Last Summer

by Rebecca A. Rogers

  “Oh.”

  “I’m a squatter,” he offers. “I move from place to place whenever I feel like it.”

  Hmm. This is strange, and awkward. “So, are you from around here?”

  A short laugh spouts past his lips. “Oh, no, no, no. I don’t do the personal shit.”

  “Well, you could at least tell me if I need to call someone for you. A family member, maybe? A friend?” I cross my arms over my chest. “You can’t stay here. This place could drop at any minute; it’s not safe.”

  He chuckles and raises one eyebrow. God, he has a pretty smile. “And you give a damn because . . .?”

  Okay, I lied. His smile isn’t that pretty. “Um, I give a damn because I have a heart and care about humanity, which is more than I can say for you, apparently.”

  He raises his hands in mock surrender. “You’ve got me. You know exactly how I feel about the whole of society. Now, can you go? I have . . . needs to take care of and you’re only making me itch.”

  I purse my lips. Don’t do it, Chloe! Don’t say it! “You’re a jackass.” The words are out before I can stop myself from saying them. Turning on my heel, I storm through the front door and out to the lawn. I can’t believe the nerve of this guy! He doesn’t even reside in that house, yet he more or less kicked me out. I should call the cops, but something about the way he said he has needs just unravels me.

  A little snooping won’t hurt, will it? Ducking low, I noiselessly trek to one of the windows at the back of the house. Okay, this may not be the best idea I’ve ever had, and I probably won’t make a great private investigator, ever, but what the hell.

  A couple of windows down from where he placed his belongings is where I want to be. That way, if he catches me, I can run. So far, though, I can’t see anything; the glass is too cluttered with grime. I move down to another window. This one has better visibility than the last and—oh, my God! The answer smacks me across my face as a sharp breath rakes over the tips of my teeth. For a moment, I stand mesmerized by the way he ties off his arm and lights up a spoon, then fills a syringe and injects himself. His head falls back in bittersweet suffering, eyes closed, as he lets the needle drop to the filthy floor. I feel like I’m having an out-of-body experience as I watch him. He’s so . . . so . . . free. Relaxed. I know that feeling; I’m that way with running. It’s a distraction, a way to unshackle my mind.

  Taking a careful step back, I realize I can’t stand here and watch him forever, even though I want nothing more than to run inside, throw my arms around his neck, and tell him everything’s going to be all right. Although this is a serious wake-up call by the universe, I have to get home. I sincerely hope Mom’s still not standing at the kitchen doors when I return. I’ve seen that look on her face before; it’s followed by Lifetime movies, potato chips, and a bottle of cheap wine. Which, I hate to say it, may be a good thing for tonight, because I plan on cooking up a little something-something myself . . . and it’s not drugs.

  I bound back the way I came, back to the summer house. Inside, my suspicions are more or less confirmed when I see Mom curled up on the couch, under a throw, flipping through TV channels.

  She glances toward me. “Hey, baby. How was your run?”

  “Good, Mom.” Well, as good as it can be when one finds a drug addict living in a deserted house. I study the kitchen and living room, and realize Dad’s not here. Of course. “Where’s Dad?” I hate to ask. God, I really, really do. It’s not so much the fact that I care where he’s at, it’s that I know he’s sneaking around. And, quite frankly, I’m certain Mom knows, too.

  “He, uh . . .” She clears her throat. “His friend Dan called and wanted to meet up for a beer or two. He’ll be home later.” She smiles sweetly, but the full effect doesn’t reach her eyes.

  Oh, she knows.

  “You going to watch a movie?” I ask.

  Without looking at me, she replies, “I haven’t decided yet. There’s nothing on, really.” And then she turns, facing my way. “Why? Is there something in particular you’d like to see?”

  I shake my head. “No, I think I’m going to take a shower and rest. I’m drained from the drive.” Her emotions wane a bit, so I quickly add, “Rain check for tomorrow?”

  “Sure, baby,” she murmurs, twisting to face the TV again.

