by Lanie Bross
The street was crowded with cars, backed up by the accident, and the blast of horns punctuated the evening.
Luc sent a quick text to his girlfriend, letting her know he was running late. Karen hated it when he was late. And she was still pissed at him for missing dinner with her parents last week. He was going to have to be extra nice tonight.
He walked toward Market and caught a bus going south, toward the Mission, and descended when it stopped at Twenty-Second Street. Bright lights illuminated window displays full of bold-colored clothing and artwork. People were crammed together at the tiny tables outside various cafes, laughing and clinking glasses. The lit windows of the high-rises in the distance looked like rows and rows of teeth, grinning down at him.
Like he was being watched.
He lowered his head and hurried toward Trinity Café. He saw her before she saw him. She sat at an outside table. Her tanned legs were crossed, and he noticed a delicate gold-and-diamond anklet encircling one of her thin ankles. A gift from her dad, probably. She had recently cut and highlighted her hair, and for one second, in the half dark, he almost didn’t recognize her.
If not for the Bay Sun Skeptic, the school’s alternate newspaper, he might never have talked to Karen. He had joined on a whim after his guidance counselor told him that even with his soccer skills, he’d have a better chance getting into UC Berkeley if he seemed more “well rounded.” The Skeptic was the school’s answer to the Onion, and Luc found—mostly to his surprise—that he liked writing columns and sketching the occasional cartoon.
And, of course, he liked the editor in chief: Karen.
He remembered the first time they had ever hung out. He had stuck around after a meeting at her house to help her clean up. He had been soaping up the dishes in her pristine kitchen when Karen appeared next to him, laughing.
“Luc, stop.” Karen had reached into the sink to flick soap bubbles at him. “Leave them; Leticia will clean up the rest of the mess. I want to show you something. Come on.”
It was the easy way she’d grinned at him—her hazel eyes had lit up with excitement—that made him set the towel down.
“Ready?” she’d asked, and grabbed his hand.
He could only nod, too distracted by the way her hand felt to speak. He followed her upstairs, where she opened a narrow door and they went up another set of stairs, this set very steep. They had to walk single file; the walls pressed so close they nearly brushed his shoulders. It was dark, too. He heard the slide of a lock and another, narrower, door creaked open.
“Where are we going?” he asked.
“Just close your eyes,” she said, “and trust me.”
For some bizarre reason, he did. Even though she could have been leading him straight out an open window, for all he knew. He felt wind on his skin—they had to be on some kind of deck. She led him forward a few feet. He could hear her breathing nearby.
“Open,” she said.
They were standing on a small roof deck. It had an ornate wrought-iron railing on all four sides, and behind it the San Francisco skyline twinkled like thousands of fireflies in the distance.
“So, what do you think?” Karen asked breathlessly.
For a second he couldn’t speak. “It’s … amazing.”
“Captains’ wives used these to watch for their husbands returning from sea. They call it a widow’s walk. Isn’t that tragic?”
He had nodded.
“Anyway, I come up here when I just want to chill. When things get too stressful. Up here, everything is okay.” As she said this, she inched closer to him, until her shoulder was touching his upper arm.
He couldn’t imagine that anything about her life was stressful. She lived in a beautiful house. Her parents actually seemed to like each other. She’d already been accepted to Stanford.
“It’s sort of … my special place, you know. Mom is scared of heights and Dad gets claustrophobic in the stairwell.” She laughed and casually slid her fingers through his. “I wanted to show it to you, though.”
Then she looked up at him and smiled.
That was the beginning.
Now Karen was talking on her phone and at the same time gesturing for a waiter to bring her more water. She did that a lot. Talked to people without looking at them, talked to Luc while talking to other people.
When she finally saw him, she muttered a quick goodbye and put down her phone. Luc leaned down to kiss her, but she barely skimmed his lips before pulling away.
Oh yeah, she was still mad.
“You’re late,” she said as he slid into the seat across from her.
“Sorry, there was a crazy serious accident on Divisadero. I think someone got killed.”
