Beautiful Addictions

by Season Vining

  Josie shoved a piece of bacon into her mouth. She chewed thoroughly before swallowing and making eye contact with Tristan. He sat frozen, suspended over his food.

  “I had no idea. None of us did.”

  “That’s kind of how witness protection works.”

  Josie continued to eat while Tristan sat watching. He felt sick to his stomach. It seemed as though a black cloud had settled over their table.

  “Josie! Where you been all my life, girl?”

  The pair looked up to find a young black boy leaning on their table. His denim jacket covered a dirty T-shirt, and braids stuck out from his hat. He smiled at Josie and gave her a wink.

  “Gregory, what’s up, little man?”

  “Ah, you know. This and that. How you doin’? Ain’t seen you around in a while. We gettin’ your deliveries all the time, though.”

  “I’m good.”

  Josie ducked her head and sucked on her straw. She felt exposed having this conversation with Tristan present.

  “Yeah, looks like you real busy.”

  Gregory turned to Tristan and gave him a once-over, tilting his head and sliding his lips sideways in disapproval.

  “Where’s your sister?” Josie asked.

  “Stop trying to change the subject, hottie. You know I’m tryin’ to holla at you.”

  Josie shook her head and put down her milk shake.

  “When I’m into fourteen-year-olds, you’ll be the first to know.”

  “I may be fourteen, but I got game. Better than this…” Gregory said, motioning to Tristan.

  “Tristan, this is Gregory. Gregory, Tristan,” Josie offered, waving back and forth between the two. Tristan wiped his hands on a napkin and held one out toward the boy.

  “Nice to meet you, Greg.”

  “Oh, shit,” Josie whispered.

  “Greg? Did you say Greg? Did this sexy woman right here say my name was Greg? No. She said Gregory. Three syllables. Big effort for a lazy fool like you, but work it out, white boy.”

  Josie giggled, pressing the palm of her hand over her lips.

  “Gre-gore-ree,” Gregory pronounced, unhinged by Tristan’s gall. “Where did you find this clown?” he asked Josie.

  “My apologies, Gregory,” Tristan spoke up, saving Josie from answering. “I’m sorry.”

  “Yes, you are.”

  “Nice jacket. Gavin give you that?” Josie asked.

  “Yeah, you know. I guess she grew out of it or whatever. It’s a little old and a lot country, but I ain’t gonna complain.”

  “It’s actually vintage Levi’s. It’s got the single-stitch at the bottom of the button placard and only has breast pockets, so it’s pre-1971.”

  “Are you speakin’ English? It’s just a jacket, man,” Gregory moaned. “Seriously, Jo? You could do better. I mean, why not me?”

  “Because curfew law says you’re not allowed outside of the home between ten P.M. and six A.M. on weekdays,” Tristan stated, pleased with himself.

  “Guess that don’t matter when you don’t have a home,” Gregory answered.

  With that, he rolled his eyes, gave Josie a quick wave, and was gone.

  “Wow,” Tristan said smiling. “He was … colorful.”

  “Is that a racist joke?”

  “What? No! Josie, I would never,” he said, dropping his fork to the table.

  “Yeah, I know. It was funny watching you freak out, though.”

  Josie winked and ate the last piece of bacon.

  “He’s homeless?”

  “Gregory uses the phrase ‘residentially challenged.’”

  Tristan nodded.

  “Are all your friends residentially challenged?”

  “He’s not a friend, just a kid I know.”

  Tristan noticed that her demeanor changed instantly and he felt the warning in her posture. Subject closed.

  “So, you saw me that night in the alley.”

  Josie unconsciously smoothed down the hooded sweatshirt and nodded.

  “Is that mine?” he asked, recognizing the red stitching on the sleeve.

  “Yeah. You left it in the alley.”

  Tristan weighed his options and contemplated which questions he could get away with asking. After coming up clueless, he decided to be satisfied with what he’d already learned. That alone would take time to process.

