“Give me your name and phone number and
we’ll call it even.”
She licks her lips. “There is absolutely
nothing you can do to ever get me to give you my name or number.”
Ring the bell. Playtime ended with those
words. Purposely invading her space, I steal a step toward her and place a hand on the counter next to her body. It affects her. I can tell. Her eyes lose the amusement and her arms hug her body. She’s small. Smaller than I expected. That attitude is so big I hadn’t noticed her height or size. “I bet I can.”
She juts out her chin. “Can’t.”
“Eight tacos and one large Coke,” says the girl from behind the counter.
Skater Girl snatches the order and spins on her heel before I can process I’m on the verge of losing. “Wait!”
She stops at the door. “What?”
This “what” doesn’t have nearly the anger of the one before. Maybe I’m getting somewhere.
“Give me your phone number. I want to call HC TITLE-AUTHOR
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you.”
No, I don’t, but I do want to win. She’s
wavering. I can tell. To keep from scaring her off, I bury my excitement. Nothing sends me higher than winning.
“I’ll tell you what.” She flashes a smile that drips with a mixture of allure and wickedness.
“If you can walk me to my car and open the door for me, I’ll give you my number.”
Can.
She steps into the humid night and skips
down the sidewalk to the back parking lot. I wouldn’t have pegged this girl as a skipper.
Skip she does and I follow, tasting the sweet victory.
Victory doesn’t last long. I freeze midstep on the sidewalk. Before she can prance past the yellow lines confining an old rusty car, two menacing guys climb out and neither appears happy.
“Something I can do for you, man?” the
taller one asks. Tattoos run the length of his arms.
“Nope.” I shove my hands in my pockets
and relax my stance. I have no intention of getting into a fight, especially when I’m HC TITLE-AUTHOR
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outnumbered.
Tattoo Guy crosses the parking lot, and he’d probably keep coming if it wasn’t for the other guy with hair covering his eyes. He stops right in front of Tattoo Guy, halting his progress, but his posture suggests he’d also fight for kicks.
“Is there a problem, Beth?”
Beth. Hard to believe this hard-core girl could have such a delicate name. As if reading my thoughts, her lips slide into an evil smirk.
“Not anymore,” she answers as she jumps into the front seat of the car.
Both guys walk to their car while keeping an eye on me, as if I’m stupid enough to jump them from behind. The engine roars to life and the car vibrates like duct tape holds it together.
In no hurry to go inside and explain to my friends how I lost, I stay on the sidewalk. The car slowly drives by and Beth presses her palm against the passenger window. Written in black marker is the word signaling my defeat: can’t.
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Beth
THERE’S NOTHING BETTER than the feeling of floating. Weightless in warmth. Comforter out of the dryer warmth. The warmth of a strong hand against my face, running through my hair.
If only life could be like this…forever.
I could do forever here, in the basement of my aunt’s house. All walls. No windows. The outside kept outside. The people I love inside.
Noah—his hair hiding his eyes, keeping the world from seeing his soul.
Isaiah—a sleeve of beautiful tattoos that frightens the normal and entices the free.
Me—the poet in my mind when I’m high.
I came to this house for safety. They came because the foster care system ran out of homes. We stayed because we were stray pieces of other puzzles, tired of never fitting.
One year ago, Isaiah and Noah bought the
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couch, the king-size mattress, and the TV
from the Goodwill. Shit thrown away by
somebody else. By yanking it down a flight of stairs into the depths of the earth, they made us a home. They gave me a family.
“I wore ribbons,” I say. My own voice
sounds bizarre. Echoing. Far away. And I
speak again so I can hear the strangeness.
“Lots of them.”
“I love it when she does this,” Isaiah says to Noah. The three of us relax on the bed.
Finishing another beer, Noah sits at the end with his back propped against the wall. Isaiah and I touch. We only touch when we’re high or drunk or both. We can because it doesn’t count then. Nothing counts when you feel weightless.
Isaiah runs his hand through my hair again.
The gentle tug urges me to close my eyes and sleep forever. Bliss. This is bliss.
“What colors?” The normal rough edges of
Isaiah’s tone disappear, leaving smooth
deepness.
“Pink.”
“And?”
“Dresses. I loved dresses.”
It feels as if I’m turning my head through HC TITLE-AUTHOR
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