[Shazam] Ch: 19 [Maureen's new life]

AN: I went a bit too much into slice of life. It looked good to me.😬😬 Words: 2.7k

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Snow clung to the cracked windows of the small house. The place was never warm enough, even when the heater rattled through the nights. Maureen sat cross-legged on the living room carpet, her hands folded neatly in her lap, staring at the wrapped boxes stacked under the tree. The lights on the tree blinked in uneven rhythms, a strand shorting every few minutes, but to her eyes it was magic. Though they were struggling, her mother made sure to buy some little gifts for her little girl.

Her mother was in the armchair across from her, wrapped in a quilt. Her face looked thin, skin pale against the glow of the television, but her smile was soft. She kept clearing her throat, fighting the weakness in her lungs. Every laugh came out wheezy, every breath shallow. Maureen had grown used to the sound, though every cough made her stomach twist.

Behind them, the man who called himself her stepfather muttered at the counter. He wasn't watching them. He wasn't watching the tree or the girl waiting for him to sit and open gifts together. He poured himself another drink, shoulders hunched, eyes tired of being here at all.

"Can I open them, mama?" Maureen asked, her voice hopeful.

Her mother's tired smile widened. "Yes, baby. Open the small one first."

Maureen tore the paper carefully, not wanting to ruin the bright colors. Inside was a porcelain angel with painted gold wings. The little figure carried a star above its head, face tilted upward.

"It's pretty," Maureen whispered, holding it close.

"It's yours," her mother said, coughing into the quilt. "So you always have someone watching over you."

Maureen hugged it, chest warm. She wanted to tell her mom she didn't need an angel when she already had her.

The front door opened so hard it rattled the windows. Her stepfather kicked it open and yelled. "I'm done with this. I didn't sign up for a sick house and another man's kid. I'm done."

The blast of winter air rolled through the living room, sweeping around the tree, sweeping across her mother in the chair. She gasped, her hand clutching her chest. The coughing turned violent.

"Wait," Maureen cried, scrambling up, but the door had already slammed again.

Her mother tried to push herself upright, but her breath wouldn't come. The quilt slid to the floor. The coughing broke into silence, her chest heaving but empty. The color drained from her lips as her hand fell limp against the armrest.

"Mama?" Maureen whispered, shaking her arm. "Mama, wake up. Mama, please." She ran to the desk and brought her inhaler. "Mama, inhaler. Mama..." She kept calling her, but her mom never woke up.

The tree lights kept blinking. The angel in her hand slipped, shattered on the floor. Porcelain wings scattered across the carpet, broken in half.

That night, Maureen sat in the living room with her mother's still body, staring at the cracked porcelain pieces until her eyes blurred. The cold air crept through the windows. She stayed anyway, dazed in shock and grief.

...

The days after blurred together. There were adults she didn't know who came to take her away. A woman with a clipboard and a heavy coat said words like "child services" and "foster care." Maureen bolted from the front porch before she could be touched. She ran until her legs ached. She found corners of the city where no one asked questions. She wrapped herself in trash bags and cardboard, her mother's face stuck in her head like a photograph she couldn't tear up.

Food came from church kitchens. Reverend Anderson left sandwiches by the back steps for her when she was too ashamed to walk in. He smiled at her when she did show up, like he knew she was fighting something too heavy for her age. She never smiled back.

She stayed in an abandoned cable car depot with other kids and people who had no homes. Some shared scraps, some shoved her away. The nights were always freezing. She would hold her arms tight to her chest, pretending she didn't care that the cold was cutting into her bones.

When the night of the Big Bang came, she had crept out near the waterfront looking for food. Smoke filled the air after the canisters exploded, rolling over alleys and streets. It burned in her throat, burned her skin, and then something changed. The cold stopped hurting. Ice curled from her fingertips without her asking. The others screamed when they saw it, backing away like she had turned into something inhuman.

The first time she froze a streetlight solid, she laughed. It was power, finally. The world couldn't push her around anymore. 

Maureen named herself Permafrost and decided to ruin the lives of other families in the same way her family was ruined, as she had lost her own family and had never known real happiness.

...

[Present time]

The ceiling fan hummed softly above her, the steady rhythm tapping at her nerves. The blanket felt heavy, real cotton pressing down on her chest instead of damp coats or stolen blankets. She pulled it tighter, hating how good it felt. The pillow cradled her head in a way that scared her more than alleys ever had.

She turned her face into the fabric and whispered, "Why are you doing this to me?"

She had been ready. Hungry enough that her body ached, she had waited outside that pizza shop for hours. In her head, she pictured the scene: the tall man with stone eyes or the loud blonde woman would come out, yell about her scaring off customers, maybe shove her for good measure. That would be her moment. She would let the frost pour out of her palms, freeze the neon sign, crack the windows, coat the ovens in ice. A frozen monument to remind Dakota City that she was not weak, not someone to pity or shove away.

