by Jo Raven
God, I need a smoke.
Sydney putters about in the kitchen, giving me a moment to calm down. I mean, it wasn’t just her sudden poke that threw me off. I’d barely been keeping it together when West arrived, and my concentration is totally shot.
I rub both hands viciously over my face, then drag in a deep breath, and another.
There. All better, see? Nothing’s wrong. It was all just a nightmare, much like the ones West has sometimes.
Yeah…
I’m still fighting it when Sydney returns with sandwiches and tall glasses of cold soda on a tray. Or maybe it’s the band of steel that tightens around my chest when she puts it down between us and smiles at me, cutting off my breath completely.
I’m not used to being taken care of. Today she could break me so damn bad I won’t be able to find the pieces again. I should have told her to leave. To fucking go and leave me alone.
But I couldn’t then, and I can’t now. So I grab a sandwich and bite into it with a grunt of thanks.
Suddenly I’m hungry. My body remembers it hasn’t had any food since Syd’s bowl of soup yesterday—the bowl I threw against the wall, dammit—and my stomach gurgles happily at the arrival of solid food.
She takes her sandwich, and we eat in silence. Well, I practically inhale my food, and then watch her as she eats hers like a civilized person.
“You didn’t have to stay,” I tell her.
She shrugs. “It gets lonely at home.”
I needed to get Syd alone anyway, and not only to try some moves on her. I have to talk to her about her mom. About the suspicions that have been hounding me ever since she arrived to live in the apartment across from mine.
Well, make the most out of a bad situation, right? Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do? She’s here, even though she shouldn’t be.
I open my mouth to ask her, but she beats me to it.
“Mom isn’t here right now. That’s all.”
“Is she, ever?”
The color drains from her face. “Yes.”
“No.” I sigh. “She’s never there, is she?”
She shrugs, her expression closed off. “She’s busy.”
“Are you…?” Goddammit. I shake my head. I don’t wanna do this. Also, not the best day to have this convo with the shitty way I feel, but whatever. Maybe there is no good day for such a thing. “Are you holding up okay? What about rent and bills? Does she send you money?”
“I work. And I have some savings.”
“Savings.”
“I sold some things we had, okay? The TV and stuff. I had to. Until she comes back.”
Fuck.
“Syd.” What do you say to that? You’re in denial? You should have told me sooner? I should have talked to you long ago, voiced my suspicions? Then a horrible thought hits me. “And when your savings run out? What then?”
“Then… I’ll have to go. Or let social services take me.”
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
“She’s coming back, Nate.” Her voice trembles. “She is. I just have to wait for her.”
I nod. “Come here.” I open my arms, and she scoots closer, burrowing against my chest. “It will be all right.”
Says the guy who can’t even save himself.
And then she lifts her face and brushes her lips over mine, and I shudder. It’s all I ever wanted, but for some reason, I turn my face away and clutch her to me.
I’m so fucked if I can’t even kiss the girl of my dreams without breaking into a cold sweat.
Then again, I knew that already. I wonder if she’s realized it, too.
Long after Syd has left my room, I lie on top of my bed, staring up at the ceiling. Hell. My phone is still missing, and there’s no way I’m going to look for it, so I grab my battered tablet from the nightstand and open a browser.
Homeless and Runaway youth. I check site after site, story after story, but there’s nothing new there, no new insight. You need money to do it. If you don’t want to be taken by social services and put into foster care, the alternative is rough.
I knew that. Still I keep clicking through, keep reading.
So many kids running away from home. An increase over the past few years. More and more young people find themselves on the street, fending for themselves, afraid for their lives.
I wouldn’t want that for Syd. Fuck, no. Increased likelihood of high-risk behaviors. Greater risk of severe anxiety, depression, suicide. Survival sex. Disease and death.
I shove my fingers through my hair and tug. What’s the use of running away if you’re gonna fall into the same loop of fear and desperation?
