by W. H. Vega
“I’m no good, Nadia,” Trace says, his eyes intent on my face as our bodies come together, almost of their own accord, “But...I know I could be good to you. I know—”
“Trace,” I say, our faces not a foot apart, “Shut up about good and bad and just...kiss me already.”
I don’t have to ask him twice. Trace’s firm hands take hold of my face, and he lowers his lips to mine. He presses his mouth softly against mine, and I let my mouth open to him, relishing the first taste of this unknowable person.
Our lips move together, our hands fumble in the dark for the other’s body. I pull just an inch away and look up into Trace’s green, green eyes. But as I open my mouth to speak, I see that I don’t have to say a word. Everything I want him to know is already written there, behind the mask he wears for the rest of the world.
In the starlit park, we wrap our arms around as much of each other as we can hold. We let the silence do the talking, and hold each other as dusk gives way to twilight.
Eight
Trace
Almost Happy
“I have to say, Mr. O’Conner, I’m not minding this sudden change that seems to have come over you.”
I cock an eyebrow at The Colonel and lean back in my rickety chair. “Would you speak English once in a while, Sanders?”
“You seem different,” he clarifies, resting his patched elbows on the desk. “You seem more stable, less tempestuous.”
“Again: English, please.”
“It’s almost like you’re...happy,” Sanders says, “It’s wonderful to see, truly.”
My first instinct is to tell the guidance counselor to screw off. Happy is a word that people try and force on you when they’re through paying you any mind. Social workers, foster parents, school principals—they’ve all tried to slap the “happy label” on me before. Once you can call a kid happy, you can wash your hands of him.
The H Word has never been one that I wanted anything to do with, but...it kind of snuck up on me this time. I can’t say for sure, because I’ve never actually experienced it, but Sanders might be right—I might actually be a tiny bit happy for the first time I can remember.
“I don’t know what to tell you,” I say to The Colonel, “Things haven’t been complete shit lately, I guess.”
“Has anything changed for you, recently?” Sanders asks, “Any shifts in your home life, or your life here at school?”
The answer is pretty simple, of course. It’s all thanks to Nadia. For two weeks now, we’ve been sneaking off alone, going on micro-dates or whatever. Neither of us has any money to speak of, so we can’t go out for fancy dinners or whatever normal people do. Instead, we just disappear from the house for a couple hours here and there. We go to the park, listen to music in the car, just drive around for the hell of it. I’ve even been waking up super early like she does so that we can chill before school.
I don’t do the whole girlfriend thing. Never have, never will. I’ve had plenty of girls, to be sure. My first time was with the biological daughter of some foster parents I was staying with. I was thirteen at the time, she was sixteen.
One night, after good old Mom and Dad had gone to bed, she snuck into my bedroom and climbed right the fuck on top of me. I was petrified at the time, and felt terrible afterwards. But it felt good enough while it was happening that I didn’t do anything to stop it. Turns out I didn’t have to—she was particularly loud one night and got us caught by her parents.
I was the one who got punished, obviously, and they sent me packing the very next day. There have been plenty of girls since then, but I’ve made a point never to get involved with anyone in the homes I’ve stayed. That shit tends to go south pretty quickly, in my experience.
It’s different, with Nadia. Of course it is. She’s not looking for one crazy night she can tell her friends about. She’s not hanging out with the token foster kid for the sake of street cred. She’s not fishing for material to include in her college admissions essay.
She just likes being around me. We understand each other, without even having to talk about it. And for my part, the last thing I want to do is rush her into the sack and ruin everything. Hell, that’s not even on my mind when I’m with her. Well...most of the time, anyway. I’m crazy attracted to her, obviously, but having her around as a friend is more important to me than having her.
“It’s your eyes, I think,” The Colonel says.
“Huh?” I ask, pulling myself back up from thoughts of Nadia.
“Your eyes. They’re clear, and sharp...you don’t look hungover or stoned or even tired.”
“Eating my greens,” I say gruffly.
“It’s more than that,” Sanders says, “Are you taking a run at giving up your bad habits?”
“Not really,” I shrug, “I guess I just haven’t been that interested lately.”
It’s not a total lie. I haven’t been drinking or getting high as often as usual, these days. It’s not like Nadia gets judgmental when I do, she’s just not into that kind of thing. So when we spend time together, I’m usually sober. It’s a brave new world, I guess.
“I know you’re keeping something from me,” The Colonel says, narrowing his eyes in mock suspicion, “But if keeping it to yourself means keeping it going, then by all means omit your ass off. I’m just glad to see you looking more at peace, lately.”
“Come on, Sanders,” I sniff dramatically, “You’re gonna bring a goddamn tear to my eye if you keep it up.”
“Funny,” he says, “Get back to class.”
I breeze out of the guidance office and make my way through the teeming halls. The bell is just about to ring as I stroll into my history classroom. The teacher, this frigid old bitch named Miss Ellis, scowls at me as I make my seat. Without speaking, she walks over to my desk and slaps down a packet of papers.
“Your midterm,” she says coldly.