Her eyes went wide. Instantly, he could tell he’d been forgiven. She reached out to twine her fingers with his. His pulse jumped under her touch. Her hands were so soft; she used lotion on them every day. “Smell,” she was always saying. “Like cucumber and pomegranate, right?”
“Holy shit. That’s crazy. I thought you were going to pull a no-show …”
He said nothing. His attention was still on her hands. They looked delicate next to his tan, callused fingers. Working part-time at the Marina was not glamorous by any stretch; after the first week, he’d had a blister the size of a quarter on his palm.
So different.
Karen lived in the biggest house Luc had ever seen. They had gardeners and a live-in housekeeper. Luc lived in a cramped apartment with his sister and dad, where the hot water only worked about half the time and he did his own laundry in the creepy basement of the building.
They had next to nothing in common, but for whatever reason, Karen had chosen him. He still had a hard time believing it. She was one of the hottest girls in school. And he was just … normal. Run-of-the-mill. Not stupid, but not too smart either. Not a dork, but not super popular. The only thing he even remotely excelled at was soccer, and recently he’d spent just as much time getting benched for bad behavior as he did on the field. That was what it felt like, at least.
Being with Karen made him forget, at least temporarily, about all the things that were bad and wrong and screwy and cramped in his life—about the dishes in the sink and the ants nesting in the cabinets, the piles of bills shoved into the TV console, the smell of weed that clung to Jasmine’s clothing when she came home from hanging out with her new boyfriend, and the bags of empty beer cans Luc had to cart out for recycling every other day because his dad was too hungover to do it.
But forgetting wasn’t enough—not anymore. Every day he expected to … feel more for her, yet the hollowness inside him never really went away.
“So,” Karen said, with false casualness, “I might have a surprise for you tomorrow night. If you actually show on time.” She quirked an eyebrow at him.
“Oh yeah?” Luc smiled at her. “Do I get a hint?”
“If I told you, it wouldn’t be a surprise.” She leaned forward, her T-shirt slipping down a little bit over her left shoulder so he could see the lacy black strap of her bra. The one with red hearts sewn onto it: her favorite. “Bring a toothbrush. It involves sleeping over.”
Luc felt a thrill race up his spine. A few fumbling seconds of third base were as far as things had gone between them in the three months they’d been going out. But maybe she was finally ready to go further. There it was: the power of forgetting. “It’s your birthday, Karen. Aren’t I supposed to be getting you a present?”
She lowered her eyes and smiled at him. That smile made his whole body electric; he loved it when she looked at him like that. “This is a present both of us can enjoy.”
Luc leaned forward. He felt a familiar surge of adrenaline. “I can’t wait,” he said honestly.
“Only if you’re on time,” she repeated. For a second, she looked almost pained.
They flirted through the rest of the meal—three pizza slices for him, one “skinny” slice for her—and by the time dessert arrived, a triple chocolate cake that he made her try on
e bite of despite her halfhearted protests, Luc felt totally relaxed. More than relaxed—happy.
Until he looked up and saw T.J. sauntering down the street. T.J. was a deadbeat DJ Jasmine insisted on calling a friend, even though he was at least twenty. Instantly, Luc’s nerves were on edge again. T.J. had that effect on him: every time T.J. came around, Luc felt like somebody had jump-started his body with the wrong cables. It was those stupid wannabe gangster clothes, the lazy smile, the hooded eyes that reminded Luc of a reptile. He knew T.J. dealt, knew that T.J. had probably given Jas the Ecstasy that sent her to the hospital. She denied it, said she’d bought it from some random guy at the party, but Luc didn’t believe her.
When T.J. caught Luc’s eye, he lifted a hand lazily in greeting. “Dude. What’s up?”
“Screw off, T.J.” It took a conscious effort not to jump across the table and crack him in the face. Karen was already giving him “the look,” and starting a fight in the street would only get him into more trouble—with her, and with his coach.
T.J. smirked. “What’s your problem?”