How do you know if here is worse than there, now worse than later? How do you choose, how do you make your plans if you want to survive? How much money do you need to start off okay? How far do you need to run not to be found?
An article draws my eye as I click through more articles. An old piece of news about the death of Mikhail Vasiliev, owner of a casino chain, and his brother Andrei Vasiliev taking over as guardian of Mikhail’s young son, Evgeny.
Blah blah. Why am I even reading this? Annoyed, I move my finger to close the article when something stops me.
Andrei has stated yet again that Mikhail’s son, heir to the corporation, is in a boarding school in Brussels, despite rumors that the boy has gone missing.
I scowl. I wonder how staying in this boarding school in Brussels is going to help the boy get over his grief.
And what do I care, right? Poor rich boy. At least he has his uncle. At least he has a future. If he ran away, he could sell his golden Rolex and customized laptop and live off that money for months, if not years. Hell, I bet the cash in his wallet would be enough to cover a month’s rent for Sydney.
It makes me ragey.
Because I want to help Sydney, I want her to stay. But how? The only solution scares me. A temporary solution, no less.
No, I can’t do it. I have a plan, and I can’t put it off much longer. I feel guilty for not letting Syd and West know about it, but as with the rest, they’re better off not knowing.
I’m sorry, guys. That’s the way it is.
“Whoa,” Kash says from the door, and throws a hand in front of his face. “Sorry, man. I didn’t know. I’ll give you some privacy.”
Guiltily I jerk my hands away from where I’m adjusting the string of my sweats, trying to relieve the pressure on the bruises. “What are you talking about?”
He shrugs, hand still in the air, gaze averted. “I’ll just go until you’re done.”
“Done? Not doing anything, man.” I tug the long sleeves of my shirt down, over my wrists. “Honest.”
He lowers his hand and grins at me. “Cool. I thought you were beating off. Not that I think it will make you go blind, but it could make me wish I were blind. Just saying.”
This guy is so damn confusing. Annoying, and confusing.
Keeping my expression neutral, I watch him as he crosses over to me and stands by the bed. I don’t like that he’s looking down at me, so I fold my arms over my T-shirt and lift my chin.
“What?” I snap.
“Just checking on you. You looked like death warmed over this morning.”
I harrumph. “I’m fine.”
“Yeah, yeah.” He leans in to study the Assassin’s Creed posters over my bed. “Nice posters.”
“Do you play?”
“Used to.”
“Wanna play?”
Not sure what made me ask. I don’t like Kash. Syd likes him, so I don’t like him. Simple as that.
What I don’t expect is for him to refuse.
And he does. “Nah. I’d kick your ass, and you’d hate me even more.”
“I don’t… I don’t hate you, man. Okay?”
“Save it. I don’t care if you do.”
“Because you’re leaving?”
He rocks back on the balls of his feet. Today he’s tucked his fringe behind one silver-studded ear, and he looks even younger than me. “That�
��s not what I meant. But yeah, I’m leaving.”
“When?”
“Soon.”
“Don’t you think you should let the landlord know before you hit the road?”
“You mean your dad?”
I swallow hard. “Never mind.”
He studies me with those colorless eyes.
Uninvited, he sits down on the bed, right where Syd sat an hour ago, where West sat a couple of hours ago. “What?”
I swallow again. “Hey, look. I know that being so ugly is a curse. I’m sorry Sydney isn’t into you and prefers my much more handsome self. But, man, you don’t have to leave because of that. There will be other girls.”
He snickers. It’s a shocked sound, like I totally caught him by surprise.
I mean, what? I’m a funny guy.
“You…” He waves a hand at me, guffawing quietly. “Dickhead.”
That makes me smile. I poke at his arm. “These tattoos are sick.”
“Zane Madden made them.” He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and his eyes are warm for the first time since he moved in. “He’s friend of a friend, back where I used to live.”
