of course, is already racing away in his stupid car.
“He…tried…rape,” I manage to get out.
His brow furrows.
“Did he?”
“No…I…got…away…Ha,” I say weakly.
“I was just parking, I should have noticed sooner, I’m so sorry, miss…do you know his name?”
“Alex. His…Dad…owns…that place.” I wave my hand towards the restraunt.
“What is your name, dear?”
“Nadya…Bashalde.”
The older man tries pulling me up.
“Let’s get you home. I’ll call the police. Where do you live?”

When he lets go of my wrist, I fall, and a black blanket blocks everything out….