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"Ma'am, are you gonna buy something, or what?" the convenience store clerk asked. Kit sighed. Apparently she was going to have to quit loitering and get out of there. She wished she could stay there forever, so she wouldn't have to go back to her so-called home and endure the horrors of her life. She picked up a bottle of Sprite and brought it over to the counter. Kit was sixteen years old. Her mother had died of breast cancer when she was nine, and her step-father had taken custody over her. She'd never known her real father, and she had no siblings. It was just her step-father. She had no friends at school. She used to...but most of them had abandoned her due to alienation caused by her severe depression and inability to cope with her problems healthfully. Just for clarification, she didn't cut herself, she didn't drink [much], she wasn't hooked on any drugs; she simply didn't talk about her life. To anyone. She kept it all inside.

Actually, that wasn't true. She had one person she'd been able to talk to, at least about some things. But this person couldn't do much to help, since she lived all the way in New Jersey, a long way away from the little town in Louisiana where Kit lived. Alicia was her cousin, and the only family she'd ever really had aside from her mother and Alicia's parents. Alicia had once lived here in Louisiana, too, but had moved to New Jersey when she was ten and Kit was eight. Kit's mother died about six months after that, and then everything had gone to hell.

Kit paid the counter guy, and then slowly trudged out of the store. She dawdled as much as
possible, stopping to admire plant-life along the way. The street was deserted, or so it looked. Families inhabited every house, but hardly anyone was ever outside it seemed. Otis, Louisiana was not your typical small town. In your typical small town, everyone knew each other. Everyone was completely into each other's business. Everyone worried about their reputations, everyone knew what was going on in their neighbors' lives, and the simplest things traveled through the grapevine at light-speed. Otis was not like that. No one knew each other. No one wanted to know each other. Neighbors did not wave if they were sitting on their porches when you walked up the street. They simply watched with apathetic eyes. When you walked into class with a brand new black eye, or a gash on your forehead, or a split lip, no one asked questions. No one would even spare you a second glance. No one cared. They had their own problems to deal with.

Kit turned onto 23rd street and walked up the dreary road to her house, and dread began coiling in her stomach. It wasn't even nine in the morning yet, so most likely, Jim wasn't even awake. He was probably still sleeping off last night's fifth of Jack Daniels, so she would probably be okay until he woke up and took his hangover out on her. She slowly walked up the stairs to the porch, and then she carefully stuck her key in the lock and very slowly began to turn it...and the door swung open, taking her keys with it, and leaving her standing face to face with her step-dad. She swallowed, and then looked up at him. His eyes were angry, tired, and emotionless. Kit took a swig of her Sprite.

"You're up," she said pathetically. His eyebrows lowered.

"Where the hell were you?" he asked. Kit held up her Sprite.

"I was thirsty. I walked to the convenience store," she replied. It always surprised her how she was able to talk to him with such nonchalance, considering how afraid she was when she was anywhere but right in front of him. He stared at her for a minute, and then he dug around in his pocket and pulled out a twenty. He shoved it at her.

"I need a six pack," he said. "Heineken."

"I'm sixteen," said Kit. "I can't by alcohol--"

"Come back with a six-pack or don't bother coming back at all," he said. Then he slammed the door in Kit's face. She wished she could just never come back. But there was nowhere for her to go. She'd lived in this town all her life, but she hardly knew anybody. At least anybody who cared. She turned around and walked down the steps. She retraced her steps up the three blocks to the convenience store and stepped inside. She walked over to the alcohol area and pulled out a six-pack of Heineken, wishing she looked twenty-one instead of about twelve. Kit was 5'0" and a half and tiny. Mostly it was malnourishment from living with a deadbeat man with an on-and-off job who spent most of his paycheck on booze and hardly any of it on the child he'd agreed to take care of. Kit had just gotten a job of her own at the Subway a few blocks down, so she lived a little more comfortably, monetarily anyway, now that she could support herself. She had dark brown hair and brown eyes, and full, red lips that were big and pouty and child-like. She dragged the six-pack up to the counter and plunked it down. The cashier eyed her suspiciously. She returned his stare, challenging him to card her.

"Weren't you just in here?" he asked.

