by Julie Frayn
“You can stay with me if you want to.”
She spun around. “With you?” She didn’t know anything about him. Except he was cute and sweet, and his eyes made her knees weak. “Where do you live?”
“Anywhere. Everywhere.”
“What? I mean where’s your house?”
He looked down at her sideways, his eyebrows rose. He looked thoroughly amused. Or maybe he thought she was an idiot.
“I don’t have a place, August. I live on the street.”
She stared at him. She had envisioned a nice apartment somewhere downtown, in the middle of the excitement of the city. Why would she think that? He was filthy and he took her to a park to pee. God, she could be so stupid.
She could sleep in the park. Or a cheaper hotel. Or maybe a church. She tucked her hand in her back pocket and fingered the piece of paper. She could find Father Patrick’s ministry, he’d take her in.
“Knock, knock. Anybody in there?” Reese cocked his head to one side, then smiled. “Don’t worry.” He put a gentle forearm around her shoulder. “You’ll be safe with me. I’m not a murderer or rapist or anything. I’ve lived out here for years. And you can always go home any time you want to.”
“No!” she said louder than she meant to. Then took a deep breath. “I don’t want to go home.”
“What’s so bad there?”
“Lots of stuff. The farm. My stupid boyfriend.” She bit her bottom lip and glanced up at him. “Ex-boyfriend. And my mother.”
“Yeah? You got a lousy mother?”
“She drives me crazy. Always telling me what to wear, do my chores, do my homework, don’t stay out late, don’t date. She’s always trying to make me do what she wants. She doesn’t give a damn what I want.”
“Does any mother care what their kids want?”
“None that I know.”
*****
August and Reese sat in a corner booth at McDonald’s. The only restaurant she’d ever eaten at before that was the diner in town. She’d been dying to have a Big Mac ever since Sara told her about it last summer, so she spent the rest of her money and bought them both dinner.
“This is great!” Bits of chewed bun landed on the plastic tabletop. Talking with her mouth full, what would her mother say to that? She reached across and snitched one of his fries.
“Hey! Hands off, lady.” He pushed the fries toward her despite his protest. He smiled, picked up a few fries, dipped them in ketchup and fed them to her.
She chewed the fries and stared at his face. She touched her cheek, then ran her fingers along her collarbone. When he wiped a drop of ketchup from her chin, her cheeks warmed and she looked away.
After dinner they went into the children’s play area, took off their shoes and crawled into the labyrinth of tubes and tunnels intended for much smaller kids. They landed in the ball pit at the end of a slide and threw plastic balls at each other, screeching and laughing.
She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had so much fun. She was always working – farm chores, homework, babysitting her little sisters, cleaning the bathroom. Sara got to go to Disneyland. August got to hold the chickens’ necks taut while her mother murdered them with an ax.
“Okay, you two. Get out.” A boy not much older than her stood with his arms crossed. His ill-fitting uniform was splotched with mustard stains, his face splotched with acne scars and pimples.
“Aw c’mon, man,” Reese pleaded. “We’re just having some fun.”
“Fun is just for the little kids.”
Well wasn’t that the truth.
“Now get out.” The boy stood holding his broom in front of him with both hands like a janitorial saber.
They crawled out. Their hair crackled with static electricity, strands sticking straight out from their heads.
August licked her palm and ran it over her hair to smooth it, then did the same for Reese. She glanced at his face to find him staring at her, grinning like she’d done something amusing. Her cheeks got hot under the scrutiny of those eyes, even bluer at close quarters. She turned away and crammed her ball cap on her head.
Reese opened the door for her. At the corner, the pedestrian light flashed an amber warning. He grabbed her hand and pulled her to the other side.
When they were safely across, she relaxed her hand in his, ready for him to let her go. Instead, he held her in a firm but gentle grip. Goosebumps tingled up her arm.
