The Bodies We Wear

by Jeyn Roberts

  So easy.

  I throw the bottle at the Dumpster as hard as I can. The thin glass splinters and droplets instantly dissolve into the rainwater.

  I don’t ask her what possessed her to try Heam. Everyone’s answer is different and they all make perfect sense at the time. Who am I to judge?

  “Will you come with me to the hospital?” I ask her.

  She shakes her head violently, enough to finally catch the boy’s attention. He sees me for the first time and his eyes grow big.

  “Are you a cop?” he asks.

  “No. I’m only seventeen. Bit too young to join the force.”

  “Are you an angel?” the girl asks.

  “Not even close.”

  The boy’s eyes fall upon her brand-new spiderweb veins. The high is going away and reality is kicking in. I can’t help wondering what his grandmother would say about this.

  “Do you have somewhere to go? A home?” I ask. “Can I take you someplace?”

  “No hospital.”

  “Okay,” I say. “No hospital. But you need to get out of the rain.”

  “I can take her to my place,” the boy says. “My mom’s working nights. She can sleep on the couch.”

  “What about your family?” I ask her. “Do you want me to call someone?” I’m happy to hear they have homes. A lot of the kids here don’t. At least they’ll be safe tonight.

  “They won’t notice. They never notice.”

  “Okay.” I reach out my hand and help her to her feet. The boy puts his arm around her protectively. I walk slowly with them to the end of the alley to make sure he can handle her on his own. Her legs are shaky but I think she’s steady enough to get home.

  “Thank you,” the girl says.

  “Don’t mention it.” I reach into my pocket and pull out some bills, shoving them into her hand. “Take the train if you need it. Or get a cup of coffee. Hot and black. It’ll help with the dizziness.”

  I don’t tell them that drugs are bad and they shouldn’t be doing them. I don’t believe in blind preaching.

  I don’t tell her that she’ll probably be back here next week and swallowing again. Heam is far more addictive than any other drug on the market. It’s cheap—twenty bucks a hit. It’s easy to find. The odds of her getting clean are a million to one. I also don’t mention that her odds of overdosing are much higher now that she’s been through the first round. Scientifically I could explain that her blood will eventually break down and neurons will start sending bad messages to her brain. She will literally go crazy from use.

  It’s also not my right to point out that the odds of me finding her again when she needs me the most are, at best, astronomically against her.

  I don’t say any of those things. She doesn’t need another lecture.

  “Keep her warm,” I say. Then I slip off into the night, the steady drizzle erasing my existence.

  My last stop of the night takes me past the dark bar on the corner where my life ended six years ago. I’ve never been inside the place but I can imagine it well enough. The bar is made of wood, with rows of glasses hanging high above the bartender. The mirror is caked with dirt, the kind that no longer washes off when you take a cloth to it. Drunken men line the stools; I can’t imagine there would be many women, except perhaps a waitress or two. Old men, barstool prophets, they spend their time speaking of days when the city was a better place. Back before the Heam addicts, prostitutes, and dealers took over. They probably talk about who’s in charge, what they’re doing wrong, and how they personally would make things better.

  Big talk for small men. But everyone needs dreams to pass the time.

  There’s also a dead man sitting inside, tucked away in the corner booth, drinking. He doesn’t know he’s dead yet, but none of that matters. His days are numbered.

  I’m going to kill him.

  Two

  I don’t hear the guy until he’s right behind me. That’s real talent. It’s usually hard to sneak up on me. He doesn’t scare me, though. It’s almost as if I knew he was there all along.

  “You sure you want to go in there?” I can practically hear the smile in his voice. It’s his shadow that gives him away. It stretches out before me, shifting as he leans against the building.

  He’s not concerned; if anything it’s as if he finds it amusing that I’d think about it in the first place. There’s something familiar in his voice yet I’m positive I’ve never heard it before.

  But I understand his point. This bar isn’t exactly the type of place a girl would go into willingly.