“You.” Luc lowered his voice. Other diners had started to stare. “I know what you’re about. So stay away from my sister.”
T.J. raised both hands. “She’s a big girl.”
“She’s fifteen,” Luc said.
“She can look after herself. Trust me. The girl’s grown.” T.J. smiled—his lizard smile.
Luc couldn’t help it. He shoved his chair back and was on his feet before he knew what he was doing.
“Luc!” Karen cried out.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” T.J. stepped backward, nearly stepping off the curb, out of Luc’s reach. He’d lost his confidence. Now he just looked sweaty, and oily, and sorry. “Look, I’m serious. I haven’t seen your sister. Not for a few weeks, at least. Look, I hear she got into some trouble last week.” T.J. licked his lips nervously. “I’m sorry, all right? But I had nothing to do with it.”
Karen was gripping Luc’s arm. He could sense her staring at him, pleading with him, but he kept his eyes on T.J.
“Just get out of here,” he practically growled.
T.J. took off down the street. If Luc had been in a different kind of mood, he would have thought it was funny watching T.J. book it with his dark skinny jeans strapped halfway down his butt.
“He’s right, you know,” Karen said quietly, after Luc had sat down. “Your sister has to learn to take care of herself.”
“You don’t understand,” he muttered.
“Then try to explain it,” Karen said.
For a second, he imagined what he would say if he blurted it all out: My dad’s been hitting the bottle again; my fifteen-year-old sister tripped out and had her stomach pumped. I’m worried she’s going to be like Mom. Luc looked away. “I can’t.”
Karen crossed her arms. “Right. As usual. Come on, Luc. You’re not her father.”
“She’s my sister. She’s all the family I have,” Luc said, too roughly. Then: “Sorry. I’m just in a bad mood.”
Karen sighed and rubbed her eyes. “No, I’m sorry. I know you have … shit going on. Lots of it.” Karen spun her water glass between her palms. She kept her eyes on the table. “It’s just sometimes I feel like I’m on the outside of all of it, you know? Like I’m locked out.”
His anger dissolved. She looked so uncertain. Karen never looked uncertain.
“I’m sorry.” He took her hand and laced his fingers with hers. “I’m here now and you’ve got all of my attention. And I’m all yours at the party tomorrow night, too. I’ll even get there early, promise.”
“I hope you do.” There was an emotion on her face that he couldn’t quite read, but she blinked and it was gone. In its place was her trademark sexy grin. “You really don’t want to miss it.”
After dinner, Karen wanted to go over to her friend Margot’s house, which had its own private screening room; Margot was having people over to drink and watch old horror movies. Margot’s talent was inventing drinking games for every kind of entertainment.
But Luc was tired. He’d been at the gym at five-thirty that morning for weight-lifting and sprints and had run drills with the team for another hour after school. And that was before scrimmage—which Luc took as seriously as any real match. It went nearly two hours, and he played hard the whole time.
Karen had said nothing when they split up, just given him a hug and a quick kiss, no tongue—but he could tell he’d disappointed her. Again.
On his walk down Market Street, he tried listing constellations but got stuck after Cygnus.
The wind was picking up. He’d been dialing Jasmine’s cell nonstop, but it went straight to voice mail every time. After what had happened last week, they’d made a deal: she had to check in every few hours and let him know where she was and what she was doing. And she couldn’t be out past nine.
But it was already ten, and it had been at least four hours since he’d heard from her. What if she OD’d again, only this time, no one was there to save her?
He caught a bus back to Richmond, pushing through the crowds of commuters and tourists. Standing at the back of the bus, he couldn’t help automatically scanning the faces, hoping for a glimpse of that small, stubborn chin and the long, familiar dark hair. But there was no sign of her. Luc held on to the overhead straps as the bus sped across the city.
It wasn’t long before the bus emptied out, until only an old man in a crusty-looking leather jacket remained. Luc sat down and turned, forehead pressed against the cool glass in front of him. The rocking of the bus, minute after minute, began to tug him toward sleep. Darkness broken by streaks of light—like multicolored shooting stars—raced in and out of view, hypnotizing and rhythmic.
