Pin Drop

By Roz Monette and Rebecca Sims-Nichols

Self-proclaimed atheist virgin, Mo Perez, has no interest in meeting Mr. Right. She has enough problems trying to cope with her foster care upbringing, her alternative education classes, and constant financial hardships thanks to Marci, her 21-year-old sister and legal guardian who refuses to get a real job. It's a lot for a 16-year-old to h

• Language: English
• Publisher: Cedar Grove Books
• Release date: Jun 6, 2015
• ISBN: 9781941958100

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Roz Monette

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Pin Drop is a work of fiction. Names characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Pin Drop

Copyright © 2014 by Roz Monette

Cover art copyright © 2014 by Rebecca Sims

All rights reserved.

Published and printed in the United States of America.

Library of Congress Catalog Card Number 2014947186

ISBN 13: 978-1-941958-07-0/eBook ISBN 978-1-941958-10-0

No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, digital, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

For more information, contact [e-mail]

www.cedargrovebooks.com

PART ONE

CHAPTER ONE

My name is Mo Perez. I’m 16 years old. You can always find a girl named Mo, or Jo, or Bo on a reality show, so I’m told. I wouldn’t know. I don’t watch TV. I don’t have a TV. I read instead. And when I say I read books, I don’t mean Twilight, or Gossip Whores, or Sisterhood of the Traveling Idiots. There’s an outstanding building in most towns and schools called a library. So many people my age treat it like a hospital or dentist office, like it’s a place to avoid. Lucky them. I mean that. If you don’t understand the value of a library, then your life is very good.

It’s the 10th day of the month, which is the worst day of every month. I know we’re late on rent again. I can’t just stroll out of our one-room apartment and onto the Denver streets. George will stop me when he hears my footsteps. George is our landlord, and he knows my footsteps—my footsteps, my sister’s footsteps, and the footsteps of any tenant that is always late on rent. That’s us. Marci and I are always on the late list.

Marci is gone for the day. It’s Thursday, so she should check in tonight before disappearing for the weekend. I make the bed. By bed, I mean the queen mattress lying on the floor. It has one fitted sheet, torn at the corner, and a full-size comforter that covers us both if we cuddle real close. I let Marci have the pillow. I’ll get into that later. I’m a very light sleeper, so our bed doesn’t cause me much grief.

I gather Marci’s clothes off the floor, shake them out, and put them back in the closet. By closet I mean the metal bar that sticks out on the wall. It could have been a real closet in a real studio apartment had someone finished the construction job. But then it would cost more than $350 a month to live here. We also have a portable closet used for Marci’s homemade clothes, scarves, shawls, and other girly stuff. It’s a horizontal metal bar attached to two vertical bars with wheels on the bottom. It’s gone. It’s not stolen, although that knee-jerk thought does enter my mind. When you can count all your important possessions on one hand, you can’t help but assume the worst when one of them is out of sight. But it’s not stolen. It’s not stolen. . . . I’m telling myself that, not you. It’s safe and sound. It went with Marci for the day.

I know I’m kidding myself, but I’ll check anyway. There’s a compartment at the bottom of our toilet brush cleaner that hides our cash. I open it. Ten bucks. Great. Only—give me a second—uh, $340 to go to keep George off of our backs. I stick it in my back pocket.

It’s cold for September. A lot of people think Colorado is snow and cold starting in the fall. Not the case. The Front Range, or Denver area for the non-Coloradoans, is warm for the most part. We brag about our 300 days of sunshine a year. Just don’t visit between December and February because you’ll look around and think the sun disappeared forever.

I wet our only towel and wash down my face and armpits. I tie my hair into a ponytail with a rubber band I found on my high school’s bathroom floor. Think that’s gross? Boy, are you in for a treat if you stick with me.

I measure my hair with one of Marci’s sewing supplies fabric ruler things. Fourteen inches. I’m not trying to grow my hair. I just can’t afford a haircut, and I measure my hair because . . . I don’t know. It keeps me entertained. But enough about that. We’re poor. There’s more to me than that sad fact, so let’s not dwell on it.

