The Girl

by K Larsen

  “I don't dream about the future. Dreaming is for suckers.” His tone is flat, almost as if he doesn’t believe his own statement.

  “Oh okay. Well, what about, at the bare minimum, getting good grades so you can get into a decent college?”

  He cocks his head and stares into my eyes. It unnerves me.

  “People like me don't go to college,” he states as if it’s fact.

  My chin pulls in toward my chest in shock. “What? Why not?”

  “Listen, I age out in eight months and then I'm on my own. College isn't in the cards. But getting a job is.”

  “Age out?” I ask.

  Dallas sighs in a way that only tired, weathered old adults do before he takes my bag for me and sets it on the ground. I sit on the edge of the rock, water rushing just below.

  “I’m a foster kid. Ward of the state. At eighteen, I’m in charge of myself.”

  “Where’s your mom?” I ask.

  “Who knows and who cares,” he says, looking out over the water.

  A little shocked at his cavalier attitude, I say, “Come on, you don’t mean that.”

  “I grew up in a town where Friday night football was the highlight of the week and the midnight train made the whole town shake when it went through. It was a black dot on a map. Nine hundred people, give or take, and a rampant heroin problem. The last time I saw my mom we were living in a trailer with a threadbare couch, and two twin mattresses for furniture. The walls were stained with nicotine. My mom’s smoker’s cough always seemed so loud through the paper-thin walls. I could hear it even when I cupped my hands over my ears. I hate that sound. She told me she was running out for groceries. Four days later she was still gone. That was two years ago. I’ve been in and out of foster care since I was seven. She always said goodbye. That’s what I remember, and that time, she didn’t.”

  He doesn’t look, well, anything. He’s speaking as if reciting someone else’s hardships and it makes me think that we’re alike in so many ways. We’re both soft in the middle despite living hard lives. We’re both searching still, unable to give up or give in just yet.

  “What about your Dad?”

  He tosses a rock into the river. “Never knew him.”

  “I thought you were at the Youth Detention Center two years ago?”

  He shakes his head, “Last year for eleven months. Before that I was in a foster home.”

  “So, why’d you end up there?” I ask.

  “I fought back. Got charged with assault.”

  “Fought back?” I ask.

  “The foster family, it was a woman, the house was nice enough but her boyfriend wasn’t. He came into my room while me and two of the other boys there were sleeping. I woke up because one of the younger ones was crying. The lady’s boyfriend was pulling his pants down. I didn’t need to see more,” he says. I’m enthralled by his low rasping voice and serious expression. “I shoved him off the kid. He gave me a beating, but I got in some good shots, enough to leave bruises and a split lip. He filed a police report. I’d been picked up for shoplifting before, and I’d been in and out of homes for most of my life. Who d’you think they believed?” he says, with a trying-too-hard urban lilt to his speech.

  My heart squeezes painfully in my chest. A deep ache takes root in my belly and threatens to make my eyes well with tears.

  “Don’t do that,” he snips.

  “Huh?” I ask.

  “Don’t look at me any differently than you did five minutes ago.”

  I understand in an instant. Like a lightning bolt eureka moment. His trauma doesn’t warrant pity or feel-good platitudes. His trauma is like mine. A scar. A public scar that anyone can see, but it’s best in the past where it belongs. It has no place in the future and anyone who harps on it, repeatedly tries to touch it, ends up in the past too. Some things we aren’t meant to carry into the future with us. I am not fragile because of my hardships. My trauma is not here to cause another a sorrowful reaction. My presence, my being, isn’t altered by someone else's reaction to my past, and it doesn’t demand being held or treated in a different regard.

  I tap my hand on his solid thigh.

  “I’ve grown quite adept at keeping secrets. Yours are safe. I get it. It’s cool. Now I know. Now it’s done.” He looks away from the water and directly into my eyes. He doesn’t look away and neither do I. The moment feels charged with an electric intensity. Finally, his mouth yawns open, stretching into a grin.

  “What does Charlotte do besides study and work?” he asks. The way my name rolls off his tongue is intoxicating. No one calls me Charlotte. No one says it quite like he does either.