  Whew! That was close. I dash upstairs to my bedroom, dig through my luggage case for some clean clothes, and sprint to the shower. Soaking under hot water and letting my mind melt together with the heat, I concoct a plan. Towel-drying myself, I slip on some sweat pants and a T-shirt, and glare at myself in the mirror.

  “You can do this, Chloe,” I say, narrowing my eyes at my reflection. “Don’t be a pussy. Don’t back down.”

  There. Done. Nothing like a little self-motivation to get the ball rolling.

  In a little bit, when the effects of my mom’s wine have taken hold, and when the drug has run its course in that poor, strange boy, I’m going to take him some food. He can stand to gain a few pounds. Not that he’s bone-thin, but still. Whatever happens when I confront him, I’m going to hold my own. He needs some serious help, and I can’t be this innocent bystander who does nothing about it. That’s like watching a kid being bullied, and pretending I don’t see the taunts and jabs happen. More than that, if I turn my back on him now, I’ll always be faced with what-ifs: What if I didn’t help him and his life turns tragic? What if there was a sliver of possibility I could turn him in the right direction? What if I could at least say I tried, even though he discarded my reasons?

  You’re doing the right thing, I tell myself. I mean, what if nobody’s bothered to help him? Worse, what if he doesn’t have anybody to help him? No parents, no friends, no nothing. The thought leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. I steady my breath and concentrate on my mantra: You can do this. You can do this. You can do this.

  Obviously, he’s very stubborn. And irritating. And ridiculous. Who sleeps in a ramshackle home, anyway?

  Someone who doesn’t have a home, my intuition chimes in. Yes, of course. But what about homeless shelters, other places to seek refuge? I shake my head. I know nothing of that lifestyle. I can at least say I tried, even if he refuses my little peace offering for calling him a jackass earlier. But what if he chose this life? What if he wants to be homeless and drug-addicted? Surely not. Surely my mind is being a Negative Nancy.

  I head downstairs to the kitchen, rifling through the cabinets to see what all Mom bought. This boy needs real food, sustenance. Nourishment for his wrecked body. Okay, we have bread, but do we have sandwich meat? Opening the fridge, I search the lower drawers and—yes, we do! Cha-ching! I feel like I’ve won the lottery, although I’m not entirely certain why I’m so excited about this. I have the distinct feeling I’ll be rejected.

  Grabbing a jar of mayo, I spread it on both sides of the bread, followed by lettuce, tomato, cheese, and turkey. Mom bought some Nacho Cheese Doritos at the store—yum!—so I cram them into one Ziploc bag and shove the sandwich in another. I scan the inside of the refrigerator, settling on bottled water and snatching one for the road. Glancing over my shoulder to see what Mom’s doing, I realize she’s in a daze while watching one of her fictional TV shows. Can’t say I didn’t see that one coming.

  “I’ll be back in a bit, Mom!” I call as I rush out the back door.

  My stomach’s knotted up so tightly I’m certain a Boy Scout would have a field day trying to untie it. I deepen my breaths, inhaling and exhaling in a slow, rhythmic pattern. Don’t chicken out! Yeah, yeah. That’s the last thing I want to do. In my very limited experience with loners, they tend to either like being isolated or secretly want somebody to notice them. Maybe this neglected guy just needs some reassurance.

  Creeping along the backside of the cottage, I peer through the same window as earlier . . . and he’s nowhere to be seen. Where the hell did he go? One look around the vicinity and inside the house tells me he’s left. Now, more relaxed, I traipse through the dense grass to the front door
. The house is as empty and quiet as it was when I arrived earlier, before he showed up.

  But his belongings are still piled in the corner.

  Placing the sandwich, Doritos, and bottled water by his backpack, I turn to leave. Sunlight glimmers off the metal tip of the syringe lying on the floor, and I’m fascinated. What does this toothpick-sized object give him? Ecstasy? Momentary rapture from real life? If there’s one thing I’ve learned during my high school years it’s that one doesn’t touch a needle—HIV and all that—but now that I’m face to face with the gadget, I can’t look away; it’s like telling a child not to grab for candy in a candy store.

  Okay, I won’t really come in contact with it, but I am critically questioning my self-control at the moment.