Our kitchen looks like a sweatshop, littered with my sister’s sewing supplies. I open a few kitchen cabinets and find some Austin cheese and peanut butter crackers. There’s about two inches of soda left in the liter bottle, a bottle that sat on the counter overnight instead of in the fridge. So it’s warm. Oh, well. Breakfast is served. I down them both, grab my backpack, and I’m out the door.

I stop at the top of the stairs. The door leading outside is a straight shot from the last step. George’s office is to the right of the last step. His door is open. Sigh! I walk down the stairs.

George is sitting at his computer, and I can see his head peaking over the top. I’ve got one hand on the doorknob to temporary freedom And, and, he’s not stopping me! OK, then. Bye!

Mo! he yells from behind his desktop.

Yah?

You still owe me 30 dollars.

Thirty?

Your sister left the rent under my door. It was 30 dollars short.

Oh. She left you . . . My head hurts doing the numbers in my head, 320? That’s weird. I reach into my back pocket.

No. She left me 350. You guys owe me a 30 dollar late fee for last month.

I pull my hand out of my pocket and make a fist, holding it behind me so he can’t see the gesture.

Late fee, I say.

Yes. Late fee. The 10th means the 10th. Not 11th. I got it on the 11th last month.

There’s a panel in the ceiling above him leading I don’t know where—the attic, I’m guessing. In my mind, it opens like a trapdoor, and piles and piles of coins fall out and bury him to his neck. He can’t move or breathe. I tell him keep the change and walk away while he struggles against the coin coffin. That’s my Mo Imagination at work, like More Imagination, but it’s Mo Imagination because it’s mine, and I don’t share it with anyone. I make up little scenarios in my head when I’m in a tight spot. They make me feel better. I smile at the image. George scowls and leans back behind his computer. I leave.

It’s about a mile walk to my high school on one of the most infamous streets in Denver: Colfax. If you want to get shot, raped, robbed, buy drugs, sell drugs, sell your body, or buy someone else’s body, then Colfax is the place to be, with the scenic Rocky Mountains in the background.

I keep an empty Tic Tac box in my front jean pocket, so it looks like I have a cell phone. I can tell when a person is ready to mess with me. You may call that profiling. I call it survival. So don’t judge me. When I think I’m going to be jumped, I look the person directly in the eye and either stroke the fake cell phone bulge or reach in like I’m going to pull it out. They back off. Which is funny, really. If someone were to pull a gun or knife and I had a cell phone, so what? You’re about to shoot me, but I have a cell phone. Don’t make me . . . check my voicemail.

I wait at the intersection for the walk sign. Two girls from my high school stand next to me waiting for the same crosswalk. They both have iPhones with earbuds in their ears. We walk across the street. They walk faster and leave me behind. Then I watch them move next to each other about a half block ahead. One looks back at me. They take off their earbuds and start chatting. Typical. A lot of students don’t talk to me. Joke’s on them because of my personal policy: No Friends Allowed.

I get to the high school entrance, and there’s a football player holding the door for a group of girls.

Ladies. He smiles. They giggle. I’m four or five steps behind their pack. The last chick crosses the threshold. He sees me, lets the door go, and walks inside letting me open the door for myself. Again, typical. I mention that only because it just happened, not because I care.

I stop at my locker and unload my stuff. Ahh, my locker. It’s almost like a real closet with a door. And there’s a hook for my coat. Luxuries! There’s a triangular-shaped mirror attached to the inside door. The original was probably a rectangle, and this is the broken piece I found in the garbage. I check out my face. My tan skin, freckles, and blue eyes stare back at me. I turn my head and pull my super curly brown hair into a tighter ponytail.

The specific combination of my last name, my curly hair, and my year-round tan raise questions about my nationality. Tell me something: How many girls with straight hair, vampire skin, and a last name like Smith have total strangers ask about their nationality? I want to know why it matters. I want to know why people think they have the right to know.

I’m white. Sorry to disappoint the super curious. Good ole-fashion, Caucasian, boring, white. If you need to put a label on me, White Trash will do just fine.

