by Daryl Banner
“Enjoying the water?”
I turned. A teenage girl with a green-tipped blonde ponytail stood by the railing a few yards away. She wore cut-off shorts, a low-hanging off-the-shoulder white tee that revealed her lack of a bra underneath, and flip-flops.
And I knew her. “What do you want, Kelsey?”
“You weren’t at your usual spot last night.”
“I don’t have a usual spot.”
“I know all your usual spots. And yes, you do.”
I ignored her and faced the water. Last thing I needed was to go from the arms of a kind gay man to those of a horny underage teen on the run from her foster family. Once she grasped that yet again I wasn’t returning her advances, she would lose interest and move on. Always happened.
“I looked for you,” she went on. “For hours.”
“Had somewhere to be.”
She squinted at the side of my face, then spun around and propped her elbows on the railing, leaning back against it. “Did you catch yourself a date with somebody?”
I snorted. “Wouldn’t tell ya if I did.”
“So who was it?”
“Why do you keep running away from your foster families?” I shot back at her. “You aren’t homeless. You don’t have to be out here. You can have a roof over your head whenever you want it.”
“They don’t care.”
“Of course they do. They’re paid to.”
She rolled her eyes at that. “All those bitches care about is collecting a check. Like the last one. And the one before that.”
“Those ‘bitches’ are letting you into their home.”
“They wouldn’t even let me have my own phone.” She huffed and crossed her arms. “Don’t get me started on how their real kids look at me. They got a talking-to before I arrived, guaranteed.”
I sighed and braced myself. That was not the first time I had gotten the lecture.
“Their kids fear me,” she went on. “As if I’m nothing but a … nasty, damaged whore who’s going to show their daughter how to deepthroat a zucchini.”
“Jesus, Kelsey,” I groaned, wrinkling up my face.
“They took out my lip ring.” She pointed at her lip angrily. “I have been degraded. My lip ring, for fuck’s sake. What am I without my lip ring??”
“A foulmouthed runaway teenager in need of a bar of soap in her damned mouth.”
She glowered at me. “And what are you? My dad?” I shook my head and looked away. “Hmm. Maybe in another life, you could totally have been my older brother. I mean, we have so much in common, you and I.”
“We have nothing in common.”
“And you really look out for me, don’t you? Even if you can’t stand me.” She picked at her nails and looked up at the sun.
I watched the waves rush in and pull away, the eternal flirt-game between water and sand. Kelsey had been tumbling like a big rock through the rotating monster of the foster care system for years. I knew she had good families take her in, even if it was temporary. All her angst was misplaced. She just didn’t know what to blame any more than I did for my situation. Was it my fault? Was it my dad’s? Was it the Fates’ for cutting a certain someone’s thread too soon?
Or measuring that thread too short?
Fuck, I miss my mom.
But no matter what I’d been through, a part of me felt like my pain didn’t even come close to the pain of a teenager like her who had been on the run since the day she was born. Or the drunken fools I’d gotten to know who stalked around at night like zombies, clinging to their bottles like they clung to their memories of whatever family they built, loved, and then let down long ago. Or the elderly who hadn’t had a place to call their own in decades. It was a miracle they were still alive; most didn’t last that long.
And then there was me, afloat in this sea of wise people and fools wandering around the city waiting to make a score, waiting for an opportunity, waiting to get lucky.
“Did you have to suck his dick?”
Her words jerked me out of my mind so suddenly, I reacted like she’d just slapped the back of my head. “The fuck?”
“Was he loaded? Your date?” She slid closer to me. “Did you have to do gay stuff to get invited up to his room?” When I eyed her hard, she gave me a slow nod. “Yeah. That’s right. I saw you.”
“You didn’t see shit,” I spat back.
“Look, I don’t care if you’re a homo. I like them. Shit, I’d be the luckiest girl alive if I got two dads wanting to adopt me. I’d get to be queen of the house. You ever been queen of a house?” She smacked her lips loudly as if tasting her imaginary gay dads’ homemade vanilla soufflé already. “Getting adopted by homos is a fucking dream. Shit, it was all anyone at Caring Candle ever talked about. If you’re adopted by homos, you have it made.”
Caring Candle was the name of the orphanage she spent the better half of her childhood living in. “Well, good luck to you,” I said, then pushed away from the railing. “See ya.”
“Oh, you’re leaving now? Just like that?” She watched me go for a bit, then hurried to my side, accompanying me. “Just tell me a bit about him. What did he make you do?”
“He didn’t make me do anything.”
“Did you stick it in him? Or were you the one getting stuck?”
“I said he didn’t make me do anything.”
She hugged herself as we walked. “He wasn’t bad looking. He was actually kind of cute. Like …” She shrugged. “Dad-bod cute. How old was he?”
“No idea.”
“Forty, maybe?”
“Nah, not forty. He was younger than that.”
“Was?” She chuckled. “You move on fast. Already past tense.”
I stopped and faced her. “Go … home. You have a roof. You have access to breakfast, lunch, and dinner. I’m not gonna babysit your ass today.”
“But it’s more fun with you.”
