by Ginger Scott
“Ah, so you’re the middle child. That explains everything.”
I suppose he’s right—it kinda does. In every sense of the stereotype, I’m the middle child. I’m the Jan Brady of our family, smart and studious but self-reliant. Meanwhile, underneath lies a volcano of doubt and fear and shame. I don’t even know why I feel shame sometimes, but it’s there. I acknowledge it. I even wrote it down on the form for Megan Esher.
“And you live . . . in a lighthouse that only shines red at night?”
His brow furrows, but a smile breaks it up quickly.
“Oh, I forgot that was on. Sorry.” Our connection breaks up while he shuffles around, the screen going temporarily black as he shuts the red light off then flips on a small lamp. The warm glow suits him better; the red made him look evil. “Better?”
“Much,” I say, shifting the screen momentarily so he doesn’t see the blush I know is there. Much. I said much.
“My mom’s old boyfriend collects beer signs. He gave me one for my birthday.” He doesn’t acknowledge the seven red flags that statement raises.
“You’re friends with your mom’s ex-boyfriend?” I tackle the most glaring one.
“Yeah, I know, it’s a little strange. She’s married now, too,” he says.
I lift my brows because yeah, that somehow made it weirder.
“You close with your stepdad?” I ask.
“I’m part of a fucked-up drug trial, what do you think?”
I smirk and let out a pity laugh. I feel as though I could spend an hour drilling him with questions and unearthing his mysteries. His dysfunction sorta puts mine in perspective. Maybe, had I met him earlier and we became actual friends, I wouldn’t have fought to be a part of Project Morpheus to solve my issues.
“So, what do you say?” His question jolts me back to attention and I straighten my phone so both of our faces are in view. I lift my phone because the upward angle makes my face look a bit deformed.
“Down the hatch?” I lift the bottle of orange-tinged liquid and hold it in the camera’s view. He does the same. Both of our lids are off.
“Robot pill ready?” He puts the drink down for a second and holds his pill in front of his eyes, pinched between two fingers. I do the same with mine, and together we stick out our tongues and set the capsule in the very center before bringing the bottle to our lips to drink.
“Cheers,” I say, gulping my first taste, thankful it doesn’t taste as mediciney as I expect. I note the small dimple on his cheek. He’s smiling behind his bottle as he tilts it up and downs the entire thing in one long gulp. I force the rest down while he waits, and we show off our empty bottles to one another. I set mine down a second before he does, but I leave my gaze on his through the screen, somehow communicating without saying a word.
There is no going back. I mean, we could call the doctor and ask to have our stomachs pumped, but then the stipend money would be gone, and I would have to stay local for college. And we couldn’t change our minds again. But still . . . what did we just do?
“I guess this is good night?” The chill of the wet towel is making my lips quiver.
His soft lips shift into a sad smile. He doesn’t want to end the call, and a part of me doesn’t either. This drug trial has shown me exactly how lonely I am. Maybe it’s done the same for him.
“Don’t let the bed bugs bite,” he teases. I laugh softly out of courtesy. He’s nervous.
My lips part, ready to admit that I’m a little—a lot—scared, too. Before I can, though, he ends the call for the both of us.
“Sweet dreams, Damsel.” The last thing I see is the soft creases at the edges of his eyes. There’s something epically sweet about them, and I’ve hung on to the way they look every time we’ve talked.
My legs stretch out, and I kick them free of the towel. I could have told him that Damsel isn’t my name, but he knows that. He didn’t ask for it, which probably means he knows and called me Damsel anyway. The girl who doesn’t want to be rescued despises it a little, but the girl who likes that a slightly dangerous, moody guy with sweet eyes and a dimple is flirting with her stopped the protest. Sometimes, it’s okay to indulge your alter ego.
The hallway is dark when I finally leave the bathroom, so I take careful and quiet steps back to my room, clutching my phone to my body as I climb the metal ladder to my bed. My charging cord is Velcroed to the wall, and I plug my phone in and tuck it in the corner of my bed where it’s protected from falling by the metal frame.