I close my locker and head for first period, which is my first of only two periods. Allow me to explain: I’m a member of whatever term the student body calls us: freaks, lowlifes, troublemakers, teen dirt bags, and any other creative term which essentially means garbage. Maybe they can’t pronounce the words alternative education. We are the kids that get kicked out for stealing/fighting/drugs/whatever. We’re let back in when we can be kept in line. We’re kicked out when we give birth. We return when The State takes away our baby. We’re not part of the traditional school system. No, no, no. Save that valuable teacher time for the kids who have a fighting chance of becoming a useful member of society. We are blessed that the school district allows us to be housed in the same building as the students with a hopeful future. We’re in one room for three hours. We get an hour lunch break. Then we’re in another room for three more hours. We have one teacher for each three-hour block that will do his best to teach basic reading, writing, and math skills. Or, he will teach us the minimum skills needed to land a job at McDonald’s. But, since we’re not part of the regular school system, our pathetic test scores don’t drag down the scores of the entire school. If we can manage to walk out of here with a GED, lucky us. And this program has a cheerful name, to help us think better about ourselves. It’s called The Bounce Back Program.

I try not to complain about The Bounce Back Program because it does have benefits. Mr. Mark, for one. He is the morning teacher, but he calls himself advisor instead. Tom-A-to/Tom-Ah-to. Mr. Mark is at his desk when I walk in.

Morning, Pin Drop, he says.

Hi, Mr. Mark.

He invented that name, and he’s the only one allowed to use it. Pin Drop, as in it’s so quiet you can hear a pin drop. I’m not a quiet person. Mr. Mark is talking about me: my mouth, my thought process, my knack for saying things out loud that most people would keep to themselves. You’ll know what I mean the next time it happens. The room will go quiet for about 30 seconds after a Pin Drop remark.

The school bell rings, but that’s the bell for the rest of the school to start working. In here, we can goof off for another 30 minutes at least. This is Mr. Mark’s conference time. If you want some private time with him, you just walk to his desk and sit down. There’s always one out of the 10 of us who talk the poor guy’s ear off about some personal crisis. Momma yelled at me. Someone stole my bracelet. This girl looked at me wrong. My baby’s daddy didn’t come by like he said he would. Wah, wah, wah.

I’m going to pull out a pencil and my notebook, and I’ll thank you in advance for not laughing at my math skills.

I’ve got 10 dollars in my pocket. We owe Grumpy George another 30. If I give him 10, we still owe 20, and I assume my sister is out of cash. I’ve got three dog-walking jobs at eight dollars each, being optimistic. I look at the multiplication table taped to my notebook. I put one finger on the eight column, one finger on the three row, and then move them until they connect. Twenty-four. Eight times three is 24. Twenty of the 24 goes to George. So we’re caught up on rent, and I will have four dollars left. I smile, not because I’ll have four dollars to my name. Because I figured that out all by myself. I don’t have to sit in Mr. Mark’s chair and have him figure it out for me.

Alright. Mr. Mark stands and takes control. Who wants to learn today?

Aw.

Shoot.

He asks that question every day. He gets the same response every day. But he keeps trying, and with a smile on his face. Gotta respect that about the guy.

Let’s prepare you for the future. You guys will love this.

That’s another Mr. Mark catchphrase: You guys will love this. He must think we love a lot of things.

It’s a group exercise, so you guys know the drill. He points to opposite sides of the room. Yep, we know the drill. There are 10 of us. You would think that means two groups of five. Wrong. Seven are in one group, three in the other. I’m in the group of three with Crystal and Donnie. Mr. Mark always gives the Seven group their exercise first. We listen to it, then get our exercise, and Crystal and Donnie bitch because our assignment is harder. Those two don’t understand Mr. Mark’s approach. Pay attention, and see if you can figure it out.

The Seven group sits around a table with an alarm clock on it. Each person is given a sheet of paper with a pretend work schedule, Monday through Friday, with the schedule starting at a different time each day. There is a blurb at the top of each sheet that says, If it takes you one hour to get ready and 10 minutes to arrive at the job, what time would you have to set your alarm clock each day to show up to work on time? They fill in the times, then practice on how to set the alarm clock. Then they rotate sheets with different get-ready times, different traveling minutes, and different shift start times.