But it didn't go that way. Harley had walked across the street with a grin instead of a sneer. She didn't flinch when the frost bloomed across Maureen's hand. She laughed and called it "cool." She dragged her inside and shoved food in front of her like she was some guest, not a stray.

And John, the man with stone eyes, didn't threaten her like she imagined. He asked where she lived. He set rules, simple ones. Work, eat, earn. His voice carried authority but not cruelty. After surviving in the darkest part of the streets for years, she gained certain intuition and could tell who's bad and who's good. She could just tell that John was a good guy. 

Maureen had eaten the pizza so fast and it was so tasty that she almost cried. She hadn't tasted anything that warm in months. Now she was in their spare room with a real bed, told she belonged here if she wanted it.

The guilt gnawed at her chest like a rat. She had planned to hurt them. Instead, she was full and warm.

She buried her face into the pillow, teeth gritted. "I didn't ask for this," she whispered. "You were supposed to shove me away. This isn't fair." Her hands curled, frost gathering at her fingertips before fading again. 

The truth she hated most of all was simple. For the first time since her mother's death, she didn't feel invisible.

...

[Next Morning]

Harley opened the bedroom door.

“Rise and shine, Frosty Flakes!” Harley sang, clapping her hands. “Breakfast is served, and if ya wait too long, I’ll eat your share outta principle.”

Maureen startled awake, clutching the blanket like she’d been caught doing something wrong. Her hair stuck up at odd angles. The warmth of the room still felt unreal, as if it would vanish if she blinked too hard.

“C’mon, kiddo,” Harley said. “But first thing’s first: I'm givin’ you the spa treatment, deluxe edition. You smell like alleyway mystery stew.”

Maureen blinked. “The… what?”

“The bath,” Harley said, hauling her to her feet. “Don’t worry, I gotcha. Bubbles, bodywash, fluffy towels. Time to get ya back into the civilization. Let’s go.”

[Bathroom]

Steam rose as the tub filled. Harley tossed in a splash of pink-swirled soap and the water frothed with bubbles. She set a bottle of bodywash on the counter, something neon-colored with “Sugar Rush” printed across the label in glittery letters.

“This stuff’ll make ya smell like cotton candy married a fruit salad,” Harley said proudly. “Premium stuff.”

Maureen hesitated at the door, fingers clutching the hoodie sleeve. “I… I can do it myself.”

“Relax, Bluebell, I ain’t plannin’ on scrubbin’ ya like a car hood. Just settin’ the scene.” Harley winked, then turned her back to give the girl space. “Soak up, chill out. You deserve it. And don’t ya dare argue. Or I’ll toss ya in with your clothes on.”

When Harley left, Maureen lowered herself into the hot water. The warmth crawled up her skin, melting the chill she usually carried like armor. She leaned back against the porcelain, closing her eyes as bubbles clung to her arms. The scent of the bodywash was absurdly sweet, but she used it anyway, rubbing the foam along her shoulders.

For the first time in years, she didn’t smell like rust and dirt. She smelled… human.

[Bedroom]

When she finished, Harley was waiting with a pile of clothes. “Here ya go. Vintage Quinn collection. Don’t worry, it’s all washed. Probably. Maybe. Eh, mostly.”

The stack included a red & blue hoodie that smelled faintly of detergent, black leggings, and a T-shirt with a cartoon bat on it. Maureen slipped into them, tugging the sleeves over her hands. 

Harley tilted her head. “Perfect fit. Look at you. Like a sad blueberry turned into a cherry pie.”

Maureen muttered, “Thanks.”

Harley grinned. “Good enough for me. Now c’mon, breakfast before John eats all the wings.”

[Kitchen Table]

The table was already set. A plate piled with stuffed garlic bread sat steaming beside a basket of chicken wings glistening with sauce. Scrambled eggs with a sprinkle of herbs. A pot of coffee steamed in the center, mugs lined up like soldiers.

John stood behind the counter, finishing a second pan of eggs. 

“Sit,” he said, not looking up.

Maureen sat in a chair. Harley plopped down beside her, pouring coffee into two mugs. One she pushed toward John, the other she claimed for herself.

Maureen reached for the garlic bread. Her fingers trembled, but she took a piece and bit in. Cheese stretched, gooey and hot. She closed her eyes, savoring it.

“Careful,” John said. “Hot.”

She nodded quickly, swallowing too fast.

Harley leaned on her elbow. “Told ya. Our boy here makes a breakfast that’ll make ya forget your own name. Don’t get used to it, though. Tomorrow you’re on toast duty.”

Maureen blinked. “Toast duty?”