In order for this program to work, I’m going to sleep. This is something that always eludes me, and I can’t remember the last time I’ve had a dream. For whatever reason, though, tonight it sweeps over me like fog rolling in off the lake. It pulls me under hours before my sisters and father come home. And I let it, chasing the warm-eyed boy with a dimple into my dreams.
11
Villain
His name is Eddie.
That’s the first guy I remember my mom dating. I was five. He was—handsy. Eddie liked to puff his smoke in my face while I sat on his knee. I never liked it—the smoke or the place he made me sit. I don’t think his touch ever went beyond that of drugged-up Santa, but the idea is not lost on me that I might be repressing some shit.
I’m staring right at him. Haven’t seen that motherfucker in more than a decade, but he looks exactly the same.
I couldn’t sleep, so I figure I’d take advantage of Paul and Mom being passed out and Gia deep into sleep, and get rid of the last of the stash from Sal. I brought it home with me on the off chance one of the football guys wants to buy. It’s a tough game this week, so everyone keeps saying. Tough games mean pain is weakness. No room for weakness out there on the Matador field.
The sky is grayed out, a bright spot where the moon is hidden underneath a blanket of impending rain. It makes the air feel humid rather than freezing cold. That snow, though—it’s coming.
I slip my hood from my head, letting Eddie get a clear view of me from where he sits on the hood of his car in the empty lot across the street. His piece of shit Oldsmobile is still running; I guess it will as long as Eddie does. He used to work this corner, selling dope and random shit he mixed up in my mom’s bathtub. When they broke up, he took off. Nobody’s sold here since, and I’m not really big-time. It’s close to the high school, and people just sorta know it’s where to go. Random deals go down here all the time, but mostly, it’s just me and the twitchy-ass jocks exchanging pain meds for cash.
I pull my phone from my back pocket and make a post about how much I love the color green. That’s how people know I’m open for business. The popular crowd follows me on this account. If nobody shows up in an hour, I’ll go home, try to sleep again.
Guess robot pills don’t make you drowsy.
I’m determined to not look Eddie’s way again, but the burning glow of his cigarette catches my attention when he flicks ashes to the ground, and I glance in his direction. He takes it as an invitation, tossing his smoke to the pavement and stepping on it as he strides across the empty street under the glow of the neon drug store sign; it’s ironic, that blinking red Rx.
“Shit,” I mutter to myself.
I roll my shoulders and push my phone into the pocket of my hoodie, tucking my other hand inside, too. A heaviness was already weighing the pocket down, and the chill of metal stops my fingertips. I wrap my hand around the foreign object, expecting the sharp teeth of my mom’s car keys or a lighter I’ve forgotten about. The weight is too much for either of those. I glide my palm over the surface; somehow my fingers know exactly where to rest, where to bend, where to apply pressure.
I have a gun.
My face contorts, my mind warring with my gut instinct. I don’t own a weapon, Paul does. But somewhere in the deepest part of my brain, I believe this gun is mine and mine alone. I believe it fiercely.
I leave my hand on the piece, growing more comfortable with its purpose and weight with every step Eddie takes. When he moves into the shadows of
my alleyway, I pull it out and release the safety. How do I know how to do that?
“Whoa, whoa!” Eddie’s hands are greasy; engine oil stains smear his open palms as he stutter-steps backward. “I know I’m late, J. I got you next week, though. I had car trouble, so I didn’t get to every pick-up.” I can’t tell for certain in this light, but I think he’s quivering.
“What the fuck are you talking about?” I’m still holding the gun, ready to use it. I think Eddie’s high off his ass right now. And I’m sure he had car trouble. That damn car once sat useless in my mom’s driveway for a month.
His thinning blond hair is longer than I remember, damp swaths combed from left to right in an effort to mask the shiny bald scalp underneath. His initials are tatted on the side of his head, near his ear. I check as he walks up to make sure they’re there, to confirm this is really him. The black ink isn’t true; it’s turning green, bleeding and fading. He always liked that his initials are E.E.L.—like the fish. He’s even starting to look like that worm-like creature. He wears the same oversized jeans he wore when I was little, but the body holding them up is fatter. He’s been eating well, or drinking well. Probably the latter.