I glance down at the pages—they’re a sea of red ink. Grinning, I flip through the exam and review my responses. For most prompts, my answer was a hastily scrawled cock and balls. What can I say? I guess I’m more of a visual learner.
“You do realize that you’re failing this class, Trace?” Miss Ellis says. The entire class is peering over at us, and I feel my jaw clench.
“Sure,” I say.
“And you’re aware that you can’t graduate without finishing this particular requirement?” the teacher presses on, smugly.
“Yeah, well,” I sigh, “Tough shit.”
A collective gasp ripples through the classroom, and I roll my eyes at all the goddamn prudes around me. Miss Ellis looks down at me through her soda bottle bifocals, an expression of boundless confusion on her face.
“Don’t you care about graduating?” she asks.
“Of course not!” I laugh.
“But Trace, you’re future is—”
“My future is pretty sewn up, don’t you think?” I say. “And, I hate the break the news sister, but a high school diploma ain’t gonna change that.”
“But if you just applied yourself—”
“I don’t have time for this, a teacher telling me to apply myself,” I mutter, standing to leave the classroom.
“Don’t you dare walk out that door,” Miss Ellis says.
“Or what?” I challenge.”
“Or I’ll...I’ll give you detention.”
“Lady, detention is like nap time for me,” I laugh, “Hit me with your best shot.”
“Fine,” she says, “Then how’s this? Since detention isn’t punishment for you any longer, I’ll put you through something that might actually teach you a lesson.”
“What are you gonna do, paddle me?”
“Not quite. I’m going to assign you a tutor.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me...” I groan.
“In fact,” Miss Ellis smiles, “I think I know just the girl.”
~~~
“You’re going to tutor me in history?” I cackle.
Nadia looks up at me acros
s the dinner table. “Sure,” she says, “Why not?”
“Well, for starters, I’ll be too distracted by those pretty eyes of yours to get any book learnin’ done.”
She takes those gorgeous eyes and rolls them hard. “Look,” she says, “Miss Ellis asked me to take you on. To be honest, I’m glad I finally get to intervene. There’s no reason you should be failing all of your classes, Trace.”
“How do you figure that?”
“Well, for one thing,” Nadia says, tucking a lock of her thick blonde hair behind her ear, “You’re not a goddamn idiot.”
“Says you.”
“Yeah, says me,” she insists. “I know your fuck-all act is just that—an act. If you put your mind to it, you could breeze through these classes no problem.”
“What if I just don’t care?” I ask.
“Why wouldn’t you?” she counters, “Do you have any idea how hard it is to get a job without a high school diploma? It’s damn near impossible.”
“Not all of us want to be big shot lawyers,” I remind her, “Some people would be perfectly happy working with our hands.”
“In Chicago?” she says, arching her eyebrow.
“Sure, why not?”
“Trace,” she says, leaning over the table, “I’m not dumb, OK? I know what kind of work pays good money around here, and I know that it’s not what you might call honest.”
“Are you accusing me of something?” I ask, crossing my arms.
“No,” she says, “But can you tell me that, once you’re eighteen, you’re really going to look for nine to five job when dealing pays a hell of a lot more?”
My mouth falls open, but I’ve got no words to retaliate with. When the girl is right, she’s right. Hell, I’ve been dealing on the side for a couple of years now. It would be so easy to get a bigger slice of the action if I wanted. I snatch a crispy fry off Nadia's plate and pop it into my mouth, waiting for the subject to change itself.
“I’m not trying to be harsh,” she says softly, “I just...want better things for you.”
“OK,” I sigh heavily, taking a long slurp of Coke, “I get it. I do. So...come on then, teach. Show me what’s what.”
Nadia smiles and produces a history textbook from her backpack. Clearing off a space between the condiments and empty plates, she opens to a map of the world. I watch as her hand goes unconsciously to the necklace that she always wears.
“What is that thing?” I ask, nodding to the charm.
“This?” she asks, holding up the round trinket, “It’s a compass. My parents gave it to me when I was little.”
“That’s a little bit too Orphan Annie for me,” I laugh.
“I wanted to be an explorer when I was younger,” she says, smiling wistfully, “My parents were born overseas, and I always dreamed about continuing the adventure they started.”
“Do you still have family over there?” I ask her.
“Beats me,” she says, “If I do, I’ve never met them. But I wouldn’t go back there. I’d keep moving forward, all over the world. When they first threw me into foster care, I tried to run away a couple of times.”
“Run away? You?”
“Yeah,” Nadia says sheepishly, “I’d pack all my belongings into my backpack, grab a map, and set off. They always caught me, but I think I would have just gone off to explore if anyone had let me.”
“Maybe you can still be an explorer,” I say, weirdly touched by her story.
“Nah,” she laughs, “Everything’s already been found.”
“We could go together,” I suggest, “Pack up the car, head out of town. It’s easier to run away when you’ve got a set of wheels.”
“And where would we go on this grand adventure?” she asks.
“I dunno,” I shrug, “Vegas?”
“Of course,” she laughs.
“Well, where do you want to go?”
“Alaska,” she says without skipping a beat.
“What the hell is in Alaska?”
“I don’t know, I haven’t been there. But it’s far away, and secluded. I get the feeling people don’t bother you there. You can just live your own life without anyone interfering.”