“Everyone pitches in,” John said simply, sitting down with his own plate.

Harley wagged a finger. “And don’t let him trick ya with his scary voice. It’s not slavery. It’s tradition. Community. Like, family dinner but in the morning.”

Maureen’s hands froze around her plate. The word “family” stuck in her ears like a pin. She lowered her gaze, hiding her face in another bite of garlic bread.

John watched her quietly. Then, as if to ease the weight, he shifted the plate of chicken wings toward her. “Eat.”

She took one. Slowly at first, then faster, until sauce smeared her fingers. Harley laughed, tossing her a napkin.

“Attagirl. Now you’re a real Quinn diner.”

Maureen wiped her hands, cheeks flushing faintly. “It’s… really good.”

John gave a single nod, which, from him, might as well have been applause.

...

[Behind J&H Pizza Place]

Later that morning, the rumble of a truck echoed down the alley, followed by a loud honk. Harley threw open the back door, waving as the driver hopped out.

“Supplies incoming!” she called. “And by supplies, I mean enough cheese to clog an artery just by lookin’ at it.”

The driver began unloading crates stacked with flour, veggies, boxes of mozzarella, and a couple of other items. John stepped out, sleeves rolled up, ready to haul.

“Harley, Maureen, lend me a hand.”

“On it, boss man,” Harley said, grabbing a crate of soda bottles and passing a smaller box to Maureen.

Maureen was clutching the cardboard against her chest. Her breath puffed white in the morning air, though the day wasn’t cold.

“Careful, Bluebell,” Harley said, bumping the box with her elbow. “Don’t drop the sacred mozzarella.”

Maureen almost smiled. “I won’t.”

They carried the crates inside. John stacked the heavier ones near the walk-in fridge. Maureen set hers down and stepped back.

John glanced at her. “You did fine.”

The words were simple, flat, but Maureen felt heat crawl into her face. It had been a long time since anyone told her she did fine.

Harley slung an arm around her shoulders. “See? You’re officially part of the team. Next step, pizza box origami. We’ll make a professional outta ya yet.”

Maureen ducked her head, hiding a faint smile.

...

[Noon]

The bell over the door jingled every few minutes as customers came and went. The lunch rush had begun to swell. John moved fast in the kitchen, stretching dough, sliding pies into the oven, turning out trays of garlic bread with practiced rhythm. The air was thick with the smell of baked cheese and roasted tomato.

Harley had taken off an hour earlier with two stacked delivery bags hooked over her shoulder, yelling something about tips and free entertainment if anyone stiffed her. That left Maureen at the counter. She stood a little stiff, pen in hand, scribbling down orders on a notepad.

The first few customers had stared too long. A woman whispered to her husband, her eyes darting to Maureen’s pale blue skin as though it were a stain. Two boys laughed softly when she reached for their menus.

Maureen carried the slip of paper back to the kitchen, holding it tight. John glanced at her face, then the order, and without looking up from the cutting board said, “It’s human nature. People stare at what they do not understand. They get curious when they see someone or something different. Harley used to get those stares back then. But with time, things changed. It'll change for you too. So, don't think too much.” He slid a tray toward her. “Do your job. That is what matters.”

She nodded slowly, throat tight, but when she walked back out, she kept her shoulders straighter. Carrying plates to a booth, she focused on balance, on setting them down without clatter. The customers mumbled their thanks without looking at her. That was fine. She's used to that.

By the time the clock above the counter hit two, she had found a rhythm. Take the orders, smile enough that it looked polite, bring the plates out. John stayed steady in the kitchen, and whenever she passed him a new slip, his words echoed back. 'It'll change for you too.'

[A few hours later]

The lunch crowd thinned. Harley was snoring upstairs after the rush hour.

Maureen wiped down tables after eating lunch. A couple of teenagers lingered in the corner booth, laughing over sodas. She caught one girl staring, but instead of shrinking, Maureen met her gaze until the girl looked away.

John came out from the kitchen carrying a tray of fresh wings for a late table. He set them down, spoke a short thanks to the customers, and stepped back toward the counter. His eyes flicked toward Maureen, a small nod acknowledging her effort. She almost smiled.

The quiet between orders felt comfortable. Maureen leaned on the counter, tapping her pencil against the notepad. She could almost imagine this was normal life. No alleys, no hunger. Just pizza, garlic bread, and the steady hum of the fan overhead.

[4 PM]

The place was empty for now...

The door swung open. The bell chimed.

A familiar figure walked in. Her clothes were casual enough for the city streets. A simple top, golden jacket, jeans and high-knee boots. She walked over to the window table and took a seat. Maureen took the menu and walked over to her.

John peeked out from the kitchen doorway. 'Diana! What the hell is she doing here? Did she track me here? Tsk.'

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