Wicked Me

by Lindsey R. Loucks

  “Don go,” he said, his tongue thickening the words.

  “I got to, dude. But look.” I grabbed a knitted hat off the top of my bag and tossed it to him. It had red and black stairstep stitching in it like Legos pieced together. “My sister made that especially for you. I didn’t measure your head or anything, so if it doesn’t fit, you can wear it on your fist like a boxing glove, okay? And I’ll send you another for your other hand. And a bigger one for your head if she has enough yarn.”

  A big, goofy grin lit up his face as he ran his fingers over it. “She mae it fo me?”

  “Yeah. Try it on.”

  He did. It didn’t fit, not even close, but I wasn’t about to tell him that because of the look on his face. I’d given him a hat, but I might as well have given him a million bucks. Two red puffballs on strings hung down both sides of his head, just past his ears. He shook his head a little so they’d sway back and forth.

  “You like it?” I asked, even though I didn’t need to.

  He didn’t answer because his eyes were aimed at the ground between us while he concentrated on making the balls smack his head. I sat back and watched him for a while, trying not to think about what his new cellmate could be like. We’d both lucked out in that department.

  A guard walked up to the bars and banged them lightly with his clipboard. “Cleary, let’s go.”

  Seven minutes and thirty-seven seconds early. Hell yeah.

  I stood and leveled my gaze with Co’s so he’d finally look at me. “See you, big guy.”

  Swing. Swing. “See you at dinnah, Sam.”

  I didn’t correct him. No matter what I told him, he didn’t seem to get that I was never coming back. Maybe it was better to leave him to exist with his hat and the expectation that he’d see me later. I didn’t know what else to do but leave. I sure as hell wasn’t going to stick around, not when I had so many wrongs to put right.

  But it was the weirdest sensation walking out of there a free man. Already dressed in my regular clothes the guard had dropped off earlier, I could almost believe the past six months had been a dream. But the closer I got to the exit, the faster I walked because I had a plane to catch.

  At the end of a long deserted hallway, my guarded escort stopped at a glassed-in counter and waved at the female guard behind it before retracing his steps back down the hallway. The female guard’s dark hair was pulled too-tight behind her head, giving her a constant surprised expression.

  “Cleary, Samuel,” she barked, and her breath fogged the glass between us.

  “Uh...present?” If she wanted to see some form of identification, I was afraid I couldn’t help her. I had literally nothing except the clothes on my back.

  She rolled her wide eyes at her own version of rollcall, then slid a plastic bag into a curved metal pocket underneath a gap in the glass. On a ragged piece of masking tape, big, block letters spelled Cleary, Samuel. Inside the bag were my cell phone, wallet, and keys. My phone was likely dead, but that didn’t keep me from checking anyway. Yep. Dead.

  A beep sounded to my left, and the door there clicked as if it had unlocked.

  I pulled open the door and hesitated, just in case this was some kind of sick joke and guards would come after me with tasers. I should’ve just run if that was the case, but I wasn’t about to screw this up, too. The door latched shut behind me. About twelve feet away, daylight slanted through the windows of the double doors. Freedom. I could practically taste the cotton-candy clouds hanging in a bright blue sky. It had only been six months, but it felt like decades.

  No one needed to buzz me outside these doors, and as I went through them, a shock of winter air slammed into my face. Looks could be deceiving from the inside out. It was ball-dropping cold out here.

  “Sam!” a familiar voice shouted from the direction of the parking lot.

  And then there she was, weaving between cars, her hand thrown up to her forehead to ward off the winter sun’s glare off all the windshields. A smile lit up her whole face. When she raced toward me at breakneck speed, she seemed just as free as me. Whole again. That lifted the inside of my chest with relief.

  I spun my sister up in a bear hug, laughing at her squeal, but quickly dumped her on her feet again so we could get out of here.

  “It’s fucking cold out,” I said, in case she didn’t know. “Where’re you parked?”

