The Right and the Real by Joelle Anthony

extra six bucks tacked on. So, you want it?”
    I couldn’t believe my choices had come down to this room or my car. The scary thing was the motel was giving me flashbacks to second grade and places my mother and I used to live in. She’d ramble on about the elusive
man that would change her life forever,
while we ate Cheerios with water for dinner. As far as I knew, the closest she’d come to finding her handsome prince was my dad, and she’d screwed that up royally.
    I hadn’t seen my mother since she and that slimeball ran off to Hollywood, but there was one thing I knew for sure. I was not her, and I would never become her. Even if I did have to live here for a while.
    “I know it’s not the luxury you were expecting,” Stub said, “but will it do, sweetheart?”
    “Ummm…can I think about it?” I asked.
    “Sure. But these rooms go fast.”
    I didn’t believe him, but I should have. “Okay.” I tried to smile. “Thanks.”
    He pointed at a door under the flickering exit sign. “You can go out that way,” he said.
    I pushed through it out onto the pavement, gasping for fresh air.
    After hogging the pay phone for four hours, calling every ad for a roommate on Craigslist and striking out, I was back to say I wanted the room, but Stub had rented it out already.
    “You don’t have anything?” I asked. At this point I’d have been willing to take a supply closet if the door locked and I had access to a bathroom.
    “Well…,” he said. He smoothed the ends of his mustache with his fingertips and thumbs like a villain in an English pantomime. “A room on the third floor just opened up, but I haven’t cleaned it yet.”
    “I’ll take it,” I said, afraid some other homeless person would come in and snap it up before I could.
    I didn’t think I’d ever fall asleep in the smelly, damp room, but I must’ve because a sharp rap like gunfire made me bolt upright in bed, confused about where I was.
    “Yo! John, open up,” said a man in the hallway.
    Was he knocking on my door or the one across the hall?
    “Dude, it’s me.” He lowered his voice a little. “I got your money, and I need a hit, man.”
    I stared through the darkness at the door and saw shadowy movement in the gap at the bottom where it didn’t quite meet the dirty carpet. I wanted to tell him to go away, but my voice was caught in my throat, stuck there by fright.
    “It’s me, dude. I got something you want,” the man said, louder this time.
    When I didn’t answer, he yelled for me to open up. “What the hell is wrong with you? Come on, Johnny. I need to see you. I got your money.”
    “Go away,” I croaked, but he didn’t hear me because he’d given up being patient and was now thumping hard with heavy fists. My heart raced. The door rattled under the blows. I’d checked the deadbolt at least six times before going to bed. I couldn’t see if the chain was hooked because the streetlight that bled through the single dusty window was so dim, but I was sure I’d fastened it. What should I do? Maybe hide in the bathroom. But then I’d be trapped if he got inside.
    “Man, I know you’re in there! I said I got your money. I’m not lying. Open up.”
    I tried to answer, but by now I was so scared all that came out was a squeak. All the vocal projection tricks we’d learned in acting class had deserted me. I scooted into the corner of the bed, my back against the wall, and pulled the comforter up around me, hiding.
    If he did get inside, he’d know right away I wasn’t this John guy he was looking for, because pink comforters were not standard issue in this dive motel. The first thing I’d done when I moved in was strip the thin, grimy sheets off the bed, throw them into the far corner, and put on my own clean bedding. The pounding increased, his blows sounding like a kid banging on a drum without rhythm or reason, and even in the low light, I could see the door straining. I looked around for a weapon.
    “Goddammit! Open