  “I can handle myself,” I say. Turning, I’m surprised to see he’s not much older than me. Maybe eighteen or nineteen. I was right, I don’t know him. Never seen him before and I’m good at faces.

  He smiles. The light reflects off his green eyes. He distractedly massages his neck with pale fingers.

  I turn my back on him. “What makes you think I was planning on going in? Do I look like a party girl?”

  “Nope.” He moves till he’s standing beside me. His black jacket doesn’t do a good job keeping him dry. His hair is stuck to his scalp, wet and black; it covers his ears and overlaps the collar. Beads of rain glisten on his neck. “You look a little jumpy,” he adds. “I thought maybe you were debating sneaking in.”

  “I don’t sneak,” I say. “And I’m not jumpy. If I wanted to go in, I would.”

  “If you say so.”

  I turn to say something nasty but he’s still smiling and not in a smirky way. He’s amused, but he’s not laughing at me. And I finally get it. I must look a little odd standing under the streetlamp in the middle of a downpour. I’m like the soaking-wet dog that’s too stupid to run into the house when it’s called.

  “You look soaked,” he says. “If I had an umbrella, I’d help keep you dry.”

  “I’ll live.”

  The rain continues to fall. I glance upward, but all I can see are the gray clouds above us, and the constant pattern of water as it cascades down by the buckets. I like the rain at night. I love the way it reflects off the lampposts, giving the white light a fuzzy halo. I like the way the puddles jump and vibrate, like a million water bugs having a frenzied party.

  If it ever stopped raining, I think I’d feel lost.

  “Besides,” I say. “Look who’s talking about sneaking. I didn’t even hear you come up. Do you always walk up to people from out of nowhere and start conversations?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “You should wear a bell or something.”

  He laughs.

  The silence swallows us. He’s still beside me, waiting for me to say something. But what does he want to talk about? Why? Normally, I’d assume he wants something. Spare change? Directions? Is he planning on mugging me? Something worse? Why else do strangers come up to you out of the blue? If he’s looking for a date, he’s going to be awfully disappointed. I beat the crap out of the last guy who thought I was into that sort of thing. I may be small, but I’m feisty enough to hurt someone. I don’t train every morning for nothing.

  He rubs his hand through his hair, slowly, as if checking for something. Strands of hair get stuck between his fingers. Absently he tugs on his dark locks a few times, almost as if he’s never felt his hair before. When he pulls his hand away, his hair stands out like devil’s horns. But the rain quickly weights the strands down and back into place. I watch him lick his lips. He’s waiting for me to speak. To make the next move.

  “I was just looking for someone,” I finally say. “Not that it’s any of your business.”

  “In there?” He sounds a little appalled and that makes me feel better.

  “It’s possible.”

  “You don’t look like the type of girl to keep that sort of company.”

  Now it’s my turn to smile. “And what kind of girl do I look like?”

 
He literally looks me over from the top of my head to my boots, pausing a bit too long at the middle for my taste. He spends a long time looking in my eyes, until I become the first to break the gaze. Direct contact always makes me nervous. He nods his head, tilting it to the side, when he’s finally finished sizing me up. “Sad. Forlorn. Not in an emo sort of way. No, I’m getting that wrong. You’re not a stereotype; you’re cooler than that.”

  He’s not looking directly at me when he says this. He’s staring at the bar. One of the neon lights is flickering, and his face flickers from blue to normal over and over. Fingers run along his jawline.

  “Wow,” I say. “You can really read me like a book. Very insightful. Anything else you want to add?”

  “I’ll bet you never carry an umbrella,” he says. “You’re probably damp all over. But you think that’s okay, don’t you? It’s what you’re trying to achieve. It’s a shame you live here. I’ll bet the sunlight would look wonderful on your body.”

  My cheeks burn, although I’m not overly sure he’s paid me enough of a compliment to embarrass me. In a way, I can’t help thinking I’ve been insulted.