  Rose pointed with one of her own puffballs that dangled to the bottom of her coat from the knitted owl hat perched on top of her head. “Over there. Where’s your coat?”

  “I left it next to my toothbrush shank and soap on a rope.” I started in the direction of her car because there was some major shrivel action happening.

  “Don’t joke, SamRam,” she called.

  “Fine. Can we go?”

  She huffed out a sigh. Loose gravel rolled under her feet as she ran to catch up. Those two sounds together brought a grin to my face because it was so normal—me pissing her off but her running to keep up anyway. It was soothing somehow. Normal. I missed normal.

  Once we were inside her car and the heat dial was cranked to hellfire temperature, we got on the road toward the airport. I turned in my seat to face her, not even trying to hide my stare. The cold had painted her cheeks a bright red. Several strands of blonde hair had static-clinged themselves to her owl hat. And crawling up past the collar of her winter coat was something I had never noticed before. Birds. A whole tiny, black and yellow-inked flock of them permanently marked on her skin.

  “I don’t like it,” I announced.

  “Well, you’re an idiot,” she said, shrugging.

  I narrowed my gaze, trying to read the inside of her skull. “Why?”

  “Because. You know how I feel about birds.”

  The corners of her mouth lifted, and I decided right then and there that I didn’t care about her tattoo. She’d marked herself with a symbol of freedom. If it set in stone the way she looked, the way she acted, the way she should always be, forever and amen, then I could learn to deal. As long as she didn’t get a tramp stamp. Mademoiselle or no, I had my limits.

  She glanced at me then shook her head, her face serious. “Dad says he likes it.”

  Dad had said a lot of things. He came to visit a few times with tears in his eyes. At first, I didn’t know what to say to him. He talked while I grunted one-syllable answers because he was such a stranger to me. But when he mentioned finding some old Ozzie Osbourne records in the attic I never knew he had, I snorted all over the table between us. The thought of my dad, a one-time presidential hopeful, listening to a guy who chewed on bat heads for fun was wrong on so many levels. But it had helped kick through a chunk of the wall separating our very different lives.

  “And Mom?” I checked our progress on the road and compared it to the dashboard clock. My flight left in two hours.

  “Well,” Rose said on a sigh, “the last time I saw her, she’d found Jesus at the bottom of a tequila bottle and had launched into Bible verses, so...I don’t really know. She did say she was going to move out and find her own place, though.”

  I nodded. Before all this, I’d felt so far removed from my parents that I didn’t think we shared the same planet anymore. They were strangers, but now that all our lies had been laid bare, maybe we could finally get to know each other again, whether married or divorced, together or separate, as the family we once were, as sappy as that sounded. Start new, like I hoped to do with Paige.

  “SamRam?”

  “Rose?” I said absently.

  “Do you want me to stop for a baconated cheeseburger?”

  My mouth began to salivate at the mention of bacon. It’d been too long. “We don’t have time.”

  “Wow,” she said, her eyes as large as her owl’s on her hat. “You weren’t kidding when you said you loved her.”

  I just hoped she loved me back. I’d lived with her for six weeks, but in that short time, I’d become a man blinded by a bright future. With her. It had been a very real possibility in ev
ery move she made closer to me, all grace and honey perfume, every laugh, every time I was inside her. It was all I wanted. Paige Sullivan was everything I ever wanted.

  And I had thrown it all away to try to save my family who refused to be saved. Or maybe they hadn’t been the ones who needed saving in the first place. Either way, Paige deserved more than the bitter betrayal and disappointment I had left her with. Both had wrapped around her voice when she’d called me in jail, and I couldn’t stand to hear it. Telling her that it would be better if she didn’t call again was my lame-ass way of letting her go be with someone who deserved her. Not me. Not then.

  “You’ll come back to see me?” Rose asked.

  “Probably not.”

  Her fingerless-gloved hand karate chopped into my arm, close enough to my almost-healed bullet wound and hard enough to make me sit up and take notice. She had a lot more gusto than when I last saw her in rehab.

