by Jo Raven
“Wait, are you saying… what are you saying?”
“Not saying anything, man.”
He glances at her door, rubs his left temple as if he’s in pain. The silence stretches until he breaks it again. “Why did she do it?”
Because she hates me. Because she hates her life.
But I just shrug.
At least this time it wasn’t so bad, I want to tell him.
At least this time she didn’t try to kill herself.
“I remember the last time it happened,” he says. “Was it four, five months ago? You found her in the backyard, and we had to drag her inside and upstairs.”
It happens all the fucking time, but Nate has seen it only once because he happened to be around.
I don’t say this, either. I say nothing.
“What now?” he finally asks.
“She threw most of it up, I got some water in her. She will sleep it off and wake up with a killer headache.”
“Heh. I bet.” He grins at me, flashing his dimple, and I’m so fucking grateful he’s here, but I can’t find it in me to pretend and smile back.
When his hand lands on my shoulder, I almost jump out of my skin. “Come on, bud. Let’s get out of here. I think you need some fresh air.”
Do I?
Thing is, I don’t know what the hell I need, what could fill the hole in my chest, or fix this fucking mess that is my life.
“Here, dickass,” Nate says, lighting up a cigarette and passing it to me, propping his foot on the outside wall of our building. “Doctor’s orders.”
“What for?” I take it automatically and take a drag, disappointed that it turns out to be just tobacco.
Nate is a bad influence.
“For the shock.” He says it so easily, like it’s normal, like he knows what Grandpa said, what finding my sister like this did to me. Like I’m not weak and useless.
I cough as I give it back to him, and he grins.
“Better?”
Is he for real? How can choking on bitter smoke make any of it better?
And yet it does. I laugh through the hacking, and lean back against the graffiti on the wall, closing my eyes and letting the evening breeze caress my face.
“Better,” I whisper.
“Syd came by.” Nate smokes like he’s done it all his life, drawing in smoke, letting it out in shuddering clouds. I remember him smoking ever since he moved here with his parents a couple of years ago.
“Yeah?”
“She’s curious about our roommate.”
I meet his gaze, lift a brow. “And?”
“And nothing. He wasn’t around. He likes his room.”
“That where you got him locked up?”
“Yeah.” Nate chuckles, drops the butt of his cig to the ground and steps on it. “He’s a quiet guy. Won’t talk about himself.”
“You asked him.” Knowing Nate, he probably went all Spanish Inquisition on the guy.
“Sure did. Wouldn’t tell me where he’s from or anything.”
“He’ll probably go to our school.”
“He says he’s twenty. I don’t believe him.”
I glance at my apartment door. Wonder if I should go back up, check on my sister. “He’ll open up. Give him time.”
“Like we did to Sydney?”
I shrug, pretending not to give a shit about anything that has to do with Sydney—her parents, her life, her eyes, her mouth, her body, her laughter. I pretend not to worry about her, about the little inconsistencies of her life, of her stories.
Not sure I wanna know the truth.
I watch as Nate takes out another cigarette from the pack in his back pocket. I wonder sometimes how his parents don’t notice he smokes—or whether they don’t care. They seem like pretty nice people whenever I come across them, but Nate… he tenses in their presence.
If they’re anything like Grandpa, I don’t blame him. He doesn’t have to beat me anymore to hurt me. His words are dipped in poison. Sometimes I dream of leaving and never coming back, changing my name, my appearance, and vanishing.
Getting free of this cage.
But I don’t. I can’t. I’m tied to this place, these people, Grandpa, my sister, the responsibility for their lives.
And I’d leave Nate and Sydney behind. It shouldn’t matter, but it does. I tried to keep them away, but the fucking truth is that it does matter, that my heart hasn’t quite turned to stone yet, no matter how hard I’ve tried.
“Is Syd okay?” The question tears out of me, out of my control, like every time.
“Bad dreams again?”