  I look out over the water. “Charlotte does swim team and chorus.”

  “Interesting, decidedly non-team efforts. Lonesome extracurriculars that don't require friends. I'm in the mechanics club. I'm learning a skill. A useful trade. What the hell is swimming going to teach you?” he asks, eyebrows up, teasing.

  “I guess I never thought about it that way. And friends are overrated.”

  “Hey!” he says, with a playful lilt to his voice.

  I laugh and nudge his shoulder with mine.

  5

  Charlotte

  Dear D,

  Two weeks.

  Every morning for two weeks Dallas waits at our tree for me. He walks me into school and then at the end of the day walks me to our spot, if we have time, to sit and hang out. We talk about everything and nothing. He makes me laugh and tells me that I’m entirely too serious and need to let loose and I remind him that he is entirely too loose and needs to be more serious.

  I covet our time together.

  It’s interesting that in that time I’ve only had one dream about Holden. One. I’m not entirely sure I’ve ever slept so damn much or so well in the last five years. But it was the worst of my Holden dreams. It was the final moment. The choice I had to make. The way the trigger felt against my index finger. The look on Nora’s face, on Eve’s. I actually got out of bed and stood in the exact place in the kitchen that it happened. I swore I could feel him still. Clinging on to whatever pieces of me would let him. Eve came in, switched on the light and started crying as she wrapped an arm around me, rooted in my spot. I had an emergency visit with Dr. Richardson that day. It’s been a long time since I needed one of those. But honestly, the terror usually running rampant through my body after that one wasn’t there. I felt more… curiosity. Curiosity for closure and answers and things I’ll probably never get.

  There are only three weeks of school left and I’m sort of dreading summer break. I don’t know if Dallas and I will still hang out or if we’re only connected via school. I do know this: I want to be connected all the time.

  I’m at Ray’s Automotive. I’m not entirely sure why either. It’s Sunday and I was bored. I told Eve I was going for a walk to get out of the house, and ended up here.

  I lurk around the garage-style building, looking for any sign of Dallas. When I spot him my breath catches and I duck out of view behind a car.

  “Charlotte?” Dallas calls out. Boots on pavement follow.

  I’m hiding. Suddenly I have to pee so badly. I really want to move but I will not. I’m too embarrassed to give myself up; and if I get up, I’ll be found, and being found is how you lose. I shift a little in my crouch. The owner of the car walks around the car and I silently curse myself.

  “Can I help you, young lady?”

  My face flushes and I feel utterly ridiculous. “I, um, dropped something, I was just looking for it.”

  “Let me help,” the woman says. She begins to crouch down and I panic. I didn’t lose anything, I’m just being one hundred percent awkward and hiding from my friend who does funny things to my belly. I shoot straight up pretending to clutch something in my hand and smile at her. One of those too big, too idiotic smiles. Her brow wrinkles at me as I move away from her car.

  “I thought I saw you. What are you doing?” Dallas asks from behind me. I jump in place a little. “
Were you hiding?” he asks, his face riddled with amusement.

  I spin around to face him, shaking my head. “Nope. No. Why?”

  He stares at me with his head cocked, white tee, dirty jeans and oil stained hands. He is devastatingly handsome. That cinnamon, gasoline, oil smell wafting off him.

  “You were. You were spying on me.” His words come out incredulous.

  My cheeks blaze with heat and my eyes prick with tears. I am an idiot. The biggest of all the idiots in the universe. My nose tingles and I know I’m going to cry. From embarrassment. What was I thinking? I back up a step because my brain screams ‘run’ at me. Flight or fight, and all that.

  Dallas’s face morphs from amusement to concern in record time. “Whoa, whoa, you’re not crying, are you? Oh my God, is everything okay?”

  He spreads his arms, takes three long strides and wraps them around me. The scent of cinnamon soap wafts from his shirt and I lose it.

  “Charlotte?” I love the way he calls me by my whole name. I love the way it sounds when he says it. I pull away from him and back up a step. Wiping my eyes with the back of my hand, I gather myself.

  “I, um, I’m fine. Embarrassed is all.” I swallow past the enormous lump in my throat.