She glanced up at him every few steps. His jacket was buttoned all the way up, even in the summer heat. His Adam’s apple seemed to rest on the collar. No boy she knew had such a pronounced lump in his throat. She couldn’t help but look at it, fascinated by the movement of it as he swallowed, more fascinated by the pangs shooting through her belly when it jumped up and down. Shifting her gaze to the fine scruff of his never-shaved sideburns, her heart fluttered.
“So do you have a lousy mother too?”
“Lousy doesn’t cover it. My mother didn’t give a rat’s ass about me.”
“Is that why you ran away? Because of her?”
“I didn’t run away. My mom’s dead.”
“Oh my God, Reese.” She stopped mid-stride and put her arms around him, hugging him hard. “I’m so, so sorry.” She breathed in his scent. Dirt, sweat, and just a hint of yeast, like the smell of her mother’s bread dough before it baked into fresh, steaming loaves. She felt his rib bones through his jacket. His mother had probably never baked him bread.
He rested one hand on her shoulder for a few seconds, then he pulled away.
“It’s cool. It was, like, four years ago. She OD’d. Smack.” He sounded like he was ordering burgers and fries, no apparent trace of emotion.
“Smack?”
“Yeah, you know, heroin. Wasn’t the first time, just the first time it killed her.” He started walking ahead of her without taking her hand back.
She sped up to catch him, and fell into step by his side. “What about your dad?”
“Never met him.”
“Oh. Sorry.”
He’d lived all alone for four years? Out here, on the street? He had no one to love. No one to love him back.
They walked in silence for a block and then she took hold of his hand.
He looked down at her through his bangs and smiled.
*****
August stood under a massive bridge, the underside looming high over her head. She stared up at six lanes of traffic that roared above, the air filled with the constant hum of tires speeding across the steel deck. The smell of burned paper, diesel fuel and urine permeated the evening. A few yards away a wide river idled by, its movement appearing slow and lazy.
“Here we are.” Reese gestured to his surroundings. “Home, sweet home.”
“Charming.” She poked his shoulder and smiled.
“I do what I can,” he said, with a haughty air and a slight bow.
She giggled.
He led her to a spot under the bridge abutment, sheltered from public view, where the only intruders were the underbellies of the vehicles that passed overhead. He took her backpack, went behind a line of bushes and brought out some newspapers and cardboard, then tossed the cardboard on the concrete.
“Mattresses,” was all he said. “I hid your stuff with mine. C’mere.” He took her hand and led her past a concrete pillar, down a path to the river.
“This is the bathroom,” he said without ceremony. “Just watch your step.”
The bushes and grass were trampled, flies buzzed everywhere. She would never complain about a dirty bathroom again. Oh, to feel a cold plastic toilet seat caress the cheeks of her ass.
She smiled at him. “Do you mind?”
He made his way back up to the abutment while she looked for a lesser-used place to pee.
Across the river, dock workers yelled at each other over the drone of machinery. Barges with massive crates were unloaded by huge cranes. The glow of the dock lights seemed focused on her like a spotlight, the workers probably watching her, l
aughing, ogling. She backed into a thick bush and dropped her pants.
When she got back up to their spot, Reese had laid out the cardboard mattresses side by side and lit a candle in a tin can. The glow eased the impersonal cold of the looming darkness. It was almost romantic.
They each stretched out on a piece of cardboard and looked up at the bridge. She shifted her weight, adjusting to the solid ground beneath her, but there was no comfort zone. To the left and through some trees, the shape of the moon was barely visible in a small, smoggy patch of sky.
“I used to lie in our cornfield at night with my parents and little sisters and stare at the stars.” Even laying on prickly stalks in the cornfield was more comfortable than a cardboard-on-concrete bed.
He reached out and laid his hand over hers. “You won’t see any stars from here. Not enough sky. Too many streetlights.”
“I used to keep count of how many shooting stars we saw. We wished on every one of them.”
“What did you wish for?”