  “I’ll come and visit you on one condition,” I said.

  “No, Sam, I will not do any more heroin,” she said and slid me an angry glare. “How many times are you going to make me promise?”

  “Not that,” I said, shaking my head. “I mean yes, that, but another thing, too.”

  “What?” she asked with a sigh.

  “Sorry, not sorry. What the fuck does that even mean? And why was that your last tweet before your overdose? Was that some kind of vague warning or some bullshit?” When she didn’t answer, I stared at her. I planned to stay just like that until she cracked from brotherly annoyance.

  “It means...at that particular point in time...I had a moment of clarity.” She rolled her bottom lip between her teeth. “Even though heroin took over my life, I knew exactly what path I was headed toward. And I knew the only way out was down. I knew that in order for me to stop, I had to hit rock bottom. I was sorry that I put you and the fam in that situation, but I wasn’t sorry for myself. That was me taking responsibility for my own self-destruction.”

  I turned toward my window, not really seeing the city roll past while her words twisted themselves through the memories of leaving her alone in our backyard long enough for her to get her first hit. “I left you alone with him, Rose.”

  “But you didn’t make me do anything. I did it of my own free will.” She tapped her thumbs against the steering wheel. “I can slap my own Band-Aid on myself to give me superpowers during yellow bird tag or the game of life or whatever. You can’t protect me forever, you know.”

  I glanced over, and sure enough, underneath a knitted half-finger of her glove was a yellow Band-Aid wrapped around her knuckle. My sister was a walking symbol of strength and freedom. I briefly considered shuffling through the radio stations to find something patriotic. We were in D.C., so the national anthem shouldn’t have been too hard to find. Instead, I turned back to the window, smiling. If the super-powered Band-Aid and bird tattoo helped her stay my little sister and not the zombie demon that had entered rehab, I wouldn’t judge.

  “Well, you’re Mom and Dad’s favorite, so yeah, I do have to protect you forever,” I said.

  She laughed, and it sounded so bright and airy that it instantly lightened my shoulders. She didn’t blame me. Not that I thought she would, but I had spent months blaming myself enough for the both of us. While that feeling would probably never go away, maybe in time I could eventually forgive myself for turning my back on her for a second too long.

  “Please come to visit me soon,” she begged.

  I grinned until I felt like my whole damned face hurt. “You couldn’t get rid of me if you tried.”

  TWO CONNECTING FLIGHTS later, I fumbled in the back of a cab for my wallet as it pulled up in front of a plain yellow house, my hands more than a little shaky. The address matched the folded up letter in my pocket that I’d memorized while in jail. The letter contained two more words in flowery handwriting: Done. ~ Kay

  I had no idea who this Kay lady was, or what she looked like, but a woman opened the door of the yellow house as I walked up the sidewalk and gave me a stern once-over with her arms folded across her chest. She wore sweatpants and a stained T-shirt, and her blonde bangs matched the little boy’s who bounded up next to her. He had a high-heeled shoe sticking out of his mouth. Weird kid.

  The woman rested a protective hand on top of the boy’s head, but her uncertain gaze never left me. I could guess why. My mug shot had graced every major television news site for weeks. The rest of my family...well, that would always taint how people saw me for the rest of my life, even if they didn’t know me. Especially if they didn’t know me. I didn’t expect her to throw open her door and invite me to play shoes with her son. Still, I wasn’t used to being judged with such a critical eye. This would take some getting used to.

  The woman’s eyebrows disappeared behind her bangs. “Sam?” She drew my name out, like she’d been waiting for me to say or do something other than stand there.

  “Yeah,” I said and stuck my hands in my pockets like some awkward-ass freak. Like some awkward-ass freak who’d just been released from jail and was standing on a stranger’s porch with no direction to go but up. Because like my sister Mademoiselle Goldfinch, I had hit rock bottom, too. And right then, Kay was part of my springboard. I gave her a smile I hoped would put her at ease. “Kay, right?”

  She nodded, and thank Jesus, her harsh expression faded some. “It’s about time you got here.”