  “For what?” he asks.

  “Dallas? Where are you?” someone shouts from the garage.

  “Hang on, Ray,” Dallas yells over his shoulder. “What’s going on?” he asks me.

  I throw my hands in the air. “I was just out for a walk. I don’t know why I hid. I’m a moron.”

  “You cried because you’re a moron?” He rubs the back of his neck with a rag from his back pocket.

  Oh my God. I’m mortified! “No!” I cry out.

  “Okay, chill. I’m not mad at you,” he says.

  “Dallas!” Ray’s voice again. Ray pops his head out of the garage. He has a well-groomed and thick Tom-Selleck-style mustache, giving his mouth an aura of importance.

  He doesn’t look back. Just stares at me in that intense way, and then, “I gotta go.”

  “Yeah, okay,” I say.

  Dallas Baribeau had his arms around me. Around me. My body is freaking out and I swear I can still feel them touching me.

  “So, I’ll see you tomorrow?” he asks, walking backward a few steps.

  I nod.

  “Ok, well, see ya,” he says, still looking slightly confused, and turns.

  “Dallas!” I call out. He looks back at me, a single eyebrow arched. “Wanna come over for dinner next Friday?”

  He smirks and snaps his rag against his thigh, and then…

  “Yeah, sure.”

  6

  Dallas

  I’m at Charlotte’s house. Her home. Ray told me to be on my best behavior in a conversation that took ten minutes too long. As if I would do anything to jeopardize my friendship with City. I can’t fault Ray for not knowing that, though; we barely talk about anything outside superficial shit and my appointments.

  I’m in her room, which looks like a Home Goods store vomited up its contents inside. It’s tidy, not neat per se, but tidy. An armchair in the corner by the window, a table next to it with a lamp and a stack of paperbacks on it. A super soft looking blanket strewn over the back. She’s resting her chin on both fists and eyeing me from her bed. It’s a queen size and looks inviting. I’ve never had a bed that big or comfy looking. There are some things in life I haven’t been afforded.

  “Too girly for you?” she asks.

  I told her I wanted to be friends. It might have been the biggest lie I’ve ever uttered. But I can tell, she deserves a real man, not a washed-up mess of a teenager. I don’t want to taint her spirit. She’s got a paper garland of cute patterned birds strung up for Christ’s sake.

  “Naw, it suits you just fine.”

  She gets up and walks toward me. I can’t help watching the way she moves, can't stop imagining the feel of her drowsy body molding against mine. Of burying my hands in her tangled hair, pressing my lips against her neck. Every nerve and brain circuit is lit up like a neon sign. My heart feels exposed, like every secret I have is glowing in the dark for her to see.

  “What do you want to do? Dinner won’t be ready for a little while.” She smells like flowers and her eyes are extra blue tonight.

  Her genuine invitation to come over to her monthly family dinner night caught me off guard. I don’t do families. I don’t do sit-down dinners. But when it comes to Charlotte, I can’t seem to say no. I can’t keep my mouth shut either. She asks a question, and my answer seems to blurt out whether I want to divulge the information or not.

  “Do we need to help make dinner?” I ask.

  She laughs while shoving her sexy hair over her shoulder. She doesn't laugh at just anything. She's picky. It’s one of my favorite things about her.

  “We can. If you want. But know this, if we hang out in the kitchen, we’ll be forced to socialize with… them,” she says.

  “Them? Are they aliens? “I chuckle.

  She nudges my shoulder on her way past me. “Sometimes.”

  She looks so light on her feet I think she might drift into the sky. It makes me want to wrap my arms around her to keep her near as we head downstairs. She dances across the kitchen and hugs Nora—the pregnant lady. I’m trying my best to remember all their names. It’s weird because, besides Charlotte and Eve, none of them are actually related. A hodgepodge family of sorts. But I like that about them. It gives me hope, although I’m not sure hope is a good thing to have.

  “Hey kids,” Eve says. From the corner of my eye, I see Charlotte roll her eyes at her sister.

  “We came to help,” City answers. One of Eve’s brows lifts impossibly high, and I stifle a laugh.