They past a block under construction, half-finished, littered with KEEP OUT signs and wooden barricades. Luc saw rebar protruding from cement, the spokes of unhung metal signs, chunks of concrete.
Steam hissed out from a grate just behind a section on the street. Luc stared at it, watching the steam twist and curl, as though trying to condense into a solid shape.
Then it did—condense, take shape, change.
The bus seemed to slow to a crawl and everything went silent. He watched a woman step into the steam, her long black hair billowing around her head. The mist undulated around her body like a serpent. He blinked. In an instant, she had faded away into nothingness, as if she had disintegrated into the fog itself.
Sound and motion returned, bringing Luc straight up in his seat. His forehead banged against the glass when he pushed forward, trying to look back at the site, toward the vanishing woman.
Nothing.
What the hell?
He turned toward the old man in the leather jacket, seeking some kind of confirmation that he wasn’t crazy, but the man’s eyes were closed and his body rocked in time with the motion of the bus. Luc pressed the heels of his hands over his eyes. People didn’t just disappear into thin air like that.
He dropped his hands and returned his gaze to the window, half dreading another vision, but the city sped by, same as always: looming dark buildings, pinpoints of light. He must have imagined it, or fallen asleep for a few seconds.
At his stop, he jumped out and half jogged the six blocks to their apartment, sucking the cool night air deep into his lungs until it burned.
The breeze coming off the ocean carried a familiar fish smell, mixed with the unmistakable aroma of clove smoke. Above him, on the second-floor fire escape, a figure was sitting cross-legged. Against the muted light of the open window behind her, he could make out her familiar silhouette, her long dark hair, the flash of her ring as she brought the cigarette to her mouth.
His sister had been home all along. He didn’t know whether to feel relieved or angry. For the past week, every time he saw her, he saw the other her, too: pale, unconscious, her dark hair scattered across the hospital pillow, her nails blood-red against the white sheet, still wearing some awful glittery shirt cut practically to her belly butto
n. A little bit of puke at the corners of her mouth.
His sister—his baby sister.
The memory made his throat tighten. “Jas,” he called up.
She stood, then grabbed the ladder at the end of the small platform and gave it a tug. The ladder descended, squeaking and shuddering.
He climbed carefully, never quite trusting the way the metal creaked under his weight, then pulled himself onto the small grated platform. Jasmine had leaned back against the bricks, one arm slung over her knees. A clove cigarette dangled from her fingers. He knew it was more for show than for actual smoking, but it still killed him. The smoke made its way into her clothing, into the couches, into his bedroom, even—then he went to practice smelling like a hippie’s ashtray.
She wore black skinny jeans and a torn, off-the-shoulder gray sweater, definitely not her usual club getup.
“Where were you tonight? I tried to call a hundred times and you didn’t answer. Remember our agreement?” He sat down hard next to her.
Jasmine shrugged, trying to detangle some of her long, curly dark hair, then giving up. “I was home before nine, if that counts for anything.”
She fiddled with the ring with little circle cutouts he’d won her at the carnival years ago. Then she took another drag from the clove cigarette, blowing out the smoke without inhaling it. She always fidgeted.
Their mother used to smoke the same type of cigarettes, though Jasmine probably didn’t remember it. Every time he caught a whiff of the familiar aroma, it made something twist in his stomach—half longing, half nausea. They were so alike, Jas and their mom—both thin and stubborn and always moving.
Sometimes Jasmine would say something or gesture with her hands and it would bring back a memory from the dark place Luc had buried it.
He rubbed his eyes again, feeling the exhaustion sink down into his bones. The accident. The fight with Karen. Looking for Jas. Everything seemed to catch up with him at once, just like after an overtime game, and he wanted to close his eyes for a week.
“So, how come you didn’t answer your phone?”
She picked at an invisible thread from her sweater for several long moments before she answered. “The ringer must have been off.”