  32

  Paige

  NOTHING SAID CLASSY librarian more than collapsing on a chair with my head wedged between my knees. I’d been so focused on getting everything ready for the author visit that afternoon that I hadn’t considered the possible consequences of leftover spaghetti mixed with my white lace top for lunch. It took a certain degree of talent to get more on my boobs than inside my mouth.

  I’d sped back home to my apartment to change, and like the dumbass that I was, I raced right past a cop going forty-two in a thirty. On the plus side, I’d made her laugh—I’d said something about ravenous boobs—but not enough to avoid getting a ticket.

  Then, with a fresh shirt on, I’d crawled my little red Camry back to the library where the parking lot was already bursting with cars for the author visit that started in ten minutes. Ten minutes! I finally found an empty space several blocks away, then hauled ass through the library doors a full two minutes late. But by then, I was too out of breath and flustered to do what I needed, no wanted with every fiber of my soul, to do—introduce the Lisa Montgomery.

  Like my own personal savior, Kay, my best friend and assistant library director did it for me, and did a fine job, too. I sat in the very back, gasping for air, while I vowed to start a rigorous workout regimen the next day and willed myself not to be too disappointed. Because there could be a next time, especially since I never dreamed there would be this time. Wichita, Kansas wasn’t even on her original book tour schedule, and yet here she was.

  Mind. Blown.

  After dancing in the library stacks with several other uber-fans, I’d emailed Ms. Montgomery to let her know how much of a rock star she was at the Rockwell branch of the Wichita Public Library. She’d emailed back the very next day and said that my email had made her spit her morning coffee all over her computer screen in hysterics. Oops and uh-ohs filled my next email, and before I knew it, I’d invited her for an author visit. When she said yes, I’d paraded my manic grin around the library and told everybody, including Kay, who joined me in a celebratory, though appropriately-volumed, squeal. I doubted Janice at the Library of Congress would have even cracked a smile.

  Now, wearing cat-eye glasses the same color as her purple hair streaks, several patterned scarves around her neck, and a long, flowing black dress, Ms. Montgomery was the picture of a middle-aged creative genius.

  “It’s such an honor to be in the same room filled to the max with book lovers,” she said after the welcoming applause died down. “I’ve often dreamed of starting my own country and calling it Readtopia, and the pledge of allegiance would go
something like ‘One nation, under books...’”

  Hollers, whistles, and lots of applause from the audience lifted a giant smile across my face. It never ceased to amaze me how many people were just as obsessed as I was over the written word. Working in this library day after day reminded me of that and filled me with warmth and a sense of belonging, even among the homeless who occasionally wandered in and peed in the chairs. Hey, we all have our quirks. But these were my people, and Ms. Montgomery was singing their song.

  Brimming with energy as vibrant as her colorful scarves, she launched into where her ideas came from, her writing process, even the music she listened to—punk rock; such a badass!—while the audience and me sat riveted. Too soon, she drew her talk to a close and invited questions.

  “What’s your next book about?” someone called out before I had a chance to rack my brain for something intelligent to ask.

  “I’m afraid that’s all I have time for, ladies and gentlemen,” Ms. Montgomery said after several more questions, “but if you would like to make a purchase or have your books signed, just make your way up the aisle in an orderly fashion, and we’ll collectively tell my carpal tunnel syndrome that it’s not invited to Readtopia.”

  The crowd snapped into action and funneled inward into the center aisle. I let everyone else go first since I was closing tonight anyway, but by the time I made it to the front of the line, the inside of my mouth had grown a field of cotton.

  “Uh.” I forced a swallow, which didn’t help much. “Paige Sullivan. That’s me. Paige.”

  Ms. Montgomery thrust out her hand, and I took it, slowly, because I wanted to hang on to this memory for as long as I could. Her soft skin slid against mine in a power grip while her woodsy patchouli perfume filled my senses. She smiled, warm and genuine, with painted red lips and a single crooked tooth on the top row.