“Candy mostly.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“Nope. In the bad years we’d wish for good crops. Once, April wished our chickens would lay golden eggs.” She smiled at the memory. “And of course when Grandpa was sick, we wished for him to be better.” The familiar knot that accompanied her grandfather’s memory grabbed at her stomach. “Turns out shooting stars can’t make people not die.”
He squeezed her hand. “Good to know.”
Chapter 10
Reese lay beside August, closed his eyes and pretended to be asleep. He slit them open, glancing sideways at her every few seconds. When her drowsy breath became steady and easy and her hand relaxed inside his, he turned his head and stared at her face. She was so peaceful and calm, so innocent and untouched. So pretty.
He stroked her palm with his thumb, making her twitch and stir in her sleep before she gripped his hand and turned her face toward him. His heart raced ahead a few beats, his entire arm tingling from her warmth. It was excitement and comfort in one simple touch. Was that crazy? She was just another girl. Except everything about her was different than any other girl he’d had before. She was kind and open, honest and sweet. She was perfect. She even smelled good. And she smiled. A lot. He’d smiled more that day than he could ever remember. His cheeks ached from it.
His family had better like her, had better welcome her into their circle. Or at least not chase her away. How long would she last before it all got too hard, before she had to run back home? How would she handle the reality of his world? Of the things he’s done – the things he still did? And why did he even give a shit? He couldn’t figure that part out. He just knew he wanted to keep her. To tell her his secrets. To make this feeling – whatever the hell it was – last as long as possible.
She shifted again and rolled closer to him, her ball cap grazing his cheek. Then she snorted in her sleep.
He suppressed a laugh, but couldn’t stop a wide, cheek-aching grin. He eased her cap off and inhaled deeply. The smell of her hair, like strawberries or peaches, filled his lungs and soothed his mind. He tightened his grip on her hand and closed his eyes to sleep.
Chapter 11
Caraleen lay alone in August’s bed. She closed her eyes and pretended her daughter was there with her.
Almost five years had passed since they curled up here together. Caraleen would sing softly into August’s ear and stroke her daughter’s temple. She would bury her nose into August’s soft blonde hair and inhale the scents that gave her such comfort – sweat, hay, herbal shampoo, and just the faintest hint of pig shit. That was the best part of motherhood – the smell of her child, the gentle touch that seemed almost electric, the love so deep there was no bottom to it. It was what made everything worthwhile – fights, misunderstandings, confusion, anger, the hatred she sometimes believed her own daughter felt for her. It was all fine when they fell asleep wrapped in each other’s embrace, secure in knowing, at least for that brief moment, that they shared comfort, serenity and peace.
There came a time when August didn’t need that nighttime ritual Caraleen still longed for. Didn’t want to be tucked in, fawned over, coddled. She would wait until her daughter fell asleep, then sneak in and kiss the top of her head, breathe in the smell of their past closeness. She wished for time to stop, for August to quit growing older. Quit growing up. It all passed so quickly.
Birth, breastfeeding, first steps, first words, first day of school, first lost tooth.
First fight, first slammed door, first cuss words hurled in her face. When did it get so hard? Thirteen. That’s when.
“Damn, damn, damn,” she swore under her breath.
Kids had too much freedom nowadays. Maybe she was too strict, but Don was too soft. Her daddy would never have allowed her to act that way at sixteen, and she would never have talked back to her parents then. No way. No respect anymore, no fear. No consequences.
Damn.
Chapter 12
Sometime after sunrise August woke and stretched. The newspaper she had pretended was her patchwork quilt fell away to her side.
Reese stirred and sat up. “Morning.” He stretched too and rubbed his head with both hands, mussing up his hair even more than usual. He jumped up and headed straight to the river. “Got to take my morning constitutional,” he called back to her before disappearing behind a concrete pillar.
His morning constitutional. That was what her father called it too. What did taking a twenty minute dump have to do with freedom and independence?