“Just tell me.” I need the assurance that everything I face during the dark hours of the night is not part of this life.
“She’s fine.” He sucks on his cig like it’s oxygen. He sits down on the top entrance step and blows his smoke into the sunset. “Do you ever think…?”
Seconds pass, but he doesn’t finish his question.
“Do I think what?”
He says softly, “That any of it is real?”
At first, I think he’s talking about my dreams—and God fuck I sure hope not.
But then he adds, “I mean, you know, what they say about things getting better if you keep going. That pain makes you stronger. That there are happy endings.”
He sounds so fucking wistful. Like he can almost see it in his mind’s eye and wants it so badly he can almost taste it.
But I guess I suckled bitterness as an infant instead of milk, because I say, “No. I think that’s all a lie.”
Chapter Four
Kash
My room is small and dark, one narrow window high up and caked with dust. If that isn’t a metaphor for my life, then I don’t know what is.
Then again, my life is much more fucking complicated than a sublet room in an unknown neighborhood. At least there’s Wi-Fi, and I managed to figure out how to get to my new job from here tomorrow.
Small fucking mercies.
And the apartment owner’s son—Nate, was it?—doesn’t seem like a jerk. Though the way he stared at me yesterday evening was kinda creepy. Like he couldn’t really see me, or like he could see through me.
See inside me, to the truth underneath it all. So I ended up running from him, holing up in my room and locking the door, for no good reason. I should have stayed and asked him about the neighborhood, the closest convenience store, the best way to work.
Truth is, I missed talking to someone, someone my age, someone who might understand me. And that’s crazy talk and crazy thinking. As if anyone could understand me. As if I’m your average teenage boy.
As if I’d let my guard down.
A shiver runs down my spine, and I uncurl and get up from the narrow bed, my phone clutched in my hand. What the fuck am I doing?
I shake my head at myself, look down at my jeans and black T-shirt, my black Converse, the black tattoos curling around my forearms.
This is me, I tell myself. Even if I barely recognize myself. I avoid looking at my reflection in the mirror these days, afraid of what I’m going to see.
Afraid I won’t know myself.
Afraid I will.
I barely recognize myself, and that’s a good thing. This is the new me. And this is now my life.
Grabbing my bag, I dig out my black journal and a pen. I plug my earbuds in my ears, connect them to my phone and search for my playlist.
A loud crash comes from next door, and I’m scrambling to sit up and cursing, my phone flying out of my hands and dropping to the floor. I almost topple off the bed myself, my heart banging around in my chest.
Holy fucking shit.
It takes me a long moment to get my shit together. Too long. I can taste bile in the back of my throat, and my heart is still beating uncomfortably fast. The walls are closing in around me. Where the locked door and lack of big widows seemed comforting before, now it’s claustrophobic, the small room a tomb where I’m buried alive.
“Fuck.” I abandon my phone a
nd journal, grab my tobacco pouch and the key and get the hell out of there. I can’t breathe, dammit. I need out.
But the moment I’m out of my room, I stop and bend over in an attempt to suck in more oxygen before I pass out.
Jesus Christ, Kash. Isn’t it about time you got over this and lived like a normal person?
The apartment is quiet and empty, like the first time I ventured out of my new den. Dragging in one last shallow breath, I straighten and eyeball the door at the end of the living room.
Get out, smoke, let out the tension. That’s the plan. Then go back in and write until I’m able to sleep.
One can hope, right?
But a thought hits me smack between the eyes before I make it that far. That crash from before… has something happened to Nate? Shit, what if he fell and hurt himself? Creepy gaze or not, I should check up on him. It’s the right thing to do.
And like the sucker I am, I push back the fear, swallow it down until it’s a stone in the pit of my stomach, and ignore my crazy breathing as I check the living room, and then the kitchen, looking for him.
“Nate?” I call out uncertainly, then force myself to ask again, louder, “Nate?”