"Yeah," she said. She gestured to the beer. "This is...for a friend." Maybe he would just skip the whole card process if he knew it was for someone else anyway.

No such luck. "Could I see an ID, please?" he asked.

Wonderful. Now how was she going to bring home a six-pack of beer? Kit fished her student ID card out of her wallet, since she didn't have a drivers' license. She handed it to the cashier, who took it and looked at it, his eyebrows knitting together in confusion.

"This is a high school student I.D.," he said. "It's says you're sixteen years old. She didn't know what else to do but play dumb.

"Um...I don't have a drivers' license," she said.

"You know it's against the law for alcohol to be sold to a sixteen-year-old, right?" he asked. Kit cut the dumb crap.

"Look, it's for my step-dad," she said. "I swear on everything holy, I'm not going to drink it. What kind of kid drinks Heineken anyway? Nasty. But it's my step-dad's favorite, and he...he's sick, so he can't come get it himself. Please just give me this one freebie and I promise I'll never try to buy alcohol again."

"Sorry, kid, can't help you," he said. "I can't break that kind of law. I sell one six-pack to you, and every sixteen-year-old in this town is going to come try to buy one. And if your step-dad's sick, he shouldn't be drinking alcohol anyway. He should be drinking orange juice. I can sell you orange juice without a problem. I don't even have to check your I.D." Kit chewed her lip and stared at the beer on the counter.

"There's nothing I can do to change your mind?" she asked. He shook his head. Kit sighed, and walked out of the store. She didn't know what she was going to do. If she went back home without the six-pack, bad things would happen. She walked back to 23rd street, and she checked out all the houses. Some were well-kept, and some were terribly run-down. There was no middle ground. She walked up to one of the run-down ones and knocked on the door. A skinny guy with long, greasy hair and a beer-stained wifebeater opened the door and squinted at Kit.

"What do you want?" he asked.

Kit held up the twenty. "I was wondering if you'd be willing to sell me a six-pack of Heineken for twenty dollars," she said.

He growled and shut the door in her face. He was probably fresh out, too. She walked to the next house, but he didn't have Heineken. The next house gave her three bottles and gave her a ten for her twenty. It took three or four more houses, but Kit was finally able to collect six bottles of Heineken so she could go home.

"Jim?" Kit meekly called once she'd opened the door. She was surprised when he hadn't been standing on the other side of the door, waiting for her. She crept further into the house. "Jim...?" she called again. She walked through the living room and into the dining room. The light was off and the blinds were drawn. Kit flipped on the light and almost shrieked when she noticed Jim was just standing in the corner of the room, kind of huddled into the crease in the wall, staring at her. "Jim," she said, determined to keep her voice from shaking. That had been creepy. She held up the bottles. "I brought you your Heinekens..."

"Good girl," he said, taking a step forward. Kit swallowed. He was being too calm. "I'm proud of you." Kit nodded warily. "There is only one problem I have with this situation," he continued. "Do you know what that is?" Kit shook her head. "You're late!" he yelled, and he slapped her hard across the face. "Do you know how long I have been waiting here?!" he asked, stepping towards her again as she stretched her jaw out and backed away. "How long does it take to walk three blocks and back anyway?! I've been sitting here for half of a fucking hour! And where's my change?!" Kit gulped.

"They wouldn't sell me the alcohol at the convenience store," she choked. "I had to collect bottles from people around the neighborhood--"

"I didn't ask for your life story," he growled. "Where's my change?"

"I don't...have any. I bought the beer from the neighbors, so--" he slapped her across the face again.

"You better come up with some change in the next 5 seconds, or--" Kit was already running to her room for money. She didn't know how much a six pack of beer cost, so she just grabbed a twenty out of the box she kept her earnings in, and ran back out to the dining room and thrust it at him. He caught it and pocketed it. "Get out of my sight," he said. And he took his beers and walked off. Breathing hard, Kit walked back to her room. She sat on her bed, bringing her knees up to her chest, and wondered how much more of this she could take. Her face hurt, and she could feel a headache coming on. She reached over to her bedside table, popped a few Advil, and drank from the two day old water bottle she found on the floor by her bed. Then she carefully lay down, pulled the covers over her head, and tried to go to sleep.