  “What the fuck are you doing?”

  I whirl around, nearly tripping on my own feet. There, in all his glory, is the boy . . . and he’s soaking wet, T-shirt removed.

  “Oh, I’m sorry.” He doesn’t look convinced of my apology. “I-I brought you something to eat. I thought you might be hungry.”

  He breezes past, heading toward his property. After one glance, he pivots to confront me. “Did you touch my shit?” His eyes are a fierce green, the color magnified only by his intense expression.

  I shake my head. “Uh, no.” One of his eyebrows rises in disbelief. “Honestly, I didn’t. I looked, but didn’t touch.”

  Pursing his lips, he says low and slow, “Don’t go near my things, and don’t come near me again. I’m warning you.”

  A feathery tickle brushes up my spine. Who the hell does he think he is, threatening me? My little pep talk with the mirror thirty minutes ago is still fresh on my mind. “First of all, don’t talk to me like that. Second, I’ll touch whoever’s shit I want to. You’re not the boss of me.” Way to go, Chloe. You’ve officially won first place in the I-sound-like-a-sixth-grader competition.

  Surprisingly, he smirks. “Is that a fact?”

  “It’s a fact.”

  We glare at each other for what seems like a matter of minutes, but in reality, I’m sure it’s less than ten seconds.

  “You should go,” he says finally, breaking the glacial ice that has wedged its way between us.

  I huff. “And leave you here? Not gonna happen.”

  The quizzical look on his face speaks volumes.

  I continue, “You need help, and I’m here to offer you mine.”

  I expect a rampage, a riot, something of that sort, but all I receive is laughter, dark and intimidating, echoing from deep inside. Eventually, the laughter dies down, as does his comical expression.

  “Get lost, bitch,” he states flatly.

  Oh. Hell. No. Because my adrenaline has spiked, and because he’s pissing me off, I do the only logical thing my brain can process: I walk straight up to him and punch his face. Reeling back, I shake away the surge of pain tingling through my hand and wrist.

  “Ow!” He retreats, rubbing his cheek. “What the hell was that for?”

  “Because you need some sense knocked into you. Now, I’ll say this again: I’m not leaving until you eat, and I’m not leaving until you accept some form of assistance, whether it’s from me or otherwise.” Good, Chloe. Remember: don’t just stand aside and watch this main event unfold.

  “Fuck this,” he says, packing what little items he owns and shouldering his backpack. On his way out, he stops by my side, shoulder to shoulder, so close I can feel his breath on my cheek. “You know, it’s people like you who made me this way.”

  And with that, ladies and gentlemen, the hellion exits the building.

  Three • Logan

  Help me? When has anybody ever helped me? The one and only time my parents offered to do anything remotely close, they were ready to shell out thousands of dollars for other people to recommend what I should and shouldn’t be doing with my life. Not them. Not my so-called family. And my friends? To hell with them. They’re long gone by now.

  Well, you could at least tell me if I need to call someone for you. Even if I took the bitch up on her offer, who will she call when it’s all said and done, when I’ve sobered up?

  You need help. Her words reverberate through my head. God, why can’t it be that easy? Why can’t I turn myself in and let somebody show me the light, or whatever it’s called. I mean, yeah, obviously it’d be nice for a change.

  I shake my head.

  No, it wouldn’t. I’ve chosen this. I’ve set my destiny in motion. One day, I’ll die because of this obsessive love for all things bad, and my parents will be void of one less child. Then I think of Lucas, my younger bro. What does he think about me leaving? What have Mom and Dad told him? I never said goodbye to the little man. I’m supposed to be some kind of an example—aren’t all big brothers?—but that idea flew out the fucking window a long, long time ago when they kicked me out of my own home.

  Gahh. Frustrating sons of bi—

  “Where are you going?”

  I glance over my shoulder. Great. She’s following me now. I officially have a stalker.

  Ignoring her, I press on. What’s with this girl, anyway? I can’t count on my fingers and toes the number of times people have passed me in the street without offering their help, so why her? Why now?

