Zenn reaches in back for an old blanket, spreads it on the seat and pats it. I climb in.
I start shivering immediately. Or maybe I had already been shivering and hadn’t noticed because I was alone. But now I realize I am shaking like a Chihuahua on the Fourth of July. Zenn cranks up the heat.
He turns toward my house but I explain, with chattering teeth, that I don’t have my key. “You c-c-c-could t-t-t-take me to my ch-ch-ch-church. My d-d-d-dad is there.”
He glances over and turns the car onto Oak Street. “Your lips are blue.”
“Wh-wh-where are we g-g-g-going?”
“My place.”
Goodness. God really is feeling generous today!
A few minutes later he pulls up to the Arts and Crafts house and I’m stunned. I had talked myself out of him being rich, especially since he said he didn’t even have crayons as a kid.
“Y-y-y-you live here?” I stammer.
“Kind of.”
I don’t understand what he means until he pulls the truck around back. We get out and I follow him up some stairs to a loft above the detached three-car garage. It has been converted to a tiny apartment: one bedroom and a kitchenette–living space. I can see the sink of the microscopic bathroom just off the kitchen.
“You l-l-l-live here by yours-s-s-self?”
“My mom, too. Sometimes.”
“S-s-s-sometimes?”
“She likes to party. I don’t see her much.”
I try to imagine what it would be like to have a mom who likes to party. Awful, I decide.
“Your dad’s not in the picture?” I ask.
He shakes his head.
Wow. I don’t know why, but I didn’t expect that. I always think of my family as the exception, that everyone else’s family has a mom, a dad and 2.5 teenage kids in a 3-bedroom house. My family is happy and healthy, but not exactly normal in the sense that I am technically an orphan being raised by my aunt and uncle, and I have quadruplet sibling-cousins who are fourteen years younger than me. But Zenn: no dad, party-girl mom, lives above someone’s garage. I mean, I know people with divorced parents, but even that is not as common as statistics would suggest.
The apartment is pretty clean for a teenage boy who basically lives alone. Not a lot of personal or welcoming touches, but it’s tidy and functional. He disappears into the bedroom and comes out with a folded towel, a sweatshirt and a pair of sweatpants. He holds them out to me.
“You can get dried off and then I can take you to your church or wherever.”
I hesitate before taking the clothing. I have no idea what kind of fractals they might trigger, but once I get them on my body I should be fine.
I disappear into the bathroom to change. I touch the clothing with my hands as little as possible and even still I get little bursts here and there. Most feel purple and sad, loose and flowy. A little drunk. His mom likes more than the occasional glass of wine. And maybe she’s drinking to forget something awful.
The clothes smell clean, though, and I’m grateful for their warmth and mere dryness. The pink sweatpants barely skim my ankles and say Juicy across the butt, and the sweatshirt is emblazoned with Keep Calm and Kill Zombies. I debate leaving on my soaked underwear, trying to decide which would be worse: seeing the outline of wet underwear through the dry clothes or going commando in Zenn’s mom’s sweatpants. I decide on the latter, so I tuck my panties into one pocket of my drenched jeans, my bra into the other. I carefully stack my shirt and jacket on top to hide the evidence. Then I finger-comb my hair and dry off my glasses.
When I come out of the bathroom, Zenn offers me a mug of something steamy. Again, I hesitate, then force myself to take it. It’s a mug, not a cell phone. Shouldn’t be too bad unless his mom cradles it every morning while she nurses a hangover and regrets with her coffee. When no fractal comes, I wrap my hands more tightly around it, happy for its warmth. I don’t even ask what’s in the mug — I just drink. Which is pretty stupid when I think about it. I still don’t know Zenn that well, we’re alone in his apartment, I’m not wearing underwear. This tea could be laced with some date-rape drug and here I am, just sucking it down. But like when he politely opened his truck door for me the night of homecoming, he now hands me a pair of dry socks and a plastic grocery bag for my wet clothes and my fears are allayed. Or ignored, at least.
I think I’m safe.
“Thanks,” I tell him.
“I can’t really help you with shoes. Sadly, my mom’s are mostly fuck-me heels.”
His tone is light, but I can’t laugh. I think I’m right about his mom’s drinking. Plus, any mom our moms’ age wearing fuck-me heels, or Juicy sweatpants, is a disturbing visual. I try to imagine my mom wearing either and it does not compute. Just last year I got her to give up her Crocs.
“That’s okay,” I tell him. “I’m already one hundred percent better than I was.” He gestures for me to sit down at the tiny kitchen table. I sit and study my mug, still surprised that it doesn’t trigger anything. It says Pritzer Insurance on it, and I realize it’s probably just a spare promotional mug that no one ever uses. Just sits in the cabinet in case some drowned rat needs a hot cup of tea. Nothing personal about it.
“Have you lived here long?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “Just since June. We lived in Spellman before that.”
I don’t ask why they moved to Port Dalton from just one town over — I know that would be rude — but I’m guessing they got evicted. His mom lost her job. His dad left them. One of many tragedies that my dad hears about on a daily basis from his parishioners.
“It’s cute,” I say, looking around, and I mean it. It lacks a feminine touch, but the coziness of the slanted ceilings makes it feel like a cottage or a tree house.
“It’s cheap,” he says. “Which is key since my mom’s not that gifted at staying employed.”
I feel suddenly ridiculous that my biggest financial worry is how I’m going to pay for my snooty and expensive college education when he’s working three jobs just to keep a roof over his head. The words are out of my mouth before I think them through: “Zenn, if you need anything, my church could help. We have a food pantry and —”
He cuts me off. “We’re fine.”
Crap. Now I’ve offended him. Smooth move, Eva.
I wonder how long Zenn’s life has been like this. He’s eighteen now, or at least close to it, and is safe from Child Protective Services, but I wonder how close he’s come to being taken from his mom. I wonder how hard he’s worked to keep their family of two together, how much he’s had to be the parent instead of the son.
“Sorry,” I tell him. “It’s the do-gooder gene in me. I didn’t mean to offend you.”