Humiliating. But that’s the highest expectation for that crew. Basic skills so they won’t get fired from a job standing behind a counter asking, Would you like fries with that? Forever.

Mr. Mark stands in front of us and flips on the overhead. He lays a transparency on the glass. The phrase Buzz Words displays on the whiteboard. Mr. Mark writes Adjectives and Nouns under it.

When you guys get out of here and go looking for jobs, you’re going to be up against a ton of people trying to get that same job. Those people will have more education and probably more experience than you. So you want to stand out in an interview. Today, we’re going to come with your own individual buzz phrase.

You mean, like, ‘bees,’ or something? Crystal asks.

No, buzz words have nothing to do with bees. Mr. Mark shakes his head. Donnie and I smile at each other. Did I mention Crystal just moved over to this group?

Buzz words are like catchphrases, something you can say that will stick in a person’s mind after you leave the room. Describe yourself in one adjective and one noun that no one else has heard of before. Or, something that you don’t hear very often. He looks at us and waits. Blank stares. I admit I’m wearing one too.

I’ll start, he says. I am a . . . Ambitious . . . , He writes under Adjectives, . . . Educator, he writes under Nouns.

I could also say . . . He starts a list of adjectives: dedicated, enthusiastic, motivated, etc. Then he makes a list of nouns: teacher, mastermind, parent, gentlemen, etc.

And these don’t have to be geared towards employment. The idea is to describe yourself in a unique way so people would remember you. Like, ‘hey, remember when we met that teenage genius?’

Yeah, I’m taking that one, Donnie says. He writes it down, closes his notebook, and says, I’m done.

Please take this exercise seriously, Mr. Mark says.

Donnie sighs and opens his notebook again.

Let’s start with your own lists of adjectives and nouns. Try to make a good combination of those. Can we do that? And for a quick review, a noun is . . . ?

We’re quiet. I know the answer, but sometimes I like to watch him get all worked up.

A what, what, or what?

I smile and don’t say anything.

You’re waiting for my heart attack? He’s looking right at me.

Person, place, or thing, I say.

Thank you, Mo. And the easiest way to know an adjective is to put what word in front of it?

Ooo! Very. Crystal raises her hand and smiles. Like ‘very pretty,’ or ‘very hungry.’

You guys make my day. Get to writing.

Let’s see—some Mo adjectives: teenage, angry, hostile, irritated, rejected, parentless, uneducated, poor, piss-poor, lonely . . .

I stop there. I don’t like this game. Let’s try nouns: female, sister, student, orphan, foster child, reader, atheist, virgin. This part isn’t any better. I may want to throw myself off the roof when I pair this list together.

Uneducated foster child. Oh, nice. That will make people remember me when I leave the room.

Poor orphan. Irritated sister. Lonely virgin. Let’s try that on. Hi, I’m Mo, the lonely virgin. I start laughing to myself. Both those things definitely describe me. Then it hits me as I’m scanning the list.

Can I use two nouns? My hand shoots in the air. I’m still looking at the paper. Mr. Mark is checking in on the alarm-clock people.

Can I use two nouns? I ask him louder. He walks towards me and looks at my list.

What did you have in mind?

I put one index finger on noun number one, the other on noun number two. This is me, Mo Perez, the perfect way to describe me. I don’t know when or where I’ll ever use it, but it is fun to know who I am. Mr. Mark cocks his head to one side like he doesn’t get it.

Huh! I write slow and clear for him: Atheist Virgin. I hold the paper in front of his face. He mouths the words and laughs.

A+ on the exercise, Mo. I’ve never heard that one before. And if helps you get a job, please let me know.

Crystal leans over to see what I wrote. I cross it out with dark, heavy lines.

Atheist Virgin. I don’t need to write that one down to remember it.

