I fold the paper in half, and in half again, then cram it back into the envelope and drop it on the floor, like it’s possessed and folding it up a bunch of times will help.
It’s from my father.
He knows I’m at Holsom because when I got accepted to the school, they wouldn’t send the enrolment documents to the prison and I had to give them a home address. I didn’t know where my mother was living so I gave them my dad’s address and he passed along the papers. No message, no note, just a forwarding stamp on the front of the envelope, followed by the prison address.
I have no idea why he would be trying to contact me now, and if the sweat pooling in the small of my back and my shallow breathing and my tiny heart attack are any indication, I don’t want to know.
I’ve only seen him once since the night I fled with my mom and Ramsay. We didn’t have enough money to go far, so we just lived on the opposite side of town and stuck to the sketchier corners we knew he didn’t visit. About a year after we’d left I was leaving a drug store with a two hundred dollar store credit to my name, when I almost walked into him in the parking lot.
He’d steadied me with a hand on each shoulder, holding my gaze as I stared up at him in terror. “Watch it,” he said, then let go of me and continued walking, like he hadn’t recognized me at all.
I crumple the envelope and toss it toward the trash can near the desk. It bounces off the rim and rolls under the radiator, lurking in the shadows, a trite metaphor for my tragic back story.
I grab my textbooks out of my bag and start to read. This is my life now. Everything is different. Everything is better.
I live in the present, not the past.
* * *
“No responses,” Jim says, a couple of days later. Aidan and I sit across from him in the PPP office as he scans his email. Our next assignment is to interview a present day PPP student about their experience, but so far we haven’t managed to find anyone willing to talk to us. Jim had even sent out a mass email asking for volunteers, bribing them with the promise of counting the interview as one of their credits, but no takers.
Not even Aidan’s friends were willing to help.
I, of course, have no friends.
Being accepted into the program is a source of pride, but there’s also a strong stigma attached to it. Holsom is a nice school with nice kids, and nice kids don’t steal cars or go to prison or do whatever it is everyone in this program has done. It’s no mystery why no one wants to cooperate—I certainly wouldn’t agree to sit in front of someone and field questions about my life. Not that I have any answers.
“What if we just interview a recent grad?” I try. “Someone from the last year. We can talk about how they’re doing...presently.”
Jim smiles kindly at my lame effort, but doesn’t relent. “You’ve already spoken to Lindo, that’s the past component. But we want kids coming into the program next year to see the same names and faces from the campaign around campus. They need to see being here as a tangible source of pride and accomplishment, not just an idea. They show up with a chip on their shoulder and it’s our job to help whittle that down until it’s no longer an obstacle that holds them back.”
Aidan shifts in his seat beside me.
“Obviously everyone still has too big a chip if they’re not even willing to do the interview in exchange for the cooperation credit,” I argue. “And if the program is supposed to be anonymous, we can’t force anyone to help.”
“You’re right,” Jim says. “No one can be forced.” Then he looks between us meaningfully.
“What are you getting at?”
“You have plans for after you graduate, right, Aster? You’d like to go to law school?”
“Uh-huh.”
“And Aidan? Any plans for you?”
He shrugs, the ever-sullen kid in the principal’s office. “I don’t know yet.”
Jim folds his hands on the desk. “As you’re aware, so long as you continue to meet the enrolment requirements, the Promise & Potential program will cover the cost of your four-year degree. Any education beyond that is up to you to fund.”
“Right.”
“But.”
I sit up a bit straighter in my seat. I’ve been squirreling away whatever spare change I can in a weak effort to finance the upcoming three years of law school, but it’s not adding up fast. Combined with the fact that I have no real possessions to speak of and no one to co-sign a loan, I don’t have a whole lot of options.
But could be an option.
“There are grants,” Jim says. “For people who excel in the program. For people whose promise and potential would be limited by a four-year degree. We’re sometimes able to wrangle grants for those students, but they’re hard to come by, and so are the people willing to put themselves on the line for the opportunity.”
Aidan fidgets in his seat.
I already know what Jim’s getting at, but still I check. “What are you saying, exactly?”
“I’m saying we’re not allowed to force you to give an interview, but perhaps I can entice you. Knock this one out of the park, and I’ll put in a good word.”
“And by knock it out of the park you mean...”
“Be the interviewee,” Jim says. “You’d be a great spokesperson for the program, Aster. You’re smart, you’re friendly—”
Aidan shifts again, increasingly uncomfortable.
“—you’re the kind of hope these kids need. The light at the end of the tunnel. The promise and potential they want to see in themselves. I know it’s asking a lot of you. I know everyone has a past and sometimes that history isn’t the ideal fit with the life we’re trying to lead. But you don’t have anything to be ashamed of—none of you do. You’re here for a reason.”
Aidan’s staring at his tattooed knuckles.
Ride hard.
I close my eyes and summon my courage.
“Okay,” I hear Aidan say before I can. “I’ll do it.”
My eyes fly open.
Jim’s face mirrors my surprise. “You?” he says. “Aidan?”
