Page 12 of Play the Part (Marsford Bay #2)

HUXLEY

“ H uxley, can I talk to you before you go?”

I freeze midway through packing up my things. My first thought is that I’m in trouble. My second is to pretend I didn’t hear him.

Begrudgingly, I look up and find my woodworking teacher standing near my work table.

He’s a gruff-looking dude who appears to be in his early forties and first introduced himself as Whitman, but everyone calls him Whit.

I’ve been taking his classes for three weeks now, and after getting over my initial case of first-day nerves, I’ve been really enjoying it. Whit included.

Within a millisecond, I’ve analyzed his body language. It’s a skill I perfected in prison. I conclude that his demeanor is friendly. He’s sporting a backward cap and another one of his flannels, just standing there, smiling, waiting for me to answer.

I look back down and resume packing my things.

“Sure, what’s up?”

“Well,” he starts, and I feel him take a step closer to my bench. His tone is eager, as if excited about what he’s gearing up to say. “Since this is the last class before the holidays, I just wanted to tell you how great of a job you’ve been doing. You’re definitely a natural.”

I sneak him a glance from the corner of my eye. He’s still smiling, and it’s softening the look in his eyes, a proud expression on his face. Suddenly, I feel cornered—and incredibly awkward.

“Uh … thanks, I guess,” I croak, unable to look him in the eye.

“I hope to see you back in January,” he adds.

Zipping up my backpack, I throw it over one shoulder.

“Yup. See you in January,” I mutter and start for the door, barely giving him a final glance.

“Happy holidays!” he hollers from behind me

Without looking back, I send him a wave before bolting out of the woodshop.

Sophia had a shift tonight at Popol Vuh, Itzel’s restaurant, so I had to take the subway back home. It’s unusually warm for mid-December, and everything is wet.

The subway station is about an eight-minute walk to my place, and I just know that the dirty slush will soak through the small hole in my combat boot. Not to mention that my ratty earphones died while I was listening to them on the subway.

I sigh, shoving my hands in my bomber jacket, and accept my miserable fate for the rest of the walk home.

What else is new?

I’m cutting through an alley when I hear a faint sound coming from the dumpster. I don’t pay it any mind until I hear it again. This time, I’m almost positive it sounds like a kitten’s meow.

Stopping in my tracks, I slowly approach the dumpster, my ears perked.

I hear it again.

Shit.

It’s definitely a cat—and it sounds like it’s in distress.

I push up on my toes and stretch my neck to look into the dumpster, but can’t see anything.

The meows only get louder and more urgent as if it’s somehow sensing me there.

I look around the alley not really knowing what I’m looking for and curse under my breath when I realize I’m going to have to dumpster dive if I want to save this damn kitten.

I spot a milk crate near one of the back doors, most likely used to sit on during smoke breaks, and jog to go fetch it.

Milk crate in hand, I return to the dumpster and set it on the ground, bottom facing up.

If I base it on the sounds of the meows, the kitten is somewhere in the far right corner of the dumpster.

Pushing with my two hands, I heave myself up and swing a leg up so I can catch the ledge with my foot. I manage to perch myself on the side like some kind of fucking gargoyle, the stench of garbage hitting me square in the face.

I grumble another slew of profanities, trying to psyche myself up and finally maneuver my way down into the dumpster. My feet land on uneven ground, garbage bags full of god knows what squelching under my boots, and I start to uncontrollably gag.

The meows grow louder, but I can’t see any sign of life in the pitch-black pit.

I take my phone out and turn on the flashlight.

Aiming it toward the sound, I still don’t see anything.

It’s then that I realize the kitten is inside a bag.

I fall to my knees and start ripping at the garbage until I find the plastic bag it’s stuck in and rip it open.

Goddamn sociopath.

I’d fucking kill whoever did this.

Finally, a little black ball of fur appears, and all I see are watery eyes staring up at me, the meows not letting up .

“It’s okay, little guy,” I coo, softly picking it up, surprised at how gentle my voice sounds. “We’re getting you out of here.”

It’s a lot harder to crawl out of this dumpster one-handed, but I manage to climb out without falling flat on my face. When back on steady ground, I plop the little thing on the asphalt and wipe my hands on my jeans.

The kitten stays put, looking up at me, all black fur save for one white spot around its left eye. It meows again, but this time it sounds more curious than distressed.

I flick my hand toward the mouth of the alley. “You’re free now, little guy. Go.” But it stays put, and we stare at each other for a long, quiet beat. “Okay, well …” I say, clearing my throat. “I’m going now. Stay away from dumpsters, okay?”

I awkwardly wave to the kitten as if we’re two old friends saying goodbye and turn my back to it, a small twinge of guilt plucking at my heart, but I ignore it. Walking out onto the main street, I turn to look over my shoulder just before turning the corner.

Oh for fuck’s sake.

It’s following me. I turn on my heels to face it, putting my hands up, signaling to stop.

“No, no. I’m not your mommy.” I point in the opposite direction. “Go find other street cats or something.”

It cocks its little head to the side and meows again. We face off once more but the damn cat is clearly not going anywhere, and I just want to get home.

“Fine,” I mutter under my breath. “Suit yourself.”

The kitten ends up trotting beside me all the way to the front door of my apartment building.

We have another one of our staring contests as I deliberate what to do. Nothing about this is my responsibility. I should just let it fend for itself, it’s a feral cat for god’s sake. I wouldn’t feel so guilty if it were nice out, but it’s wet and cold, and its fur is soaked.

I sigh and pick it up.

“Just for the night,” I tell it.

I end up running a bath to clean its fur. From what I can see, it doesn’t have any fleas, but the water turns brown instantly.

“Gross,” I say out loud. “You’re filthy, little guy.”

The kitten lets out a little squeak, clinging to my hand and forearm, looking like a wet rat.

After the bath, I swaddle it in a towel and carry it with me into the kitchen while I riffle through the cupboards for something to feed it.

I find a lonely can of tuna behind a stale box of cereal.

I’m leaning on the kitchen counter, watching it devour the fishy pile of mush, when Sophia shows up from her shift. The front door is right next to the small kitchen, and I look up as she enters.

“Hey,” she says absentmindedly when she sees me standing there.

Stopping in her tracks, bag and keys still in hand, her head snaps to my feet.

“Oh my god, is that a cat?!” Her voice is nearly a shriek, her eyes widening with glee.

“We’re not keeping it,” I answer flatly.

Sophia throws her shit on the floor, quickly pulling off her boots.

“The hell we aren’t,” she says as she drops to her knees next to the kitten, who’s now pushing the plate across the floor with the force of its tongue against the porcelain.

“It’s a stray, it belongs outside.”

She lifts her gaze, eyebrows creased in suspicion.

“Okay, so why is it inside then?”

“It followed me home after I pulled it out of the dumpster.” I scratch my head and shrug. “Figured I’d feed it.”

Sophia laughs, her attention now back on the kitten. “You’re a goner, dude.”

I scrunch up my face. “No, I’m not. It’s just a cat, it’ll be out by morning.”

She pets its little head, not even bothering to look up at me when she replies, “Sure it will.”