CHAPTER TWO

I’m in the public library doing an online search of Atheist Virgin, just to see if anyone has put those two together. Is this how I’m going to go down in history?

I guess not. There’s no athiestvirgin.com, but other people have used the term before. Some group has a Facebook discussion about it. Oh, well. I wasn’t planning to start an exclusive club. But good ole Mr. Mark gave me something to think about. I hate that about him. And I really like that about him.

I lost you by now; I’m sure. So, let me back up and talk about a phrase I know I didn’t invent: Foster Care.

I know there are people who went into foster care and came out of it OK, or at least have some good things to say about it. I’m not one of them. Maybe the odds were against us. Maybe our history scared away all the good foster parents. Who the hell knows? But mark my words; no matter what happens, I am never, ever going back to foster care. I would let myself die first. Until I pass the magical 18th-birthday mark, it’s still possible. That thought keeps me up at night.

I scan through the books on the to be shelved cart near the library entrance. Living Dead Girl sounds dark and interesting, right up my alley. I also grab a copy of To Kill a Mockingbird to read for the 100th time. I can use the self-checkout because I have a record-free library card. No late fees ever! And I’m on my way to work, alone with my thoughts. I don’t mean that in a good way. I have way too much time to think. Boredom can be like a fatal disease.

I don’t know my real father, and I’m not convinced my mom knows him either. She said his name was Bob. Yeah. Bob. Not much to go on. Marci’s real dad, and my temporary stepdad, is Sal.

From what Marci can remember, Ruth (our Mom), Sal, and Marci were living a normal life. They were in a decent house in a neighboring Denver town. Marci was three-and-a-half years old. Sal got a job that paid enough for Ruth to stop working. He worked a lot of nights and weekends. Ruth made friends and Bob spent a lot of time at their home. Marci remembers a blue car parked outside her bedroom window that served as her alarm clock. The engine roared every morning right before Sal came home. Sal working all night and sleeping all day must have put a stop to any bedroom activity. Sal put two and two together when Ruth’s belly started to bulge with good ole me inside. He forgave her—in the bruised and bloody sort of way—and adopted me.

Has anyone every asked you about your first memory? I’ve seen so many shrinks in my day that most of them run together. But I remember one particular shrink who was convinced your first memory shaped your attitude for the rest of your life. I told her mine, and that was the end of her shrinking days with me.

I was a year old, maybe. Probably younger. Marci and I shared a bedroom, and I was lying on my back in my crib. I could hear Marci snoring. Sal came home and knelt over Marci’s bed. I could hear him talking softly, although I had no idea what he was saying. I didn’t understand words but could understand feelings: safety, happiness, fear.

Next thing I knew, he was standing over me holding a big, pink pillow. That vision made me feel good. Calm. Happy. That pink pillow with frilly white things on the outside seam. It was always placed on Marci’s bed with her stuffed animals leaning against it. The pillow got closer and closer to my face until that’s all I saw—the pink fluffiness. The soft surface pressed against my nose, cheeks, and eyes. It pressed and pressed, and I could feel the white frilly things with my hands. The back of my head pressed into the mattress. Press, press, press. Then nothing.

I’m still here. That story couldn’t have ended much worse. That was the last time I saw Sal. Ruth went back to work. Marci started school, and I had babysitter after babysitter. There were so many I can’t even name one.

Ruth changed. I was too young to understand what happened. She didn’t shower as much. She had these weird scratches on her arms. She smoked cigarettes constantly that to this day if I see a cigarette, even if it’s not lit, I hold my breath.

I was potty trained by age three. Marci and I could open cereal boxes and get ourselves water. So, as far as Ruth was concerned, we were on the road to independence. Of course, Ruth still needed to make sure food was in the kitchen. If she could have done that, we may have never been introduced to social services.

I was four, and Marci was nine. There was no food in the house. Some people say, I have no food in the house, and there’s really a jar of mayo, or a half a box of Saltines. Something. But I mean there was NO food in the house. Marci found Ruth’s checkbook. She walked down to a local pizza shop, bought a medium pepperoni pizza, and wrote a check in pink marker. Success! She came home, and