he carries away in one fist smells like a hot mince pie. Something inside the shop must have fallen down, because there is a clattering sound. I stay as still as possible. Pretty soon after that Mama comes out. Her face is gray and tight.
“Come on, Grace, let’s go.”
She breathes in, puffing her chest out, and takes my hand. She glances down at my dusty tights.
“What about my doughnut?” I whisper. It’s a stupid thing to ask, but I am so hungry my tummy is hurting.
“What?”
“My doughnut …”
I brace myself as she brushes me down. Her hand is hard and efficient.
A man in a white apron rushes out of the shop. He starts to plead with Mama.
“Hell, you’ve got to give me a few seconds to get used to the idea.” His cheeks are red like apples; he smells like hot sugar. “You can’t come waltzing in with that kind of news right in the middle of a shift.” He shakes his head. “Why d’you always have to be so bloody crazy, so—” He stops speaking as his gaze drops to take me in. He sucks in a good long look at my face, and his mouth falls open. His eyes are soft, as blue as painted china. I notice his hands are covered in flour, but underneath they are wide and square with nails cut short and neat. “Is this …” He is still staring at me with his eyes as round as saucers.
The way he is staring makes me nervous, so I stop looking at his face and notice a tattoo peeking out from beneath his sleeve. It is a baby bluebird carrying a pink ribbon. I always wished for ballet shoes with pink ribbon like that. My feet are really sore and swollen in my boots and I want to cry, but Mama is so mad I keep it inside. Instead I will ask one last time. Just in case she forgot and it is sitting on the counter. Mama doesn’t like to buy something and then forget it; it would be a waste of money. I imagine the lonely paper bag, darkening with grease, waiting to be remembered. I tug at the hem of her pretty coat.
“The doughnut, Mama?”
Mama looks down at me with a look like I will stay quiet if I know what is good for me.
“Forget the bloody doughnut,” she hisses through her glossy red lips, turning away.
“Hey! Hey, wait …” croaks the baker, his hands hanging limply at his sides, face as fallen as a half-cooked sponge cake.
I am half dragged and half carried back down the street. Past the charity shop with the partially clad mannequins and the bank and the post office. The man is still yelling for Mama to stop, but he doesn’t move to follow us. I twist back to see his face before we are too far away and it is white and sad, but he just stands there, like a statue. Before long he and my doughnut and the bakery are small and in the distance, and we are across a park and around a corner and back at a train station.
* * *
I am woken by a metallic jingling. Pete is struggling to get in, his keys rattling as he tries to force one into the lock. I imagine him swearing on the other side of the door. I think about getting up to help him, but the wine running through my veins keeps me rooted dumbly to the spot, legs curled up into the chair and blinking to see in the darkness. I guess it is late; my feet are cold. I scrunch up tighter to conserve warmth. Pete gets the door unlocked and swings it forward. He staggers like a drunken sailor in the bright square of light. From here he is only a silhouette. I wait for him to call to me, but he stays there, huffing out air. When he closes the door, the room is once again in a deep, velvety darkness.
He moves into the bathroom, his footsteps heavy and deliberate. I can’t see him from where I am lying, but I can hear the tap being turned on and water being splashed. There is the whipping sound of a belt coming off and grunting as shoes thud to the tiled floor. Awake now, I stretch, my toes pressed out and back arched like a cat’s. I walk past the bathroom, but the door is closed. I put on one of his old T-shirts and climb into bed, grateful for
“Come on, Grace, let’s go.”
She breathes in, puffing her chest out, and takes my hand. She glances down at my dusty tights.
“What about my doughnut?” I whisper. It’s a stupid thing to ask, but I am so hungry my tummy is hurting.
“What?”
“My doughnut …”
I brace myself as she brushes me down. Her hand is hard and efficient.
A man in a white apron rushes out of the shop. He starts to plead with Mama.
“Hell, you’ve got to give me a few seconds to get used to the idea.” His cheeks are red like apples; he smells like hot sugar. “You can’t come waltzing in with that kind of news right in the middle of a shift.” He shakes his head. “Why d’you always have to be so bloody crazy, so—” He stops speaking as his gaze drops to take me in. He sucks in a good long look at my face, and his mouth falls open. His eyes are soft, as blue as painted china. I notice his hands are covered in flour, but underneath they are wide and square with nails cut short and neat. “Is this …” He is still staring at me with his eyes as round as saucers.
The way he is staring makes me nervous, so I stop looking at his face and notice a tattoo peeking out from beneath his sleeve. It is a baby bluebird carrying a pink ribbon. I always wished for ballet shoes with pink ribbon like that. My feet are really sore and swollen in my boots and I want to cry, but Mama is so mad I keep it inside. Instead I will ask one last time. Just in case she forgot and it is sitting on the counter. Mama doesn’t like to buy something and then forget it; it would be a waste of money. I imagine the lonely paper bag, darkening with grease, waiting to be remembered. I tug at the hem of her pretty coat.
“The doughnut, Mama?”
Mama looks down at me with a look like I will stay quiet if I know what is good for me.
“Forget the bloody doughnut,” she hisses through her glossy red lips, turning away.
“Hey! Hey, wait …” croaks the baker, his hands hanging limply at his sides, face as fallen as a half-cooked sponge cake.
I am half dragged and half carried back down the street. Past the charity shop with the partially clad mannequins and the bank and the post office. The man is still yelling for Mama to stop, but he doesn’t move to follow us. I twist back to see his face before we are too far away and it is white and sad, but he just stands there, like a statue. Before long he and my doughnut and the bakery are small and in the distance, and we are across a park and around a corner and back at a train station.
* * *
I am woken by a metallic jingling. Pete is struggling to get in, his keys rattling as he tries to force one into the lock. I imagine him swearing on the other side of the door. I think about getting up to help him, but the wine running through my veins keeps me rooted dumbly to the spot, legs curled up into the chair and blinking to see in the darkness. I guess it is late; my feet are cold. I scrunch up tighter to conserve warmth. Pete gets the door unlocked and swings it forward. He staggers like a drunken sailor in the bright square of light. From here he is only a silhouette. I wait for him to call to me, but he stays there, huffing out air. When he closes the door, the room is once again in a deep, velvety darkness.
He moves into the bathroom, his footsteps heavy and deliberate. I can’t see him from where I am lying, but I can hear the tap being turned on and water being splashed. There is the whipping sound of a belt coming off and grunting as shoes thud to the tiled floor. Awake now, I stretch, my toes pressed out and back arched like a cat’s. I walk past the bathroom, but the door is closed. I put on one of his old T-shirts and climb into bed, grateful for
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