“Yeah.” Aidan flicks a look at me, then stands, signaling the end of the meeting. “We’ll do the interview. No problem. Thanks for your time.”
I quickly say goodbye to Jim and hurry after Aidan out of the offices and down the empty hall to the stairs.
“Hey,” I say, snagging his arm when I catch up. “What are you doing?”
“Just getting the interview done. No big deal.”
“Why are you walking so fast if it’s no big deal?”
“Because I’ve got plans for us.”
I stop walking. “For us?”
His mouth quirks and he runs his hand through his messy hair, HARD stamped across the knuckles.
“Yeah,” he says. “Did you think I was doing this because I’m a nice guy? I’ll do it, but you’ve gotta give me something in return.”
30
Aidan
“A movie?” Aster says as we approach the theater. “That’s your big something?”
“Why?” I hold the door. “Were you expecting something perverted?”
She purses her mouth primly. “No.”
“Get your mind out of the gutter, you perv. I told you. We’re just friends.”
She tries to hide it, but I see her smile and it still gets me.
I wave her in. “Come on. Kill Glory 5 starts in twenty minutes. I want to see the previews.”
I haven’t been to a matinee since my dad took me to see Ice Age. I don’t remember anything about the movie, just how excited I was to be there. I didn’t know until later that he’d brought me to the movie to get me out of the house while some guys showed up to take our living room furniture.
“I haven’t seen Kill Glory one, two, three or four,” Aster frets. “I hope I can follow along.”
“I’ll explain all the complicated parts.”
I buy both tickets, ignoring her attempts to give me money. I’m forcing her to be here, after all. The least I can do is
pay. It’s not like chivalry’s completely dead.
We order snacks at the concession, and Aster jabs me in the gut with her elbow when she thrusts money at the cashier before I can pay again. Okay, now it’s dead.
“Fuck,” I wheeze, half hunched over as I carry my popcorn and drink down the hall to the theater. “You’re a mean date.”
She fastens her lips around the straw and sucks, cheeks hollowing. “Who me?” she asks, tongue peeking out to lick a stray drop of soda off her lip.
I pick up the pace.
Because it’s a matinee and the movie is several weeks old, the theater is mostly empty, just a few people scattered throughout. We snag seats on the end, the same ones I’d reserved for our first failed date night, the ones we’d never managed to fill.
As soon as we sit there’s a shrill ring, and Aster jolts. “Shit,” she mutters, shoving her popcorn into my arms as she fumbles to get her phone out of her bag.
I start to make a joke about who might be calling her, but stop when I see her face, lit by the dim glow from her phone. I can’t see the screen to check the number, but the tense set of her jaw and the sudden strain on her face tells me it’s not good.
“What is it?” I ask as she shuts off the phone and crams it back into her bag.
“Nothing,” she mumbles, taking back her food and sinking into her seat. She stuffs a handful of popcorn into her mouth and focuses her attention on the car ad playing up front.
“It kind of seems like something,” I say, treading lightly. Learning that Aster’s bright and shiny façade covers up seven years’ worth of dings and dents has shown me we’re more alike than I thought. Most of the cars I stole got stripped down for parts, but there was the occasional car they re-outfitted and resold to some buyer who was fine not asking questions. Whenever I saw the transformed cars I’d look past the new paint and the rims and the upgrades and see the original. No matter how good the cover up, you can never completely erase the past.
“Nope. Nothing.”
“Are you in trouble?”
She meets my eye. “No.”
We sit silently for a few minutes, absorbing ads for credit cards, phone plans, and more soft drinks, then Aster asks, “Why’d you volunteer for the interview?”
I did it for her, obviously. I did it so she didn’t have to. So she could be as bright and shiny as she wants to be, without ever admitting to the scars she keeps hidden. But of course I can’t say that. “To get out of the meeting. I hate meetings.”
“You could have said that before the meeting. Then there would have been no meeting at all.”
“I was hoping Jim could find us another victim.”
“Are you worried?”
“That your questions will be perverted? Yes, of course.”
She smirks.
“Promise me you’ll keep it clean,” I say. “At least while—”
“Have you ever been with that...woman?” she asks abruptly. “From the bar? Sindy?”
The ellipsis means “prostitute,” a gap in the question that’s as dangerous as a huge hole in the ground, a nest of vipers writhing at the bottom.
“I didn’t know the interview was going to start now,” I hedge.
Aster just stares, waiting me out.
“No,” I say finally, cautiously circling around the gaping hole. “Of course not.”
“She knew you,” Aster says. “You weren’t just some guy that showed up that day and paid her. She said you went way back.”
Turns out there’s another big hole right beside the last one, and I topple in headfirst.
“Three years way back,” I admit, scrubbing my hand over my chin uncomfortably. “I met her when I first got here. I didn’t know anybody, was convinced I’d never have any friends, and I went to the bar with my fake ID, intending to get drunk and forget my problems.”
“But you didn’t?”
“Well, partly.” No one besides Sindy knows this story; I’d begged her never to repeat it. “I got very drunk and fell off my stool and knocked myself unconscious. When I woke up I was on the floor in the back room, covered in a blanket. I heard Sindy having sex with some guy—I didn’t know he was a client at the time—so I stayed still until he left, then she said, ‘You can come out now.’”
