“No!” Ziggy and I say in unison.
Star raises her hands in surrender. “Okay, too far. I get it.” She tips her head and her blue bangs fall across her eyes. “So, no Halloween? Is it a religious thing?”
“Do we look like we give a shit about holidays?” Ziggy asks.
Star shrugs. “Just checking. I don’t want to give you the wrong kinds of cookies for Christmas.” She spins in her red stiletto Mary Janes and heads back into the coffeehouse, waving us in after her.
The party is in an old Chatsworth neighborhood. The Uber driver pulls up the street, parking in front of a driveway. Ziggy and I get out of the car and follow Star up to the house. It’s sort of rocking the 1950s American Dream vibe with a sprawling lawn out front, a curved driveway lined with flowers, and a porch with a swing. It’s decorated in the usual Halloween fare: pumpkin lights strung over the garage, huge spider decals in the windows, and a skeleton hanging out in the bushes.
A raven lands on the roof with a sudden flurry of wings as we walk up to the door. It perches on the rain gutter, looking at us sideways. My gut churns. You don’t usually see ravens out at night, and this is the second one I’ve noticed now.
But then I’m distracted by something hanging from the eaves that looks like a blow-up sex doll dressed in a tuxedo.
“That’s Jeeves, the butler,” Star says when she sees the confused look on my face. “I helped decorate,” she adds with pride.
“How do you know these people?” This is probably something I should’ve asked earlier.
“My cousin lives here. It’s his place.”
Shit, I don’t really know this girl at all. This was an unsafe move on my part. But Ziggy’s with me, and no one messes with her. I’ll just get my shower, she can get food, and then we’ll jet.
“We’re early,” Star says as she opens the door without knocking. “The real fun won’t start for another hour or so. But you should be able to duck into a room and make yourselves at home, no problem.”
Ziggy steps inside with Star, and I follow, hesitant. “Will your cousin mind?” I ask. The front room is decorated like a bachelor pad, with beanbag chairs and a pool table. At first glance, I see only half a dozen people, most of them dudes, except one girl. Poor Ziggy.
“Nope, Ben is super chill,” Star says, “as long as you don’t steal his stuff or punch a hole through a wall.”
Not planning on doing either of those things.
“Just lead me to those hamburgers you mentioned in the car,” Ziggy says. “I’m famished.” Then she turns and points to me. “And skinny’ll take two.”
“I need to use the bathroom,” I say, ignoring her. I can’t waste time eating if there’s a usable shower in the vicinity.
“There’s a guest bedroom and bathroom in the back.” Star points to a hall behind her. “Last door on the left. Make yourself at home.”
I nod my thanks and zip past a couple of partygoers. The room is small, with an attached bathroom, and it has everything I need. I shut the bathroom door behind me, checking that it locks before stripping down. Then I slide into the shower and let the stream of warm water start peeling off the layers of street and smog.
I grab the soap and scrub more than I need to, mostly because I don’t want to get out. I haven’t had a hot shower in so long. Too long.
I try not to let myself feel my thin body, my ribs jutting through the skin, my scrawny hips and legs, my knees too sharp and bony, unhealthy, unattractive. It’s been a rough year. But I’d rather be here, scrounging for a random shower and a meal, than stuck in a group transition home. I hear those can be even worse than foster homes. I ran away from the last place the system put me in. I’ve always made sure to get out quick once some bitch or bitch boy gets pissed at my presence, since it inevitably turns into me becoming their personal punching bag. I’ve always made people nervous. According to my last social worker, I was “difficult to place.” I’ve seen the notes in my file: Lacks personal connection with peers. And: Inability to invest in relationships.
I’m not really sure why Ziggy puts up with me.
I’m broken, mostly because of the broken woman who spawned me. I swear, adults should have to get a license to make a kid. Prove they’ve got their shit together before they bring a child into the world. My mom tried, I think. She thought she could piece herself into something resembling a mother by dropping the drugs and dropping the need to feed her overblown selfish streak. But she failed. And so, at age ten, I was released from her forever. I bounced around foster care until it eventually became a blur of angry kids and overworked caregivers. The only place I felt safe was in my own head, where the sneers and fists could be ignored—I must’ve read a thousand books the first year or two. In the pages of the stories, I could catch killers or kill monsters. My favorites were the legends with angry gods, cursed kings, or castles in the murky fog. Not the romance novels—hell, no. I liked the novels that ended in blood-soaked battlefields best. Which is ironic, I guess, considering I’ve become a master at conflict avoidance. My default mode is: leave if things get too tense.
I make it on my own now. And while life’s gotten more difficult in some ways, it’s also much more peaceful. I can sit on the beach and read all day if I want. I can walk for miles and still be home. I’m not tied to anyone or anything. I’m free. I turned eighteen last month, so I could choose to get aid now, or job training, maybe go back to school, but the system can kiss my ass. If I’m going to figure my life out, it won’t be under some social worker’s microscope. I’m done with being a name on a file.
I get out of the shower and dry off, then fold the towel, placing it exactly how it was before I used it. I look at my pile of dirty clothes on the floor and sigh. I don’t want to put those stiff things back on. There’s a robe on the back of the door, so I grab it and slip into it, then walk into the bedroom. It drags behind me, way too big for my shrunken frame. The noises of the party seem louder now, but I don’t hear anyone in the hallway. I check the closet for clothes and spot a couple of things that might work; there’s a white cotton button-up on a hanger and a pair of jeans in a stack of folded pants on the shelf above it. Maybe I could wear them for now. I’m so tired. And I’m dying to have clean clothes on for a second. I’ll put my own stuff on again before I leave.
The jeans are too big so I roll them at the waist, then find socks and a wifebeater in what looks like a small laundry basket. I put them on and slide the white dress shirt over the tank. I gather my dirty clothes and throw them into the basket, then shuffle over to the bed and plop down onto the heavenly mattress. I lean back on a pile of pillows so comfortable and soft, I can’t keep my eyes open.
I breathe deeply, and sleep pulls me under.