“All right. Cool. They’re cool.” Never heard the name before, cuz I’m not into ink. Wouldn’t have spent the money on it even if I were. I’m saving it for more important things. “So will you stay?”
He frowns, lets his hands hang between his knees. “It’s not that easy.”
“Tell me about it.” I lift my hand, rub the back of my neck.
He looks at me sideways, gaze lingering. I follow it to where my wrist is showing, a nice black and blue.
Shit.
“Let me think about it,” he says quietly as heat washes over my face, mortification setting in. “Get some rest.”
Chapter Sixteen
Kash
Learn to pick your battles, my mom always told me.
Count your blessings.
Careful what you wish for.
Guard your back.
And what good did it do her, all this fucking wisdom? She didn’t guard her back. That was the only thing that mattered in the end, but she let her guard down.
Like I almost did just now.
I can’t. can’t stay. No way. That’d be dumb. Idiotic. Not to mention dangerous.
Still, the bruises on Nate’s wrist are stuck in my mind as I wash a mountain of dishes at the restaurant, as I clean the tables, and the counters, and mop the floors.
And then when I return to the apartment, careful not to run into Nate’s dad, and get ready for bed.
Nate’s bedroom door is closed. The apartment is quiet. It reminds me of when I first arrived and met him outside the kitchen. How he’d stared at me like a creeper.
I never asked him about that.
I also never got around to asking him about his dad and his buddies, and what that was all about. Good thing is that I managed to snag West on the stairs as I came back, and he told me Nate’s dad doesn’t beat him.
Apparently. Manhandles him a bit too roughly sometimes, maybe. West didn’t sound too convinced. He sounded worried, even as he tried to appear calm.
I spit out toothpaste and wash my hands, dry them and throw the towel on the rack, anger heating my neck. It doesn’t fucking matter. Life is hard. It doesn’t pull its punches. Don’t I know it first hand? No reason to feel pity or sympathy. Empathy. Not if I’m not sticking around to do something about it.
Entering my room, I lock the door and grab my journal on my way to bed. I feel out of sorts, and short of breath, but the thought of going back out to smoke sucks the last of my energy.
I fall on top of the messy covers and open the journal at my last entry. Seeing the words is a kick to my stomach, and the greasy fries George made me eat “cuz you’re too skinny and somebody has to feed you” churn alarmingly.
Raising my pen, I press the tip into the new page, but nothing comes. How can reliving the past help me? I put the pen down, and flip back, through memories, scraps and pieces of my past, and shiver.
It’s all there, on the pages, inside my head. Mom’s face as she looked down at me. Shelly’s laughter as I chased her around the garden. Dad pressing a piece of paper into my hand and telling me who to be wary of.
Who did the deed and who’s next.
Oh God. I curl on the bed, choking down bile and tears. Oh God, I can’t. I can’t breathe, I’m suffocating.
“Damn you!” I throw the journal to the floor and throw an arm over my eyes. Shaking, I curl up more tightly. This isn’t helping. I don’t know what can.
Nothing. Nothing can. It’s way too late.
“Come here,” Mom says, tugging on my hand. I look up at her. I’m a kid, and she’s radiating love, her long pale hair cascading over her shoulders, over her classic red dress. She’s the center of my world.
Shelly is babbling something, securely held in Dad’s arms, and I spare her a glance, annoyed at the noise she’s making. Stupid little sister.
She’s funny, though. Sometimes. And makes me smile.
I feel… that I should remember this. This moment, when I’m carefree, and happy. We’re in a restaurant. Chandeliers hang from the roof, and velvet curtains frame the large windows. Waiters run to and fro, carrying round trays piled high with plates and glasses.
Dad gestures at someone, and a tall, square-shouldered guy opens his arms and comes toward us, a huge grin on his face. He’s somehow similar to Dad, I think, as the guy slaps him on the back and leads us to the back of the restaurant, Mom’s hand wrapped securely around mine.