Aster’s cringing. “Okay, I thought my prison cavity search was a low moment, but you may have just topped it.”
“It gets worse. She made me pay her for the time she’d wasted convincing the manager not to call the police—or an ambulance—and as I handed over the only cash in my wallet, I realized that while I may have thought I’d hit rock bottom before, I’d just uncovered new depths. So I turned things around.”
“And became friends with a prostitute.”
“She’s more like a really mean aunt. That’s why I prefer to drink at Bender instead of any of the places on campus. If I’m there, I’ve got someone to make sure I stay in line.”
“Have you ever paid for it?”
“I’ll answer your question if you answer one of mine.”
“I’ve never hired a gigolo.”
“Are you sure? Because this date is costing you three hundred dollars.”
“What a rip-off. I should have been allowed to pick the movie.”
“I’ve never paid for it,” I say. “Lindo may have mocked my long hair, but it was a hit with the ladies.”
Aster snickers and eats another fistful of popcorn. “I should ask him to send me that photo.”
“Too late. I already bribed him not to.”
“Dammit.”
“Anyway. My question.”
She lifts a brow and waits.
“How come I never heard you wailing the way Missy does when she comes? If Jerry’s such a superstar in bed, how’d you stay so quiet?”
Aster’s mouth falls open, a piece of popcorn held between her fingers, just a millimeter away from its destination. “Aidan!” she exclaims, swiveling around as though any of the four people in the theater might be eavesdropping. “That’s none of your business.”
“It’s because he’s bad in bed, right? And Missy’s faking it? For my benefit?”
“God, you’re conceited.”
“Or was it so good your screams were so high, so loud, the human ear couldn’t hear them?”
“Yes, that’s why there were so many dogs in the parking lot,” she says dryly. “Every. Single. Night. Multiple times.”
I know she’s lying, but it still affects me. Still makes me picture Aster’s face when she comes, the sounds she might make, the things she might like.
“Why didn’t you bring anyone over?” she counters. “Jerry said you never had company.”
“Because I wanted you,” I reply. “And nobody else.”
“You didn’t know me,” she says. She’d said that before, too. Like she doesn’t trust that the image she’s presenting could possibly be real. It may be a work in progress, but it’s still her. Part of her, anyway. The superficial part, that one that hides the deeper, more interesting parts. The ones she’s still convinced have to be hidden.
“I know you now.”
She rolls her lips, and I know the next question. I know she wants to ask if I still want her, if discovering those depths changes how I feel.
“And?” she asks softly, fiddling with her straw.
The movie starts then, jolting us in our seats with the terrifyingly loud thud of Glory, the film’s hero, crashing to earth in a bloody heap, the way each film in the series begins.
“Fuck,” Glory mumbles, holding a hand to the brains oozing out of the crack in her skull. She sits up and glares around Times Square. “Not this again.”
From the corner of my eye I see Aster grimacing in horror.
I reach over the armrest, finding her hand on her thigh and sliding my fingers through hers.
“What are you doing?” she whispers, staring at our joined hands.
“Holding on,” I whisper back.
31
Aster
I decide we’ll do the interview in the far corner of my dorm room, the interview chair facing the rest of the suite, the curtains drawn behind it so the background is nothing more distracting than pale green linen. I set up a chair six feet away from the first, arranging a notepad and pen on the seat in preparation. Being this close to Aidan, alone in my room, is going to be difficult. Maybe I should open the curtains so I can focus on something instead of his face, his shoulders, his tattoos...
My phone rings, scaring the crap out of me. I’d taken to keeping it turned to silent recently, and the piercing sound makes me curse as I snatch the phone off the desk and glare at the screen. Another blocked number.
I decline the call, and they don’t leave a voice message.
They never do.
A sudden knock at the door makes me jump again. “Jesus,” I mutter, tossing the phone down and hurrying over to twist the lock.
Aidan’s waiting in the hall. It’s not a surprise; he’s supposed to be coming over. I’ve been waiting for him. But it still somehow manages to feel like a surprise, like every time I see him I find something I didn’t expect.
Today that something is ice cream.
“Get in here with that,” I say, stepping back to usher him in.
“Good day to you too,” he replies. He’s wearing jeans and a black Henley that clings to his broad shoulders and trim waist, his hair a little too long and a little too messy, reminding everybody that he just doesn’t care. But he does.
I reach for one of the two pints in his hand, but he holds them out of reach.
Okay, maybe he doesn’t care.
“What’s happening?” I ask, hands on hips, eyes on ice cream.
“I’ve been thinking,” he begins.
“Uh-oh.”
“You don’t even know what I thought about.”
“Your hair?”
He pauses. “I just thought about my hair for a minute. The real focus of my thoughts was you.”
“I’m going to need that ice cream now.”
“You have the same expression on your face you had at the theater when your phone rang. What’s going on, Aster? Is someone bothering you?”
“Just you. I’ll get spoons.”
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