“It’s dangerous. There are men out here who aren’t like me, Kelsey. They will get one look at you, not care about your age, and have their way with you in an alley.”
“I’ll just use Betsy on them.” She tapped her back pocket. “I’m always ready to cut a bitch.”
Betsy was what she called a pink switchblade she found in the parking lot of a boarded up department store. “Cockiness can kill on the streets,” I warned her.
“I’ll cut his dick off. I dare someone to try messing with me.”
“Go home. Be grateful you have one, even if it’s temporary.”
“Oh, really?” She tilted her head and squinted inquisitively at me. “Are you saying if you were me and actually had a choice,” she asked, “then instead of staying here on the filthy-ass street, you’d choose to go home?”
“Yes.”
“Then why aren’t you still in that hotel room with that not-ugly man who totally didn’t make you do stuff?”
I parted my lips to speak, then found myself caught. For five long, awkward seconds, I was stuck staring at her and unable to reply. I had no answer to her annoyingly intuitive question.
Why wasn’t I still in that room?
Finally, I blew her off, turning away. “It isn’t that simple.”
“Pussy.”
I stopped. “The hell you just call me?”
“You’re a pussy. And a hypocrite.”
Kelsey always let out the first thing on her mind. Like a bomb, she went off when she sensed the faintest spark.
“You’re a hypocrite,” she repeated, “because you have a guy who’ll put a roof over your head, feed you, take care of you … hell, I bet he’d even bathe you if you asked him all sweetly.”
“Shut the hell up.”
“See? You know it’s true. That’s why you’re getting all pissy with me.” Kelsey was right up in my face. I didn’t step down. “So maybe I should be the one yelling at you to go home.”
“I wouldn’t call some hotel room a home. Like I said, you don’t understand.”
After burning a hole th
rough my face, she finally took a step back and shrugged. “Sure. Okay. Whatever. I’m just a dumb girl who doesn’t know what she’s talking about.” She spun around and started walking away, kicking at the pavement as she went.
I glared after her. “Where are you going?”
“Home. Or the park. Or … the casino.” She hopped on the curb, balancing upon it, then glanced over her shoulder at me. “Maybe your gay new friend wants to adopt a super cool daughter.”
“Kelsey …” I warned her.
She smirked. “Kidding. Mostly.” Then, walking the curb like a balance beam, Kelsey took off. I watched her until she toppled off the curb near the crosswalk, corrected herself, then disappeared across the street and around the corner.
I scowled, shoved my hands in my pockets, then trudged my way to the beach. Nothing was going to get in the way of me and a long afternoon hiding in a cabana, even if most of them smelled like stale beer and vomit. I didn’t want to run into any more of the fools I’d come to know over the years who also survived these streets. I didn’t want any more sagely advice from a stupid knife-wielding girl who didn’t know what she was talking about. I didn’t want to think about James or the kindness he showed me.
The cabana I found had a can of Pringles resting on the chair. I threw my backpack down, took a seat, and popped open the can. At the bottom of its empty, chipless depths, there rested a used condom. I scoffed and pitched the can away from me, annoyed, then kicked back in the chair and stared up at the sky.
I could still taste that egg sandwich I ate last night.
I closed my eyes, tasting it.
And the ice cream.
Stop dreaming, Luke. Move on. Let it go.
The thing was, it had been a very, very long time since anyone treated me the way James did. Several times, I literally forgot who I was. I felt normal. I felt respectable. I might as well have been back at home, hanging out at an arcade with a couple of my buddies from school.
And it was even more than just that. I actually liked James.
I didn’t fucking like anyone. People annoyed the shit out of me. It was next to impossible not to resent every single person who walked past me on the street, resenting them for their money or their privilege or their daily comforts they took for granted.
I wasn’t old enough to be this bitter. This was more than just teenage angst. And I was unfortunately smart enough to know it.
This wasn’t a hand someone my age was normally dealt. The worst of my problems should’ve been not being able to beat a boss on a video game. Or feeling indecisive about what music to blast while taking a shower. Or griping about having to change the cat’s litter. Y’know, if I had a cat in this hypothetical other-life of mine.
Instead, I was worrying whether I’d have to endure another day before I ate a decent meal, or if I should use the five dollars in my pocket to splurge. I was contemplating whether or not to risk going to the park, or if on one of those nights, someone would bring a gun to the knife fight.
I unzipped my backpack and pulled out my sketchpad and a blue-colored pencil. I had six colors, but that day felt like a blue one. I flipped to a new page and began to draw with no plan in mind. That was always the best way to do it.
“Fuck you,” I mumbled as I sketched. I wasn’t sure whether I was saying it to the picture materializing in front of me, or to James for being so nice, or to the territorial shitheads at the park.
Or to my dad.
Or to the step-cunt.
Or to myself.
The good things—whether they were an evening at the casino with James, or a good spot in the park, or a wallet full of money I’d found on the curb outside a restaurant—never lasted. I was so sick of holding out hope. I was so sick of disappointment. The only way to not feel any hope or disappointment was to keep my head low and survive long enough to see another sweet sunrise on the far side of another long and lonely night.
