“Ready?”

“Ready.” I step up beside her, smiling in the good way I can.

As we start to walk to her house, I hear it before I start cringing. Mom falling down on the floor. Don't turn around, I say to myself, and keep walking, head down. Heel. Toe. Heel. Toe. Focus, Autumn. Focus.

Yet I don't.

I stumble on a risen piece of concrete, and instead of smashing my face on concrete, I'm running smack into a chest. Before whoever saved me from bashing my skull open on the pavement says a word, I'm moving away and muttering a small thank you, and following Mrs. Maria to her house.

The guy behind me yells, “You're welcome!”

I don't respond back. I never really had that much interaction with teens my age, because I was always stuck in the house. Dad said to come back home at 3:30. No later than that, or else. When I was twelve, I was rebellious and I had enough hate for Dad that I didn't come home at 3:30. I came back at 5, because I was at the local bookstore. Mom, surprisingly, was unscathed. As she slept, Dad whipped his belt across his hand, whispering, “You've been a bad, bad child.”

I was in the closet for 6 hours, and I'd peed myself and threw up in his coat pocket when the smell made me sick. I didn't go to school the day after that, because Dad had beaten me until I was too bruised to even move.

I shake the memory from my head and see the front of Mrs. Maria. Her house reminds me of some house in the countryside. Slated roof. Blue and white paint on the door, window shutters and roof and chimney. Bench swing with chipped paint, a pot of peonies and roses on either side of the front porch. Bushes full of lilacs, lavender, and some Birds of Paradise brush against my skin in the light summer breeze.

“Mi casa es su casa.” she says, walking up to the door and opening it. She moves to let me walk in, and suddenly I realize how much work I have to do.

There's dust gathering on the shelf above the fireplace, magazines littered on the floor, candy wrappers on the wooden floor along with shopping receipts dust the floor, her tray that has her usual silver teapot and teacups is on the floor, the teapot on the floor and spilling coffee on the lush, white carpet. The throw-pillows that are on the couch are on the carpet in front of the coffee table, which is littered with plates of food from either yesterday or tomorrow. Her Russian Blue cat, Blueberry, meows and sits near her scratching post, which is decorated with toilet paper probably from Mrs. Maria's grandchildren little acts. I sniff the air, which reeks of burning fish, and I turn to Mrs. Maria, who starts running to the kitchen and starts cursing in Spanish as Blueberry starts meowing again.

Guess I have my work cut for me today.

“Are the rooms in good order?” I ask, making my way up the stairs.

“Um . . . good order?” Mrs. Maria says. More question than statement. “Not really.”

I sigh heavily, closing my eyes. “How bad is the damage?”

“The kids didn't make their beds, toys are on the floor, some forgotten things that my daughter has called about. . . .”

In other words, it's like a tornado. I almost laugh. “Well, let's get to work, shall we?”

“But first, would you like something to eat?”

I bite my lip as my stomach growls, realizing I haven't eaten anything since this morning. I look at the grandfather clock on the side of the fireplace. 5:30pm. “Yes,” I say, going down the stairs and going into the kitchen, where Mrs. Maria has cleared the island and places some sandwiches on the table, with a cup of juice. I smile as she still acts like a mother, even to me most of the time. It proves that some people still care and don't slaughter in the world.

People like my father. Who is the opposite.

As we eat, we discuss how my summer is, what with going to summer school and being tutored, asking if I met anybody who may be a friend. We discuss her children and grandchildren when I flinch at the sound of the doorbell. I hold my breath and think of one person:

Dad's here. He's changed his mind. He wants me back home because Mom is probably knocked out.

I bolt immediately to hide under the table, and Mrs. Maria gives me a look before the doorbell rings again. With a sigh, she walks over to the door, and says, “Who is it?”

“It's me, Mrs. Maria.” a voice says, and only then do I realize who it is.

It's the boy who saved from me my tripping on the concrete. I climb out from underneath the table, and smooth out my pants, hiding behind the island.

“My father needs some brown sugar for the cookies he's making for my sister when she comes back. You don't happen to have any on you?”

“Of course, Spencer.” Mrs. Maria says, stepping aside to let him walk.

The footsteps were loud yet soft at the same time as they walked into the kitchen, and as I peek, my eyes fell on a somewhat cute guy.

He is Caucasian, this is one thing I notice. Dark brown hair that parted gently right above his black eyebrows. He has a nice smile, big light brown eyes concealed by a pair of glasses. He is tall, about five foot ten and almost looks like he's seventeen. When his eyes cast down on me, he gives a light laugh, and says in a voice that almost shakes me, “I come in peace.” To make it more awkward, he raises his hands in the air, but then his eyes look at me more deeply, and exclaims, “You're the girl I bumped into earlier.”

I nod and duck back down. How can this day get any worse?

“My name's Spencer Johnson.” he says, extending a hand to me. “And you are?”

