That Girl (That Girl, #1)(4)

So the only way to survive this day is a trip to the grocery store. I always eat a hot meal at the diner. It’s the one and only perk of working almost every day of your life. My piece of shit apartment doesn’t have any appliances, so it’s always a cold meal for me. My shopping list is simple: cereal, chips, Lunchables, cookies, and bananas. Nothing exciting, but enough to get by. Today I’m in desperate need of body soap and shampoo. I’m always able to sneak a roll of toilet paper from the diner. Not classy, but survival mode has never been known to be fancy.

Today on the walk home I’m silently cursing myself for buying a pint of whole dill pickles. You know the type they sell at the movie theaters. I’ve only been to the movies one time, and that was with my mom and one of her boyfriends. I had to beg for Jazzy to come along, and my mom finally gave in, but I know it was only so she didn’t feel guilty for sending me off to a random theater while she and the man went to a different one. Thank God Jazzy did go, because my mom never met us afterward. We ended up walking home, and when we passed Horseshoe Bar we saw her from the front window.

All I remember Jazzy saying was, “At least you got one of those pickles. It was delicious.”

I remember at the time thinking it was definitely worth the pickle, the big comfy seat, and watching a movie. When I spotted the pickles twenty minutes ago on aisle nine, I knew I needed them. I sacrificed a week’s worth of Lunchables to buy the puppies, but now carrying them in the heat, not such a good idea. Three blocks and two turns left.

Goodbye, Jillian.





Chapter 3





412 Miles Gone



Every day I fight the uncontrollable urge to write to Jazzy. Her address is one I’ll never be able to forget. It’s practically my childhood home with all my memories, or at least the ones I want to remember. Building dirt volcanoes in the alley and having to borrow the vinegar from the old lady who lived across the street is one of my favorites. We were scared to death of that lady and played rock, paper, scissors to see who was going in. So many memories with Jazzy, but that’s all they’ll ever be.

I’ve found another small town in the middle of Iowa. Places like this are suitable for now. Not much danger and just enough space to fit in without sticking out like a sore thumb. I’ve noticed more “Help Wanted” posters in the smaller towns and feel safe walking to and from work. The anxiety that builds when I settle in a new place is completely unnerving. Every dark corner or strange person spooks me to my core, causing me to literally walk with my back against the wall until my routes are planned out.

The first thing I noticed while pulling in on the Greyhound was the Hempie Hotel. It’s an old fashioned, rundown dump of a place. It has a swimming pool in the center of it, with a border of one-story rooms around the outside, and one shamble of a larger office with chipping paint. You can tell that back in the day this hotel was the shit. I remember laying my head back on the bus seat and imagining all the rooms with fresh paint, the pool full of blue water, and little flamingos decorating the freshly clipped lawn instead of the white, peeling paint, weed-filled pool, and the litter lying around.

I took a chance and walked down to the hotel immediately after getting off the bus for two reasons. One, it was only three blocks from bus station with no turns, and two, there was a “Help Wanted” sign in the front window. At the time, I was guessing the sign was old, and the hotel was abandoned.

Three weeks later, I’m wrong. The hotel is run by Junior Guerro. He’s rarely around and rents rooms out for three hundred dollars a month. The sign happened to be for a waitress job across the street and a maid job for the rooms. Junior and his dad own the Hempie Hotel, Hempie Laund-O-Mat, and Hempie’s Café. They are real original on names.

Their business motto definitely falls under the category ‘less is more.’ They do the bare minimum to get by on everything. When cleaning rooms, I’m always forced to dilute the cleaning supplies with water, because I only have a bottle a week to use. There have been some construction workers loitering around the motel the last couple days. They’re in town building a new subdivision and strip mall. Absolutely lousy, disgusting pigs, but they are very generous when tipping at the restaurant.

Junior doesn’t care if I work seven days a week, twenty-four hours a day. There are very few rules and regulations he chooses to follow. The real downside to being employed by him and his father is the quality of food. At my last job, I always looked forward to a hot meal. I don’t even dare try the food at Hempie’s. I’ve seen the kitchen, witnessed what the cook does on break, and have watched the mold cut off bread and cheese. My job is just to smile and serve the food.

Not that Junior would care, but I use more than my fair share of cleaning supplies on my room. It’s actually a very nice place to live. My room is on the end, and so far the one next to mine has been empty. So there are no unwanted smells to linger and seep into my room. I have two large windows, whereas most rooms only have a small one in the bathroom.

The one negative is the room next door is where Junior brings all of his lady friends. I can’t tell if he’s a drug dealer, pimp, or just the slumlord of the town. Two nights ago, I found an abandoned lawn chair in one of the rooms and brought it back to mine. I have a mini – and I do mean a very mini – cement patio. Cleaning up the lawn chair and the fake plastic tree in the corner, I made my own little paradise on my back patio. I just had to climb out the back window, pretending it was a sliding glass door. Armed with a bowl of ice cream and a cheap smut book from the thrift store, I was ready to go on vacation in my paradise.