The tip of my blue pencil snapped.
I shut my eyes.
And yet still, the only question on my mind was: Is James still up in that hotel room?
And: By the time I go back there, will he be gone?
Chapter 7
JAMES
I should have been surprised.
But I wasn’t.
To the sound of the weather report on the TV (I couldn’t leave it on the nature channel; it reminded me too much of last night and him), I got undressed, put everything back in my bag, and typed out a text to my mother that I would, in fact, be coming out to the house for dinner with the family. Then I changed my mind, deleted the text, and pulled out some clean clothes to put on after my shower. While I stood naked in the bathroom staring at myself in the mirror, I changed my mind yet again and picked up my phone, typed out the text, then hit send before I could let myself change my mind again.
And then I changed my mind again.
“Fuuuck,” I breathed, exhausted with my own fickleness.
I turned on the shower, figuring I’d get washed up regardless of what I chose to do or not do. The water was a bit lukewarm and the pressure kind of weak. Also, one of the jets was a bit cockeyed, shooting water at the wall instead of me. Just that tiny flaw in the showerhead annoyed me to no end. I literally wrote a complaint letter to the manager in my head, and it sounded as bad and petty as you might imagine.
Of course, all of my frustration was really due to my feeling slightly used by a gorgeous young man last night. To be fair, he was in need, and I was obviously wishing to offer anything I could that I felt he wanted. The emotional temper tantrum that was being thrown in my head was like making a big show of donating to charity and expecting everyone to pat you on the back.
It really made me wonder whether any seemingly selfless act was, in fact, selfless.
After drying off and putting on my underwear, I went for a Q-tip—yes, it made me literally hear Lucky’s voice asking for cotton swabs—and then dabbed it in my left ear. It was halfway through twisting it in my right ear that a sudden, sickening thought struck me, freezing me in place.
I hurried out of the bathroom and went to my wallet, pulling it open in a panic.
All my cash and credit cards were still there, safe and sound.
I sighed with relief, then felt a stab of guilt.
Do I really think so lowly of him?
I lumbered tiredly back into the bathroom to finish up. I could not even bear to look at myself in the mirror, annoyed with all the thoughts that were bouncing back and forth in my head.
I wished he had stolen from me. He should have cleaned my wallet out. Maybe even stolen my clothes. I resented the fact that he didn’t do any of that.
I resented it because it made me like him even more.
He has a good heart, I thought to myself.
It would be so much easier to leave the casino today hating him. Then I could thank myself for the unique experience, go back to my totally comfortable life in Little Water where nothing ever changed, and jerk off seven times a week to what mischiefs could have happened this weekend if circumstances were different.
My phone was busy dancing on the bed when I came out of the bathroom. I glanced at the screen, then answered. “Hey.”
“Well, don’t you sound cheery,” deadpanned Duncan on the other end of the line. “Almost as cheery as I feel grading these papers all weekend. You’d think privilege and money could buy these teenaged shits a decent sense of grammar.”
“I thought you taught math.”
“I picked up English this year. This country is going to shit. Listen, do you want to get drunk tonight? I have a lot on my mind and, since we’re not hitting the Royal Flush until next weekend, I can go for a full pitcher or two. We’ll Uber afterwards.”
I bit my lip and turned toward the window. The big green face of Alberto’s Italian restaurant stared back from across the street, its twenty eyes of deeply-tinted windows unblinking and cold. If Duncan knew that I was in a room on the seventh floor of Hearts Tower right t
hen, what would he have said? I knew Quinton would have given me shit for it. Lewis would have been pissed he wasn’t there, too. Duncan, however, was always the levelheaded, logical, straightforward one among us. Maybe he would understand.
“Listen,” I started as I turned away from the window and that stupid restaurant across the street. “I’m going to say something, and I need you to keep it between us … and to not judge me.”
“I’m already judging you.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
I took a deep breath. “I’m … I’m here.”
There was a second of silence. “Uh, at my house?”
“No. Here. Th-There. I’m there. At the …” Why was it so hard to say? “Duncan, I’m in a room at the Hearts Tower right now.”
“What?” His whole tone changed. “Why?”
“I met a guy.”
“What?? You—When? How?” Duncan snorted before I could answer and added, “Now I wish I hadn’t agreed to keep silent. Wait. I didn’t agree yet.”
“Duncan,” I warned him.
“Fine. Lame ass. So you met a dude. When? Last weekend?”
“Mmm-hmm.”
“And you went back this weekend to see him again?”
“Bingo.”
“And … oh.” Duncan sighed. “So your point is, we can’t do drinks tonight. You know, of all your clever excuses to weasel out of hanging with me, this is certainly the most elaborate.”
“I’m not lying.”
“Really, this story of yours is more interesting than any of the thirty-seven papers I’ve graded since last night. Ugh.” He groaned into the phone. “I really, really, really need a drink.”
I dropped onto the bed on my back, the phone still pressed to my ear, and stared up at the flat white ceiling. “Well, as it turns out, I’m coming home today anyway. Planned to stay until Sunday, but it looks like … well, never mind.”