“Where else?” I ask.
“Morocco,” she says, “India, Japan, Chile...”
“You’ve been thinking about this for a while, huh?” I ask.
“Only my whole life,” she says. “But we’re not here to talk about my dream world. We’re here to fix your abysmal grade in history. So, let’s get to it. What are you guys covering in class.”
“The war,” I shrug.
“Well...which?” she asks.
“Fuck if I know,” I say, “The bloody one?”
Nadia runs a hand through her thick blonde hair, sighing heavily. “I guess we’ve got some work to do,” she says, “You’re not going to make this easy for me, are you?”
“Not even a little,” I grin.
Nine
Trace
Hard Truths
The house is eerily quiet when Nadia and I step out of the car. Usually, you can hear some kind of heavy metal or rap seeping up out of the basement, or some bubblegum pop oozing out from the upper story. But tonight, the place is damn near silent. Nadia and I trade uneasy glances as we make our way up onto the porch and into the living crypt that we’re expected to call home.
A canned laugh track greets us as we step into the foyer. The TV in the living room is on, as ever—tuned to some crappy sitcom. Nancy is slumped over in the easy chair, passed out cold like always, but Paul is nowhere to be seen. I peer into the kitchen, but no one’s there, either. The back door stands wide open, letting in chilly late autumn air. I cross the space and close the door as quietly as I can.
That’s when I hear the crying.
I reroute for the basement, taking the stairs two at a time with Nadia on my heels. Even the Christmas lights are off as we step into the room that Garrick and I share. Nadia plugs in a multicolored string, casting the scene before us in a trippy glow.
Conway is sitting on floor, her back to us. Her tiny shoulders shake with barely-repressed sobs, and she’s cradling something in her lap. As I go to her, I see what it is that has her so inconsolable. Garrick’s head rests on her skinny legs, and he looks like an absolute wreck.
“Oh my god...” Nadia breathes as we rush forward.
I hoist Garrick up off Conway, sizing up the extent of his injuries. His nose is bloody, his eyes glazed over. He clutches his side as I try to move him, but he seems to be more or less in one piece. Nadia clutches Conway to her chest as the smaller girl dissolves into bitter tears once more.
“He was just trying to protect me,” she weeps, burying her face in her hands.
“From who?” Nadia asks.
“From Paul,” I say through gritted teeth, “Am I right, Conway?”
“Of course, from Paul,” she spits, “That asshole was trying to feel me up.”
“What?” I ask, my teeth gritted hard, “Conway, has that happened before?”
“No!” she cries, “Usually, he just calls me a bunch of names and goes back to his booze, but tonight...Tonight he came after me.”
“I had to...I had to...” Garrick groans, his eyes flickering open.
“What that?” I ask, bringing my ear to his mouth.
“I had to...stop him...” my friend says, his words labored.
“Of course you did,” I say, “And you were right to. You did a good job, Garrick.”
“Thanks, man,” he smiles weakly.
“I don’t know what would have happened if Garrick didn’t come upstairs,” Conway says, “Nancy was already passed out, and it’s not like I could have held him off on my own.”
“He didn’t...you know. Get to you, did he?” I ask through gritted teeth.
“No,” Conway says. Her voice is smaller than I’ve ever heard it. “But he came fucking close enough.”
“What are we going to do about this?” Nadia asks.
; “Do?” Garrick coughs, pulling himself into a sitting position with no small effort.
“We’re not just going to ignore the fact that Paul tried to molest Conway, are we?” Nadia demands, looking between us with growing desperation.
Garrick, Conway and I trade resigned glances. It’s time to let Nadia in on what the real situation around here is.
“Look,” I begin quietly, “I know that this place is the fucking worst, but we’re not going to do anything about it, Nadia.”
“You’re kidding me, right?” she says, “We’re not going to let him get away with this.”
“Yes we are,” I say, “Trust me, Nadia. This is not the first shit that Paul has pulled.”
“He’s been a bully for as far back as I can remember,” Conway says, “Both of them have been. It’s like they choose a different kid every week to terrorize. This is the way it’s always been, Nadia.”
“I don’t understand,” Nadia says, “Why don’t you just call child services or something?”
“And get transferred somewhere worse?” Garrick asks, “No thanks. This place is shit, Paul and Nancy are assholes, but I’ve seen far worse. And I’m sure you have, too.”
A shadow crosses over Nadia’s face as she remembers the other homes she’s been shipped off to. She’s told me all about that asshole foster brother of hers who jumped her when she was still a kid. She’s seen her fair share of shit in this system, just like the rest of us.
“Besides,” Conway smiles weakly, “If we told anyone about what it’s like here, they’d split us up. I don’t want that. You guys are the first friends I’ve had...ever. We’re a family.”
“We get to do whatever we want here,” I say, “Most of the time, they assholes are muddling through vodka comas. Think about it, Nadia. We’re practically on our own here.”
“Until one of them decides to do something like this,” Nadia snaps, gesturing toward Garrick’s face.
“That’s a risk we can accept,” I tell her, “We know how to deal with them, OK?”