  He wasn’t someone who believed in fate or destiny. There was always a scientific, mathematical, or coincidental explanation for anything. The fact that little McKenzi Delaune sat before him munching on bacon was blowing his mind.

  Tristan lay in bed after their midnight meeting, trying to piece together the broken girl he’d just learned existed. There used to be this ache, this burning pain in his chest. It held all the love and loss for a girl named McKenzi. Before the punishment of ink etched into his skin, there had been McKenzi. Back when he knew who he was and what he wanted, when life was full of possibilities and everyone expected the best, there had been McKenzi.

  She had lost everyone and everything. Tristan knew that she would guard herself from more pain. The girl was beautiful, full of sex appeal and mystery. While he knew he couldn’t pick up where they left off, he longed to seize her. He turned off the light and stared up at a gray shadowed ceiling, wondering how on earth he’d found her.

  Twenty-two blocks away, Josie paused to tag a stop sign in purple marker. The squeak and slide of the felt tip against metal comforted her. So did having representations of herself all over the city. Even though she felt like nothing, these markings would prove that she was here. Just to see what it would look like, she wrote Tristan’s name too. Stepping back and admiring the way their stacked names connected, she smiled and headed toward home. That night she fell asleep wrapped in the hoodie that belonged to a boy who once loved her.

  * * *

  In the sixty-nine hundred block of Levant Street, Mort snuck into the San Diego Child Welfare Services office. He quickly hacked into the computer system, not slowed down by the archaic password protection screen. Gathering all the necessary information to do this remotely next time, he began his hunt.

  He had grown tired of this chase. If he had been any other idiot, he would have crossed his fingers and said a prayer that this would give him a clue, some sort of direction. That was for superstitious idiots who had more faith in a higher power than in themselves.

  Mort had been on this job for so long that when he lay in bed at night it was the only thing on his mind. It ruled his brain every waking minute and even those in his sleep. What he wouldn’t give to be free of this troublesome girl.

  He had not yet alerted Moloney to his whereabouts. He didn’t want to get the man’s hopes up before he’d discovered anything concrete. Finding out the girl was still alive had been a matter of luck. Finding out where she had been sent had been a matter of painful and bloody coercion.

  After maneuvering through the complicated filing system, he was finally able to type in his search. Clicking in the waiting box, the cursor blinked at him. Mort’s fingers moved swiftly over the keyboard, pecking out the name that had come at such a high price. He was so close he could taste it.

  He hit Enter and smiled as the screen displayed JOSIE BANKS: ONE RESULT FOUND

  5. Satellite

  Any object that orbits another celestial body.

  Monica Templeton, all five feet nothing of her, approached the dilapidated redbrick building without hesitation. Though she didn’t live in the neighborhood, she was here often. Being a social worker took her to every nook and cranny of this city. There were no boundaries set by race, religion, or social status. Her job included everyone. It’s what had brought her into the field in the first place. Monica truly believed that everyone deserved a fair chance at a happy and healthy life.

  Home visits were usually unpleasant, but they were a necessary part of the job. It was imperative to visit the children in their homes, making sure they were taken care of and provided for. In her many years on the job, and through
trials that tested her moral strength, she had learned to take nothing for granted. Monica became an expert at seeing things that were not meant to be seen, at assessing visual clues and behaviors. In short, she’d learned a great deal from her mistakes.

  She smiled at three girls jumping rope on the sidewalk, their plastic snap barrettes dancing at the end of their braids. Together their sweet voices serenaded the street corner.

  “Cinderella dressed in yella went upstairs to kiss her fella. Made a mistake and kissed a snake. How many doctors did it take? 1, 2, 3, 4, 5—awwww!”

  The girls laughed as they tripped on the rope. In seconds, they were set up to try again. Two women watched from a balcony on the second floor, smoking their cigarettes and talking animatedly with their hands. Though engrossed in their conversation, one of them always had an eye on the girls. On the stoop sat four large men, looking comfortable and uninterested in Monica’s arrival.