  Although, she is pretty hot; I will give her that. I’ve always had a thing for blondes, especially ones with big, blue eyes, but she’s a-whole-nother level, one that’s out of my league. Besides, I meant what I said about people like her getting me into this mess. If I had never joined the football team with those rich, preppy fuckers, I’m positive everything would be different. Fate, however, had a different plan for me.

  “So, you’re just going to ignore me and wander off without a shirt?”

  I snort. Yes and yes. Can I be any more obvious? Take a damn hint.

  “You know,” she says, “I’m just going to follow you until you give in.”

  Okay, that does it. I wheel around. “Dude, what’s it going to take for you to leave me alone? You’re not going to follow me, and I’m not going to listen to you. I don’t need your help or anyone else’s. Don’t you think I would’ve been treated by now if I really wanted the extra hand? Don’t you get it?”

  Her eyes widen, then return to their usual arrogant glower. “Fine.” She shrugs. “Have it your way. When you realize how badly you need my help, I’ll be waiting in the lake house down from the cottage. You can’t miss it; it’s pastel yellow with white shutters.”

  Shaking my head, I say, “Won’t happen.” Turning my back on her and walking away, I shout, “Run home to Mommy and Daddy,” and chuck deuces in the air.

  I head in the general direction of town; there’s an alley somewhere out there, calling my name. I’ll hang around the area until dusk, and then find a place to sleep. I find myself reminiscing about the first night I snoozed on concrete, lodged between the day’s leftovers and other shit I don’t even want to remember, outside Bernie’s Bar & Grille. I was so damn hungry I had to force the bile down my throat long enough to scrounge through the dumpsters for a semi-eaten meal. It was utterly disgusting. Probably the grossest thing I’ve done in my life.

  But that’s become the norm for me. How else would I still be alive? All the money I had saved was withdrawn from the bank the day my parents pushed me out of our home, and the cash was used to buy what I was already addicted to—heroin. Now I have to stay away from Big P and his boys. I owe them a serious sum of funds. Funds I don’t have. I’ve led them on for this long, but I don’t know how much more this can continue. If they find out about my family . . .

  I shake away the thought. Every move I’ve made has prevented them from learning about Mom, Dad, and Lucas.

  I often wonder if I’ll ever run into my parents in Sandy Shores. They live in the next town over, but surely they’ve figured out by now that I’m not remote. I mean, I guess I could’ve hitched a ride to a city far from here, but what good would that have done? Can they still feel me in their hearts, or have they given up
on me completely?

  Stopping by the side of the road, I drag a shirt out of my backpack and pull it over my head. Cars coast by, lazily, like they have all the time in the world. Once there’s a break, I cross the main street. Up ahead, Jake strums his guitar and croons a song he wrote, while tourists empty the contents of their wallets into his case. If I had a natural talent like his, I’d be set for life.

  “’Sup, Jake?” I say in passing.

  He nods once, his dreads swaying a little, but continues singing the melody. He and I have known each other for a few months now. His family split in different directions, and he chose songwriting and performing over an alternative lifestyle, never looking back. I wish I had the ability to do the same, but every day I’m haunted by images of a life that might still exist for me if I choose to go a dissimilar route.

  This time of day, everyone is either eating dinner or concluding shopping on the strip. Although it’ll never happen, I silently implore that, at some point, my parents and Lucas will stroll up one of the sidewalks and we’ll bump into each other. Lucas will throw his tiny arms around my neck as I squeeze him in a hug. Mom and Dad will apologize, and then invite me home. We’ll pretend none of this ever happened.

  But that’s just it—pretend. Make believe. My mind working overtime.

  Still, I scan both sides of the street.

  I can always tell the difference between tourists and locals. Tourists frequent the T-shirt shops more than anyone, searching for the perfect souvenir, the perfect reminder of their vacation. A trinket to set on a shelf to collect dust until the next year. Locals unwind, enjoying the sun and food.

  I slide into a chair on the deck at Bernie’s, setting my backpack into the seat beside me. A waitress wastes no time pausing by my table, asking what I’d like to drink.

  “Water,” I tell her.