Once I used to talk loudly, to not be afraid of my own reflection.
Those days are gone.
Panting, light-headed, I double back from the kitchen and try to think which room could be over my bed. I encounter a closed door and push it open softly, only to stop in my tracks and stare.
What the hell, I think, and blink, then rub my eyes. What in the fucking hell?
Nate is locked in fight with another boy, face red, sweat darkening his gray T-shirt as he pushes on the other’s chest, fist pulled back, ready to strike.
But the other boy twists and grabs him from behind in a headlock, and I’m caught off guard by the intense expression on his face and the most startling pair of blue eyes I’ve ever seen.
I’m moving forward before I know what I’m doing, my hand clenching around my tobacco pouch, the other curling into a fist. Is the other boy a thief, an intruder, and is Nate fighting him off? What’s going on here?
Only there’s a girl sitting in a corner, watching, and the moment I see her, I stop in my tracks, confused.
When I say watching, I mean she’s leaning back against the wall, smirking and eating popcorn from a bowl.
Popcorn. I kid you not.
Maybe it’s delayed reaction combined with my shallow breathing, but my knees sort of buckle under me, and I just manage to make it look like I dropped to my knees willingly. Leaning back against the wall like the girl a few feet away, the pouch still clutched in my hand like a lifeline, I swallow hard and wipe a hand over my mouth, pretending everything’s fine.
“Hey, Kash,” Nate says, panting, and grins at me, still in a headlock, his face red and dripping with sweat. “What’s up, man?”
“Yo.” I swallow again, forcing the bile down where it belongs. “What the fuck are you doing?” Belatedly I remember the girl and wince. “Sorry.”
She snickers.
“Sparring,” the other boy says, releasing Nate finally, so that he staggers away from him and instantly turns, waving his fists about dramatically. “Wanna give it a try?”
“Nah, thanks.”
“You okay?” the girl asks, leaning toward me. “You don’t look so hot.”
“Oh yeah, I’m fine.” She’s looking straight at me, so I focus on the pouch in my hand to avoid her gaze.
“So you’re the famous Kash,” she says.
“Famous?” That has me glancing up again.
Goddammit.
“Nate and West told me about you.”
“West, be a good boy and say hi,” Nate says, nodding at the other boy, a sparkle in his eyes. “West lives downstairs and shares English, chem and geography with me.”
“The joy,” West says drily, and that makes me smile in spite of everything.
Weird.
But maybe I won’t need the smoke after all. My breathing is starting to ease, which is a damn good sign—of avoiding the looming panic attack. Of moving here, of making it this far.
Don’t laugh. I need to believe it. I’ll take it. I’ll take every win, no matter how small.
“Nate said you’re older than us,” she says, and her voice is soft like velvet. “You don’t look twenty, you know.”
Oh, I know. “I’m baby-faced, is all.”
That has her giggling. “With all that metal in your face… um, no.”
The girl is real pretty, I realize now that my heart isn’t about to jackhammer its way out of my ribcage anymore. Small with delicate features and fiery hair, and a hint of interesting curves under the baggy T-shirt she’s wearing.
“Still,” I say, not sure why I haven’t shut up yet. This is a ridiculous conversation. “I’ve always looked younger than my age.”
“And those tats,” she says, sobering, and twines a lock of red hair around a dainty finger. “Yeah, you must be older all right.”
“Nah.”
“Are they real?” She leans closer and I fight the urge to move away. “The tattoos?”
“They’re real.”
“Is that a phoenix?” Nate asks. “That’s nice ink work, dude.”
“And that dragon is something,” West mutters, that laser-beam gaze burning my skin.
Fuck. Both Nate and West are staring at my arms now, and man, I should have followed my initial urge and gone out to smoke instead of sitting here, under everyone’s scrutiny.
Silence settles over us.
“I’m Sydney,” the girl says. “I live across the way. If you ever need anything, just knock.”