  “Excuse me,” she said, looking each one of them in the eye. No one moved. “I said excuse me,” she repeated a bit louder, popping her gum to get their attention.

  One man stood, his ribbed shirt clinging to his muscles. He wore three gold chains and pristine sneakers. Monica knew his type.

  “Yeah, we heard you,” he answered, stepping closer, towering over the tiny woman. “What you want here?”

  “That is my business. I suggest that you and your friends move aside. While I appreciate the whole thug look you’ve got going on here,” Monica said, waving her hand across his body like a game show host, “I don’t have time for it. Take your disrespectful attitude, mooching off of some hardworking single mom, deadbeat ass out of my way before I perforate your skull with the heel of my imitation Jimmy Choos.”

  A chorus of “oohs” rang out from his friends as he glared at her. Monica refused to back down, her neck aching from returning his gaze.

  “I got shit to do anyway,” he said.

  A few seconds later, he stepped away and let her pass. So did the others.

  A light tapping at Josie’s door pulled her inside from her place on the fire escape. She knew, just from the patience of the knock, that it wasn’t Alex. She approached the door and spoke through the solid wood.

  “Who is it?”

  “Your friend Monica,” her high-spirited voice sang.

  Josie rolled her eyes, unlocked the door, and motioned for her to come inside. She suddenly wished for a strong drink and a joint, some sort of chemical buffer between them. Monica immediately took a seat at the small kitchen table. She blew a bubble of her pink gum and sucked it back in. Josie didn’t like how Monica looked in her apartment, a perfect little package among motley furniture and chipping paint. If it weren’t for manners, she knew Monica might be tempted to clean her chair with an antibacterial wipe before sitting. Josie was almost positive the woman had them in her purse.

  “I don’t have any friends,” Josie reminded her, taking a seat in the opposite chair and crossing her arms defensively.

  Josie considered herself a solitary soul, always avoiding relationships and the human race in general. The interaction, attention, and conversation it took to maintain relationships required too much exertion. Most often, people’s true intentions were buried beneath fake smiles and how-are-you handshakes. Josie was unhappy that her worth was determined by the number of friends she had—or, in this case, didn’t have. Friendship was a commodity to be bought and sold, and she was not interested.

  “You may not be my friend, but I’m yours. You have Alex too.”

  Josie hated the way Monica always looked at her with pity and self-loathing guilt. The woman’s face, though usually smiling, always held this contrite intensity. Josie wondered if she always had that look or if it appeared only when they were within six feet of each other. They sat in a customary standoff, each trying to guess the intention of the other. Monica knew this visit wouldn’t end well; she could feel the hostility rolling off of Josie in battering waves. She could practically see the confrontation written across the girl’s face.

  Josie stared out the window, hoping that when she turned back, Monica would be gone. No such luck. She could see all the pity that fueled her own anger. Monica’s face was masked in casual interest, but Josie saw right through it.

  “Did you need something?” Josie finally asked.

  “I was in the neighborhood.”

  “I’m fine,” Josie answered.

  “Well, I had a cancellation and thought I’d check in on you. These people have no consideration. I drove all the way over here for our prearranged appointment time only to find out they are in Anaheim for the day. I mean, really.”

  “Sorry you had to slum it for nothing. You better run along before someone steals your car.”

  While Josie didn’t have ill feelings toward Monica, she wasn’t exactly a fan. As a state-appointed social worker, Monica had been free and clear of her obligation to Josie for four years now. Josie had always assumed that Monica’s feelings of failure would eventually wane and the woman would disappear from her life like everyone else. Yet here she was, still keeping watch over Josie.

  “You always say you are fine. How are you really? Are you working? Going to school?”

  “No and no.”

  Monica leaned back in the rickety chair and crossed her legs. The toe of her shoe tapped anxiously against the table leg while she pondered how far to push today.

  “Josie, you really should consider getting a job or at least decide what to do with the rest of your life. It’s great that you sit around drawing pictures and getting high all day. Hell, if it were up to me, I’d spend my time reading romance novels in front of the Home Shopping Network while munching on Oreos. But I live in the real world. It’s just not possible.”