“J, please, man. I just need one more week.” His quaking limbs are apparent now. His wobbly knee waves his pant leg as he stands with one foot in the gutter. I lower the gun and relax my grip, engaging the safety and resting the weight of the Colt in my pocket. I leave my hand on it, though, because I don’t think this shit is mine. What if it’s Eddie’s? I can’t lose it.
“Oh, my God, J. Thank you. I promise you, I won’t miss again. Next week . . . I’ll be here early, yo. Early, okay?” Eddie nervously laughs through his words. When he forms a fist and stretches out his hand toward me, I let it hang there untouched until he pulls it away. I have never, not ever, voluntarily touched this bastard. I’m not pounding fists now.
“Double,” I say. I didn’t really mean to say the word out loud. I was just testing the idea in my head, wondering if maybe Sal is working with Eddie, maybe told him I’m the boss. He’s so scared that the idea of gutting him for more money appeals to me.
“Dude, J . . . double.” His uneasy laugh produces quick tears this time. He’s not only shaking now; I think maybe this man-child just shit his pants.
“Yeah,” I say with a nod, adjusting the weapon and holding it tight against my abs. It feels nice right there, like armor.
“No, I mean okay. Yeah . . . of course. I’ll be here, with double. That’s eight, right?” His lip twitches, something he always does when he lies. That lip twitched like a motherfucker when he was with my mom.
“Ten,” I say, calling his bluff.
“J, ten K is like— In a week? Around here?”
I hold his stare. Ten K in a week around here is a big ask. It’s actually impossible, on the streets anyway. But maybe he has connections I don’t know about, and for some reason, he thinks I will kill him if he doesn’t do as I say.
“Eleven,” I say, mostly to watch the way his mouth bends under the pressure of wanting to be ill. His eyebrows shoot up and beads of sweat form under his ugly canopy of hair. He wipes it, causing the few strands to curl and tangle. It’s gross.
“I’m kidding, Eddie. Ten is fine.” I smirk, and not because that was funny, but because this feeling I have right now, it’s pleasure. I feel powerful. I’m making this man I’ve hated for most of my life dance, and it feels damn good.
“Ten. Next week. Okay, J. Thank you . . . again.” He scurries, and I can tell he wants to sprint. The thought of shooting him in the back as he runs flashes through my mind. I’m a little frightened by how easy it is to visualize. This gun is not good for me; it makes me something worse than a simple small-time pusher to my classmates.
The second Eddie’s car pulls around the corner, a new beam from headlights fills the dark alleyway. Two guys get out of a black lifted Jeep. I recognize Logan, the taller one, right away. He wrestles and plays on the line. He damages his brain and body about six months out of the year, and has been buying pills from me since April. He likes percs. I don’t have any on me tonight, though, so I’ll have to disappoint him. Unless . . .
I feel in my back pocket and pull out a small bag with Vicodin. That’s all Sal had left this week, so I took it. They don’t look anything alike, but this dude has no clue what he’s really buying.
“Hey,” he says. I lift my chin and hand over the bag while he swaps it out for a roll of cash. It’s more than I normally get for this stuff, unless he’s handing me a stack of fives. I don’t say anything, and he walks away with his friend. I wait until they’re completely gone before inspecting the bills in my hand. Five twenties. That’s a good mark-up, a sixty-six percent profit increase. I chuckle softly, amused at how quickly I can do that math. Standardized tests should include situations like that. I’d get into Harvard.
Time flashes by in a blur. I check my phone and three hours have passed despite it feeling like minutes. It’s close to four in the morning, and I’m nowhere near tired. I’m fueled by this new sensation growing warm in my chest. I’m also overcome with greed now that I got a taste of making more off of less. I need to call Sal, get him to hook me up with more of whatever he’s got, but as I run through numbers on my phone I’m frustrated to not find him anywhere in my contacts. It’s pathetic that I don’t know his number. I just push a button and he answers.
What the fuck?
After long minutes of searching through old messages to other people I don’t know and having conversations I don’t understand, my phone vibrates on repeat in my palm. It’s an alarm, and the faint sound of my mom telling me to “Shut that damn thing off” breaks through a fog. I pull my hoodie up and peer down the dark end of the alley. A body shifts flat against the brick wall.