  “Dallas, can you cook bacon?” Liam asks. He’s tall and his eyes are like two green jewels. He looks like a man of wealth. Like, in a former life he was a king. A glass of wine in his hand. Some folks are born to live that way—with wealth. Not me. He stares at me funny too, like he’s just waiting for one misstep on my part. I don’t blame him. Charlotte’s worth the worry.

  “Yeah.” He hands me tongs and moves away from the stove. Pinpricks of overheated oil spatter my hands as I flip bacon. I turn the heat down a little.

  They have music going, good music too. Kenny Loggins and Billy Joel. Oldies that I know. It helps put me at ease.

  “Who are you?” A new voice purrs in a scandalized manner. Another guest? I thought everyone was here.

  “Jesus, Aub, that’s no way to greet a guest.” Nora laughs out.

  And it hits me, when I look up, they’re talking about me.

  I clear my throat. “I’m Dallas.”

  She inspects me carefully. Not in a bitchy way per se, but it still unnerves me slightly. She looks to Eve.

  “Who’s this Dallas kid?”

  “My friend, and dude, he’s right here,” Charlotte says. The word dude sounds funny coming from her. Almost too relaxed for her personality.

  “Lotte has a friend?!” Aubry makes a gagging noise before sticking out her tongue and letting her head drop onto the kitchen table like she’s died. City bursts into a fit of helpless giggles. Which makes me want to laugh too.

  Aubry lifts her head up and smiles at me. “Sorry, couldn’t pass up the chance to poke fun. I’m Aubry and this loaf is Mike.” She jabs a thumb over her shoulder to a dark-haired man standing in the doorway. He cracks his neck before lifting a hand at me.

  “Feel free to ignore them,” Charlotte says playfully.

  “No, no, I like the idea of someone giving you shit,” I say.

  Nora, Liam and Eve’s heads all whip around to me. Aubry bursts out laughing and Charlotte’s eyes nearly bug out of her head. Ah crap.

  “Grief, I meant grief?” I offer up. Nora is the first to crack, her chest heaves and her shoulders shake before a bark of laughter tumbles from her mouth. And just like that my crass cuss word is forgiven.

  Charlotte sidles up to me and whispers, “Swearing is frowned up
on.”

  I grin at her. “I gathered that, thanks.”

  She puts her hand on my shoulder. The sensation is sharp and stinging like an electric current, but in a good way. It’s almost as good as her pressed against me. I don’t know what possessed me to hug her the other day other than her tears affected me in a genuinely catastrophic way, as if in that moment there was no other option than to take her into my arms. She didn’t seem to mind, I swear she even sniffed me.

  During dinner I learn all about Charlotte’s whacky family. Aubry is the jokester; Mike usually the butt of her jokes; Liam the doting father figure and protector; Nora the surrogate mother, reserved but friendly; and Eve, the realist. She’s cautious in a latent anger kinda way. I like that about her. I understand that kind of cautious. We eat like kings. There’s more food on this table than I’ve consumed in the last week alone. My mother never had dinners like this. Nora keeps asking me if I want more, citing I’m a teenage boy who should be eating any and everything laid before me. I’m hungry, but too caught up watching Charlotte interact with everyone to keep eating. She glows around them. She’s relaxed, less serious and more radiant. Almost nothing like she is at school. Here in the safety of her home, she is pure light. Smiles and jokes and laughter. I feel like an intruder, a spectator witnessing something I’ve never truly had myself.

  “Have that last piece of chicken,” Nora says.

  I snap my eyes to hers. She smiles, and nods her head at the chicken.

  Patting my stomach I say, “I’m stuffed, but thanks.”

  Aubry reaches over the table and squeezes my bicep. “Ouch!” she squeals before leaning down to grab her shin. Eve bites her lip. “You didn’t have to kick me. I was just seeing if Nora has successfully fattened him up.” She looks to Nora. “Stop being a food pusher. He’s fine.”

  A laugh spills from Charlotte’s mouth, filling the room. It’s the best sound. Eyes twinkle with merriment around the table. They’re the kind of tight-knit patchwork family I always dreamed of landing in.