  Josie stood and grabbed a glass from her kitchen counter. She filled it with tap water and swallowed the whole lot down at once. She felt smothered by Monica, held down and accountable. But she wasn’t quite sure what she should be accountable for. The water didn’t cool her insides like she’d hoped, so she turned and faced Monica.

  “Why isn’t it possible? If that’s what you want to do, I say do it! Your ass would be the size of a house, but you’d be happy. Go buy some stretch pants and Oreos. Dare to dream.”

  Josie again turned her back on Monica. She focused on the pristine empty space of tile behind her sink. She pictured ink and paint in lines of fury covering the surface and seeping into the old grout.

  “I know you have plenty of money from your inheritance, but one cannot live on sex and drugs alone. It’s going to kill you one day,” Monica said, ignoring Josie’s rant.

  “I’m counting on it.”

  “You don’t mean that,” Monica insisted. Josie sighed at Monica calling her out. “And I don’t understand why you live in this place when you can afford more. Get out and do something. Be productive. You should start contributing to society.”

  Josie spun around and threw her arms in the air.

  “Like they contributed to me?”

  Her words seemed dipped in a guilty poison that would certainly hit their mark. Monica flinched at the verbal jab while trying to hide the sympathy that Josie detested. She could still remember their introduction. Monica was all smiles and hugs while shy Josie wrapped her arms around her middle protectively. Her eyes had stayed fixed on the speckled linoleum floor when they spoke. She was soft-spoken and placid back then.

  “Hi, Josie. I’m Monica. I’ve been assigned your case. I’m so glad to be working with you,” Monica had said to the mute girl. Josie looked around the office and back to the floor. “Let’s see, your file says you lost your mother a year ago and recently your father passed away too?”

  Josie looked up at her and shrugged. “If that’s what it says,” she’d answered.

  “Wow. I’m so sorry, honey. I know we could never replace them, but I promise I’ll try my hardest to get you into a nice foster home soon. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “What can you tel
l me about yourself?”

  “My name is Josie Banks,” she said, as if she’d been practicing.

  “And do you have any hobbies? What kind of music do you listen to? How about boys? Any celebrity crushes? I just love Matthew Fox from the show Lost.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Well, Josie Banks.” Monica flipped through some papers and smiled up at Josie. “You’ll be placed in an all-girls home until we find somewhere more permanent for you. There you’ll have access to grief counselors and lots of people who can help if you need anything. Maybe they can get you to open up and talk about your past a bit. It won’t hurt. I promise.”

  The sweet, confused girl that Monica met eight years ago had grown into this cynical woman. While it saddened her, it wasn’t a surprise in the least. With the horrific things Josie had endured, Monica couldn’t fault her for any of it. Still, in the depths of her heart, hope hadn’t died for Monica Templeton. She still held firm to the belief that good things could happen for Josie.

  Monica dug through her bag and placed a stack of papers on the table.

  “Here,” she said. “I brought you some art school applications. It’s worth looking into, Josie. You’re so talented. You deserve to see where it could take you. Of course, you’d have to sober up first.”

  Josie took the applications but did not look at them.

  “I don’t think I’m cut out for formal education. I’ve been told I have a problem with authority.”

  “Well, that’s true. If you keep tagging the entire city with graffiti, that could land you in jail. Now that is real authority and tacky orange jumpsuits.” Monica shuddered at the thought. “Did you have anything to do with that piece up on Fifth Avenue?”

  Josie smiled.

  “It’s beautiful, Josie. But that’s illegal. If they can nail you for enough damage, it becomes a felony.”

  “I know.”

  “Then why don’t you take that energy and dedicate it to something legit?”

  “What I do is fucking legit,” Josie growled, stomping across the small space and curling up into a ball on the end of her sofa.

  The silence that followed was uncomfortable. Her loud declaration followed by nothing left an enormous weight of silence pressing down on them. It was a burden Josie would gladly endure. Monica, however, could not.