That’s so… nice of her. I blink, unsure why I feel so off-balance. Not like I haven’t met nice people before.
“What she says, man,” West says, his cool blue gaze on me. “Anything you need. Must be hard not knowing anyone around here. Though Nate’s parents are great. I’m sure they have you covered.”
I glance at Nate, and catch a shadow passing over his face, quickly gone. “Yeah,” he says, his voice a little hoarse, “we’ve got you covered.”
What was that about? Did I fucking imagine it?
No matter what, though, the pressure in my chest only grows. Their expressions, their words, their questions… I don’t know what this is. Doesn’t feel like a panic attack, but strangely like something bigger.
Dammit. It can’t be anything good. It never is.
I get back up on shaky legs and gesture at the door. “Going for a smoke. Have fun.”
“Nice meeting you!” Sydney calls out, and then West says something I don’t catch as I hurry out of the room, out of the building and into the afternoon warmth and the buzzing of insects.
Holy shit.
What was that feeling? Too big for my chest, too elusive for my brain to name or catch. Like… like joy and comfort and fear and the thrill of danger all rolled together.
This is a little group I need to steer clear from as much as possible, I decide as I roll my cigarette, adding a healthy dose of weed to the fragrant tobacco and licking the edge of the paper to seal it.
I can’t afford feelings. Feelings make you weak. Feelings blind you to the truth of the world, to the harsh reality of things.
They’re an illusion—the warmth, the comfort, the joy. I struggled so hard to see through them to the cold behind. Not gonna backslide now—and for what? Not like I’m staying here.
Too dangerous by half.
My new job isn’t half bad. I’ve sure had worse. Washing dishes and cleaning the small quaint Greek restaurant I found half an hour bus ride away sure beats the filthy bar I worked at last, where everyone liked to grope me like I was fucking merchandise.
Yeah, this is much better, and if I can find another tutoring job, like the one I had a few months ago, I should have enough for rent and food.
That’s all that matters right now. All that has mattered for the past year: survival.
If o
nly I wasn’t growing so fast I need new shoes and clothes every couple of months and enough food to feed a small army, I’d be fine. I mean, jeez, now I know why they say growing boys eat their parents out of house and home.
Returning home, I linger outside the building in the dark, rolling a cigarette, thinking how strange it is I still haven’t met Nate’s parents or any siblings.
Not that it’s any of my business—I just like knowing the territory and the people in it. Not knowing makes me uneasy, jittery. I hate being unable to plan ahead, to know what I need to be wary of.
Or maybe I’ve turned so paranoid no amount of information would help me relax anywhere. Besides, that West guy said that Nate’s parents are nice.
And then my mind replays Nate’s reaction to the words, that darkening of his expression, and I glare at my cigarette, all rolled up and ready. This is bullshit. It means nothing. Why am I so obsessed with Nate’s expression? Could have been a coincidence. Maybe he had a goddamn fight with his parents, and he’s pissed at them. Maybe he was thinking of something else.
But the unease persists.
I end up smoking my cigarette, letting the late night cool breeze roll over me, letting the smoke flow through me, calm me down.
It works, until a voice calls out, seemingly out of nowhere, “Kash?”
Jesus.
My heart starts hammering even as it registers that it’s a girl’s voice, somehow familiar.
Glancing around, I spot Sydney sitting on the entrance steps. At least I think it’s her. She unfolds from her perch, and the light from the next street lamp catches on her red hair that’s falling on her shoulders like burnished copper.
“Hey,” I say, hoping she can’t hear the shakiness in my voice. “What are you doing out here?”
“It’s my home,” she says patiently, like speaking to a child. “I live here.”
I shake my head. Turn away from her.
“And you?”
“I live here, too.”
“No, I mean, why were you out so late? Partying?”
Somewhere deep inside I rebel at this questioning, this directness. I’ve lived for a while now without anyone’s supervision. Anyone’s concern.