She stared up at the morning traffic roaring across the bridge, the drivers all rushing to get who-knows-where. How strange to see all those cars and trucks from underneath, driving on a road full of holes. At least she didn’t have to smell the grease from here, like when she was under the pickup changing the oil.
She sat up and rubbed her lower back, she missed her mattress. She pulled her thin hoodie tighter around her shoulders. She hadn’t packed well for her new city life – hell, she didn’t pack at all. Then again, what had she expected? The Ritz? Yes that was exactly what she expected. The Ritz. Tiffany’s. Stupid, stupid girl.
Reese emerged from the river path holding a blanket in one hand. It looked as if it could have been pink at one time but was now just filthy, stained with she-didn’t-want-to-know-what.
“I found this behind the pillar.” He shook out the blanket. Dust and dirt flew up into the morning sunlight. A used Band-Aid fell from its folds. He placed the blanket around her and patted her back. “That should help with the morning chill.”
“Thanks. What would I do if I hadn’t met you?”
He sat next to her and flicked a roach away with his thumb and middle finger. He put his arm around her shivering shoulders, pulling her in so she could lean against him.
“You’d have gone home already, where you belong.” He brushed a kiss against her forehead.
She wanted to object to his gentle assertion that she didn’t belong there, but was far too distracted by the tingling sensation where his lips had touched her skin.
With her head against his shoulder, she had a close-up view of his long neck and scruffy chin. Grouped to the right of his Adam’s apple were three scars. Three perfectly round spots. She rested her fingers on the side of his neck, the heat of his skin warming her hand, and grazed one spot with her thumb. “What are these from?”
He reached up and moved her hand. “Burns.” He turned away and lit a cigarette, cupping his hand around the match to protect the flame from the wind, then put his arm around her shoulder again.
She looked from the scars to his cigarette and then back. “Did you do this?” She touched each scar with one fingertip.
“Nah.” He brushed her hand away again. “A souvenir from one of my mother’s boyfriends. Can’t remember which one.”
“Why would he do that to you?”
“Because he’s a sadistic prick, I guess.” He took a long drag and dropped the lit cigarette on the pavement nex
t to what looked like a puddle of dried blood, and exhaled straight up into the air. He sighed and gave her shoulder a faint squeeze before releasing her, then rolled up the sleeve on his left arm and pointed. “This is my handiwork.” Several thin scars crisscrossed his forearm.
“Reese! Why?”
“Sometimes things just get too screwed up. Too weird. I start to lose control. Cutting helps me focus, you know? The pain, it makes you know what’s real. Makes the other shit in life disappear for a while. Makes you feel… I don’t know. Free.” He picked up the cigarette from the ground and put it between his lips. It hung from the corner of his mouth, one eye squinting to keep the smoke out. “I’ve thought about doing it here.” He drew a finger across his wrist.
“Don’t say that.” She slapped him on the arm of his jacket, searching his face for some indication that he was joking.
He just looked toward the river. “Whatever. I haven’t cut in a long time. Hey, I’m starved. Let’s go get some grub.”
She rubbed sleep from the corners of her eyes. “I’ve got no money left.”
He shrugged. “I could work, but I hate doing that this early.”
“You have a job? That’s awesome. I tried to apply at a video store but, well – they didn’t hire me.” She wasn’t about to explain it to him, didn’t want anyone to know what that creep had asked her to do.
“I don’t have that kind of job. I… ” He brushed hair away from his face and sucked on the cigarette again. “I do favors for people,” he said on the exhale.
“What, like mow their lawn?”
His laugh snorted out of his nose along with blue smoke. “Uh, no.” He flicked the ash from his cigarette, then turned to look at her. “Sexual favors.”
“Who would ask you to do that?”
“Lots of people. Mostly men.”
“Men? You have sex with men?” He was a prostitute. Did boys do that too?
“Yes, August. I have sex with men. Sometimes it’s women, but mostly men. Usually older.”
“Like how old?”