I don't answer. I don't say my name or where I'm from. I don't know whether I can trust him or not. How should I? He may hurt me. He may mock me at his school and I'll be the laughing stock of town. Quartz Hill is a small city. Seriously.

Spencer drops his hand and looks over to Mrs. Maria, who is in the pantry, scooping some brown sugar for him. I move from the island, and as I do, I notice something in the crease of his elbow, something I know all too well: a cigarette burn.

“Here you are, Spencer,” Mrs. Maria says happily, and glances over in my direction. “Autumn.” she says, “introduce yourself, dear.”

I shake my head.

“Autumn,” she says more sternly.

I raise my hand for him to shake, looking down at the tiles, not at Spencer. They say eyes are the windows to the soul, and if he looks at me, he will know that I am broken and slipping away, while he is still strong and living on the edge. “My name is Autumn Wilkes. N-nice to m-m-meet you.” I stutter.

Spencer cracks a smile, runs a hand through his thick hair, and grasps mine. His grip is strong, gentle, and warm, and he lets go after a few seconds to take the dry measuring cup full of brown sugar. “Pleasure is all mine, Autumn.” he says, and looks over to Mrs. Maria. “Thanks for the brown sugar, Mrs. Maria.”

“You're welcome, baby. Tell your father he still owes me that peach pie he promised me last week.”

Spencer laughs at this. “I assure you, he's trying to make your pie, he's just swamped with orders.”

Mrs. Maria harrumphs and goes over to the front door. “Sure, sure.” She waves it off.

Spencer gives me a look that also says there's more to me than just bumping into him on the sidewalk earlier today. “You go to my school, huh?”

I give a sharp nod. “Quartz Hill High.”

“What grade will you be in?” He sounds interested.

“Eleventh grade. You?” I ask. I'm actually talking. To a guy. Dad would kill me.

“Same here.” He cracks a grin. “Small world we live in, huh?”

“Yes.” I keep my eyes down to the ground.

“Well,” he says, feeling the awkward tension fill up the room, “I better get going. See you on Monday.” he finishes, waving me goodbye.

I wave him goodbye, and watch him leave out the door. There's something about him that frightens and enlightens me as he flashes me a smile.

He seems . . . equal with shyness.

* * *

By the time I finish fluffing the pillows in the kids' bedrooms, I am officially tired. My wrists and legs ache from scrubbing and cleaning, but it is all worth it. I lay back on the couch in the living room, wanting nothing more than to sleep the rest of the day away.

“Mija,” Mrs. Maria shakes my shoulder gently. “Time to go home.”

I yawn. “But I don wanna.”

“It's 7:55pm. You have to go.”

I sigh and get off the couch. “Okay.”

“Oh,” she says, digging in her wallet and giving me a $50 bill, “Here's your pay.”

“Thanks.” I say, and place a kiss on her cheek. I go over to the door when she says, “I wish to have a word with your mother sometime this week.”

I stop in my tracks, and mutter a small yes, then bolt out the door. The night is pouring in, navy blue mixing with the explosion colors of orange, red, yellow and pink. Streetlights are illuminating the sidewalk, lighting up the grass and pavement. Kids are starting to go inside, welcomed by shouts of dinner being on the table, come inside before it gets too dark. It makes me think if I may ever receive that type of feeling. Back when I was eight years old, and Dad was on the soft side. He didn't hurt mom, e didn't hurt me, he was kind and almost . . . human. If only there was a trace of that guy left. Even though it was fake, it was better than the monster that sleeps two doors down from my room.

The second I knock on the door, I'm greeted by a small cry and loud footsteps marching down the hall. When Dad sees me, I keep my mouth quiet and don't respond as he says, “Glad you made it here on time. Pick the bitch up and clean her.”

I walk inside the house and see Mom huddled in the corner of the living room, curled in on herself. Her mess of curly hair is shrouding her face, and her arms hang limp at her sides. My stomach twists, fearing the worst. But I see her chest rise and fall, and I release a sigh of relief, almost trying to smile.

“Don't just stand there,” he snarls at me, shoving me on the couch. “Do as I ask!”

“Yes, sir.” I say, rolling off the couch to go over to Mom. I touch her face gently, and feel blood congealing near her cheekbone. I brush her hair out of the way to inspect more injuries when Dad throws on his leather jacket, and takes the car keys off the key rack.

“I'm off to get a drink. I'd like to have her in perfect condition when I get back, got it?”

I don't answer. I'm still touching her bloody cheek.

He shuts the door with a slam, and I wrap Mom's arm around my shoulder as we walk to the bathroom. It isn't easy. She limps a little, and her head bobs up and down as if she may slip into sleep. I bump my hip into hers to keep her awake, and she mumbles some inaudible word, letting me know she is conscious.

The bathroom is hardly well put-together. White tiles on the wall are falling apart, chipped, or just gone altogether. The faucet for the sink is leaking, the old, 70s flower shower curtain is hardly holding on to the pole. The bathtub and showerhead works fine, but it often gets backwards with what temperature of water to put. For blue, red hot. Red, cold. The mirror is cracked in the middle, making it hard to see our faces. Cigarette butts and old lipstick are in the sink, even some old bandages and gauze. I quickly scoop it up and put it in the trash.