“Hey!” I feel for the gun, but it’s gone. Shit. I’ve lost it.
My chest pounds, the panic I laughed at on Eddie’s face taking a grip of my heart. The thump is wild, and the body several feet away remains unmoved. I walk toward it, but stop when it doesn’t startle.
“Who’s there?” My voice sounds deeper than normal. Groggy, too—like I’m sick.
Mist paints my cheeks. That rain is coming. The body down the way—a form cloaked in black—steps away from the wall and runs at me, fog from its mouth haloing its head.
“Oh, sh—”
I blink.
I’m flat on my back, the bed sheets soaked and tangled around my kicking legs. I’m wearing gray sweatpants and no shirt, and my body is shivering with chills. I grip at my hair; it’s damp. I must have a fever. How did I get here? Am I home? Where’s the gun?
I hurry to my feet so fast that my head rushes from the blood shift and I grow dizzy. I drop down on one knee and grasp at my forehead, staving off the dizziness pulling me to the floor. My other hand feels around the floor for my favorite hoodie, and I bring it to my chest in a panic, feeling for the right side, for the pocket where my money lives—where I put the gun.
The gun is gone. But I pull out a wad of cash and drop it on the floor in front of my knees, spreading it out to count. The bills are crumpled but clear—five twenties. The deal was real. It happened. I don’t know what the fuck the rest of it was.
12
Cowboy
The world feels muted today. My eyes feel heavy, too, like I didn’t sleep at all, though I was out for eleven hours.
I missed first period.
Dad left early this morning for a sales meeting, and I couldn’t get my ass out of bed. My mom was humming in her room, and the sound of it was so fucking soothing. I miss the way she used to hum. I didn’t want to make a sound because I knew the second I did, she would stop.
And she did.
I left well into second hour and rolled in as class ended. I always get looks when I do that, but the teachers mark me present anyway. They’re cowards. If they discipline me to make a point, Coach will show up during their prep hour and explain why I get a free pass. It’s all bullshit,
but they let him convince them. Some of them are reluctant as hell, yet my attendance is spectacular on paper. My grades are pretty decent too, even with all the missing shit I haven’t done—haven’t learned. I bet there’s a lot of self-loathing going on over wine and whiskey in the evening in teachers’ homes around here.
“Nash, you missed your appointment this morning.”
I stop in the thick of the crowded hallway, a blur of students bumping into me from either side as they hustle to be on time. It’s usually Coach using my last name, but that voice is a woman, and Coach Bruce is a very hairy dude.
“I have time now; I’ll write you a pass.” I turn to meet Ms. Esher’s expecting glare. She holds a hand out, directing me into one of the counselling offices.
I’m supposed to write down my notes in a journal. She even gave me one to use. I’m not sure where it is, though. It’s in my house; I know that much. I didn’t throw it away. And I took the pill. I followed the program. I’m sure if I was up early, my dad would have drilled me about my dream, filling in his own hidden meanings to suit his agenda. That’s the other reason I stayed in bed, and why I didn’t bother to write shit on paper.
“I’m kinda late, and I’ve already missed one class tod—” I wobble my head, but her gaze remains steady.
“You mean two,” she fills in.
My mouth draws in tight. She’s not a coward. I admire that—sorta.
“Chair’s still warm; come on in.” She smirks like a chess player who knows they’re going to win in a dozen moves. Meanwhile, I’m pretty sure I feel the crust of toothpaste on my chin. I rub the back of my hand over my bottom lip, accepting that I’m no match for this woman. Not this morning anyhow. But I can learn; I’ll adapt.
I step around her and through the open door. She kicks away the stopper and lets it fall closed behind her as she moves to the other side of the desk. I’ve always thought it weird that these offices are set up like fish bowls. The doors are completely glass and the rooms are tiny, barely enough room for a modest desk and two moderately comfortable leather chairs. The wall is covered in poorly framed certificates meant to show off how qualified our counselling staff is. Half of them came from online programs. My dad’s degree came from one of those, too. I’m pretty sure all he had to do was spend a ton of money up front and then hit PRINT.