  “That’s the oddest thing anyone’s ever said to me,” I answer truthfully.

  He shrugs and then steps closer again, until he’s just inches away from me. I can feel the heat radiating off his body. He’s at least a foot taller than me but he leans down until his lips are breathing softly in my ear. “The person you’re waiting for. Are you sure he’s in there?”

  I close my eyes and a face flashes across my mind. A face I won’t name because I if I do, I might hear his voice in the furthest corner of my mind. I don’t want to remember.

  I’ll admit it. I have a lot of ghosts. But so does everyone else. Right?

  The rain continues to fall. He’s touching his hair again. I wonder if his hair is a different color when it’s dry. A dark chestnut perhaps.

  “What’s your name?” I ask. All these personal comments flying back and forth. It’s time we’re properly introduced.

  “Chael.”

  “That’s a unique name.”

  “Is that a bad thing?”

  “No, just different. Didn’t say I didn’t like it.”

  He touches his shoulder this time. Pulls at his shirt like it doesn’t fit properly. Either this guy is nervous or he’s one of those people who just can’t be still.

  “What’s yours?”

  “Faye.”

  “That’s a pretty name.”

  “Um, thanks.”

  His head perks up as if he’s heard something. Pulling a mobile phone out of his back pocket, he looks at it, frowns, and then turns his head, staring out into the falling rain.

  “Well, Faye,” he says. “It’s been a blast meeting you but I’ve got to run. I’m sure we’ll cross paths again. Promise me you won’t go into strange bars while I’m gone. I’d never forgive myself if you got into trouble.”

  I widen my eyes as a form of mock surprise. Who me? Never!

  He bows in an over-the-top gallant manner, which might be charming but he trips over his feet as he turns to leave, giving me that crooked grin one more time before disappearing off into the rain.

  Weird guy.

  It’s ironic that I live in a church. Of course, God hasn’t resided here in years. One might argue he was never here to begin with. The big front door rocks on its hinges; the old wooden doors are swollen from years of keeping out the rain. The lock constantly creaks and it takes several twists of my key to make it open. One of these days it’s going to fall off in my hands. Inside, the electricity has a mind of its own, only working when it wants, which is practically never. The heating system is messed up, so in the winter the pipes freeze and the floor becomes shiny with a thin film of ice. The summer is a sauna of humidity, leaving my skin perpetually soaked with small beads of sweat.

  In the winter I live like some relic from an ancient feudal time. A fire burns in the fireplace all day and night and we stay as close to it as possible, the light flickering across the pages of my homework while I curl deeper inside my blanket. But luckily, it’s not winter right now and the rain, although cold, is bearable.

  We can’t even complain because technically we’re not supposed to be living here. No one wants an old, dusty church. When the city condemned it, God moved away. He packed his bags and headed for someone else’s church. I hear it’s beautiful there.

  My key finally turns and I open the door and step inside.

  “You’re late.”

  I smile. “I doubt you were worried about me.”

  “Just because I know you can take care of yourself doesn’t mean I don’t worry. There are still plenty of unsavory people out there.”

  I walk past the row of wooden pews, many of which are cracked and not safe for sitting. They are covered in a fine layer of dust and cobwebs because neither of us is very good at being clean. The marble floor beneath my boots is scratched and unpolished. There is no altar at the front of the church, just a makeshift living-room area complete with a couch and chair where Gazer likes to read. The fireplace is dark and piled with dry logs. The power must be out tonight, because there’s an oil lamp burning, and I can see his profile intently peering into one of the many books he rereads on a regular basis.

  Tonight it appears to be Thoreau. Walden.

  “Do you have homework?”

  “Some. Not much. I’ll get it finished before I go to bed.”

  “Good. Do you want me to look anything over?”

  “No. I’m going to head up. It’s been a long day.”

  “I’ll see you in the morning, then. Bright and early.”