Secure. Safe. Happy. Excited.
Remember this. Hold on to it.
Unease seeps through me. I glance over my shoulder as Mom tugs me along, as my short legs pump to try and keep up with her, and see a dark cloud gathering inside the restaurant. A gust of wind sends the chandeliers swinging, the curtains moving.
“No!” I scream, and twist around, trying to see better, to warn my family. “No!”
But like every time, I fail, and I wake up covered in cold sweat, aware this isn’t just a dream and that it won’t fade away with the night.
As I race out of the apartment in the morning, late for my tutoring class because I couldn’t get myself together fast enough to get ready, I find a strange woman making coffee in the kitchen.
“Hi,” she says, and smiles. “I’m Jane.”
“Kash.” I hover uncertainly at the door, my backpack slung over one shoulder, my mind still cloudy. “Who are you?”
She laughs. “I’m Nate’s mom.”
I hadn’t expected this. “His mom?”
“I know, we’ve never met. I’m away a lot.”
That makes me think of Sydney and her ever-absent mom, and I rub at my forehead, fighting the headache building behind my eyes. “But you’re staying?”
She turns her attention to the coffee machine. “Not for long, I’m afraid.”
“Why not?”
Her backs stiffens. “It’s complicated. You’re the roommate, I take it?”
“That’s me.”
She nods. “I hope you’re comfortable in the guest room.”
The broom closet, you mean? But I swallow the words down and excuse myself to rush out of the apartment, thoughts chasing one another.
West had talked about Nate’s folks, but Nate never mentioned her. In all this time I’ve been here, I never met her. How can she leave him alone with that man who somehow hurts him? Does she even know? Does she care?
What’s with moms and dads and all the dark spaces in between us? Weston lives with his sister and grandfather, Nate with his father, Syd with a mom who’s never there, and as for me… I’ve lost everyone who mattered to me.
How do these absent mothers and fathers hold the strings of our lives and play us like puppets, taking over our dreams and thoughts and making us do things we wouldn’t otherwise do?
Throwing myself into work at least takes my mind off the dreams that plague me at night and the thin
gs I don’t wanna know or remember. The things I don’t understand.
Images batter me, sinking claws into my mind, shredding it. Make it stop. Make the memories stop.
It all sends me stumbling outside to the sidewalk, the dishes left unwashed in the sink, my hand trembling as I roll a cigarette and suck on it desperately, like an addict.
Like the addict I’m turning into.
George stares at me long and hard when I come back inside later, but says nothing. His small, shrewd eyes seem to see everything.
Which means it’s just a matter of time before he realizes how screwed up I am and sends me packing.
Unless I leave first.
Days pass. I tutor, I clean, I evade George’s questions about myself, evade West, Nate and Sydney altogether. I’m quite the evasion and escape artist.
On the way home from my tutoring work, I buy weed from a dealer who approaches me, and mark the spot for when I need more.
You’re not staying, remember? No reason to mark anything. Take what you can and run, like you always do, vanishing in the maze of the cities.
Like I always do, I light up as I continue, keeping to the shady side of the street, letting the smoke relax me.
Though it’s not working all that well today. Something’s off—well, more off than usual. I can’t put my finger on it. It could be anything from my dreams last night, to the plate I broke this evening, to a change in the weather or this nagging feeling that I should already be gone from here by now.
Jane, Nate’s mom, hasn’t crossed paths with me again, and I haven’t had a chance to ask Nate about it, what’s the deal with her and what’s the big secret.
Hard to do when I’m avoiding him. When I’m trying to convince myself I don’t give a damn.
Because I don’t, dammit. I don’t know these kids. They mean nothing to me. They aren’t my family. My family’s gone.
So what if the boys are in trouble? And what if I kissed Sydney? It means shit.
But when I enter the building and find her inside, on the steps leading to the first floor, arms folded over her knees, face hidden against them, I hiss.