Mom finally turns to look at me, and I see how bad she is. Her left eye is swollen with a black eye, tears begging to be free. A scratch goes from her cheekbone to the edge of her upper lip, still bleeding down her face. Her neck has bruises all around like a choker, and her lower lip is swollen.

“Mom, it's me, your daughter, Autumn.” I say, coaxing her to stay conscious and focus.

Mom tilts her head at me, and she sways to the side, placing a hand on her head. She falls, and I quickly grab her, taking her to the toilet and bringing out the first-aid kit from underneath the sink. I take out the antiseptic spray and gauze, and some baby wipes. I lift her head, and her eyes, such a beautiful light chocolate brown, stare at my hand holding the antiseptic. “This may hurt,” I tell her, spraying the slash on her cheek. She cries out in pain, then grits her teeth as I do it a second time, wiping the blood that dried on her face with a baby wipe. I hand her some gum and tell her to chew as I tend to her injuries. As I do this, my mind starts spiraling back to that boy. Spencer. There's something about him. The way he looked at me this afternoon frightened me, because it feels like he is invading my privacy, and he knows how I feel.

And he goes to my school, which makes it even worse. He may tell his friends—no, he doesn't seem like the type of guy. But how would I know? I've only known him a few short minutes and he seems so . . . calm. And willing for conversation.

And I feel like a big idiot for not attempting to make a friend. But if I do, Dad will prevent me from seeing him. Because he's a boy.

Once I finish Mom's face, she looks like she entered a boxing competition, but it doesn't look bad. Her bruises are covered with foundation, her face disinfected and covered with gauze. Her lips are movable, and I press a finger to them, wanting her strength to be saved. Even though she will lose her voice with all the screaming, I do not care. We both need to do what was normal for us.

But Mom moves my finger away, kissing it. “Are you okay?” she asks me. That's the first time in weeks she's asked how I've been. “You seem out of it.”

I wonder if Mom is delusional from a blow to the head, or she is actually attempting to be a mother, and sit on the dirty floor. “I'm well. Why are you asking?”

“You're my daughter,” she says, and presses a hand to her chest as she inhales sharply. I stare at her in shock, and when she sighs in relief, I relax. “I wish to know how you're doing.”

If only you weren't in a haze of pain. “I'm well, Mom. Just worried . . .”

“About?” she asks.

“School. What if I don't get good grades? What if I don't get in college like Dad always says?” I pull my knees to my chest, feeling tears hit my eyes.

“Shh.” Mom murmurs, getting off the toilet gently, sitting beside me and pulling me in her arms. “You will get into college. You're a . . . Robinson. We're—we're smart.” I knew what she was going to say, say strong. I feel like she skipped that gene. “Want me to drive you on Monday?”

“Can you drive though? You got hit pretty hard.” I point to my left temple, where she has a huge bump growing to the size of a little egg. “Won't that affect your ability to focus?”

“No, it won't.” She shakes her head at me. “I'll get up before your Dad wakes up, and I'll drop you off extra early.”

“Mom, you're crazy. He will—”

“I want you in school. I'll be okay.”

“ . . . How can I know?” It's strange, not being near her when she's being hit by Dad. When school started, I never knew what to expect when it comes to Dad and his methods of pain.

Mom turns my head with her hand, and smiles. “You'll know.”

I take her out of the room, and we both make dinner that was quick and easy: grilled chicken paninis with some leftover chicken soup. It feels better sitting with just the two of us, without Dad boasting with his thunder-like voice, and then yelling and causing a scene. It makes me wonder that, if Dad had left when Mom was pregnant with yours truly, or died or something when I was little, would we still be the same two people, or will we have another guy in the house that is my stepfather and is exactly like the father I dreamed of.

Once dinner was done, we clean the kitchen and I make my lunch for tomorrow, occasionally watching Mom struggle to get up and sit down. Last year, she had three broken ribs when Dad pushed her down the stairs. Now, she struggles every day to breathe. Her wounds healed, but it's still a bother to her.

I help her get upstairs, and she takes me to my room, planting a kiss on my forehead, whispering, “Goodnight, Autumn.” and smooths out my hair, now noticing it's been cut. “When did you cut your hair?”

I flinch. “Two days ago. By myself.”

Mom purses her lips and says softly, “It looks nice. Well, goodnight dear.” and then she walks to her bedroom door.

I go to my bed, putting on my pajamas, and two hours in sleep, I am startled by the sound of the door slamming open, the sound of two, no, six feet going up the stairs. Mom's door creaking open, the sound of cackling laughter, Mom's screams, and another high-pitch wail that won't stop until something is muffling it.

I realize it's coming from me. And Garrett, one of Dad's barfriends, is trying to smother me weakly with a pillow.

Usual Saturday night.