  Gazer takes care of me. He’s been my guardian from the moment he found me in the alley and breathed air back into my lungs six years ago. It’s a good thing he took me in. No one else wanted me.

  I don’t remember much about my parents. I was young when they took my father away. The courts were so quick to judge him. It didn’t matter that he had a family to take care of and no one wanted to hire him because he had a back injury. He’d lost his job after the accident, and the disability checks had long since dried up. He started taking Heam to escape his pain. Then he started dealing. Small-time stuff, but in the end, he owed the wrong people a lot of money. I remember my mother and me standing beside him after the verdict. He leaned down to hold me and I could smell the cheap cologne on his skin. The scent was familiar and it made me feel safe. I have no pictures from my childhood and I can’t visualize what his face looked like, but I can still remember that smell on his clothes. Sometimes if I try hard enough, I can picture his eyes, sad and tiny beneath dark lashes. But it depresses me so I try not to think about it.

  He didn’t complain when they took him away. He couldn’t stand upright because of his injury but he still walked away with his head held high.

  My mother held my hand so tightly my fingers were pink jelly beans poking out from under her chewed nails.

  He didn’t look back.

  And I don’t want to talk about my mother, so don’t ask.

  Upstairs, my room is dark and cold. I was right, the electricity is out and I light the candle beside my bed before pulling back the covers. Kicking off my shoes, I crawl into bed, jacket and all, and curl up on my side.

  I should get up and at least brush my teeth.

  The flame bounces and jerks when I exhale. The bedside table has seen thousands of candles; years of built-up wax scars its pitted finish. The tabletop is bumpy so the candleholder doesn’t rest properly. I once carved the initials of the boy I loved in the soft wax with my fingernail.

  But he’s dead too.

  I’m thinking of that little gutter rat and I can’t get her face out of my mind. Beth. Such a pretty girl, it’s a shame she doesn’t have a chance. I hope they made it home or that she’s sitting somewhere warm. It won’t be
long until the addiction begins to scratch away at her. Is the boy taking care of her?

  Will she survive?

  I can’t help wondering if people thought the same about me.

  “Don’t hurt her. Please. She’s just a girl. Hurt me instead.”

  Laughter. Always laughter.

  The man leans over me, touching my chin with rough fingers. Pulls my face up to meet his stare. There’s something funny with his eye. He twitches, spasms that make his lashes flutter like some crazed Venus flytrap. I’m amazingly calm. I know I should be afraid but I think I’m past that instinct.

  Beyond fear.

  I can hear my friend Christian pleading from somewhere behind me. He’s begging them to let me go. To take him instead. His words are silenced by a loud smack. I can’t turn around to look. The man is still holding me. He’s breathing heavily and I can smell alcohol and sour air when he exhales.

  “You want a piece of candy, little girl?” He holds the bottle out in front of me, giving it a small shake. Silver liquid spills against the thin vial. For a moment, I forget all about the dirty man or that Christian’s making wet gasping noises behind me. All I can see is the bottle and its contents. I think it’s very pretty. I wonder how the man manages to get that liquid to turn that color.

  I smile, only because I don’t know any better.

  If I could turn off my brain, I’d use that feature before going to sleep. Dreams are useless anyway.

  In the middle of the night, I wake to the sound of crashing glass.

  Outside on the street, a man is screaming.

  In the other room, I hear Gazer’s drawer slide open as he grabs his gun from its hiding spot beneath his shirts. I hear him move toward the window, carefully drawing back the curtains. Gazer’s mostly being cautious; the odds are good that they will just kill the man straight out and then leave. They don’t usually go after witnesses; people in this neighborhood never rat them out. Men like them have nothing to fear. I’d get up to join Gazer but my bed is warm and I’m still half-asleep. Besides, I know he’d just shoo me off with a wave of his hand. Gazer is the protector of everything holy inside this church. I am just his disciple.