Even the Moon Has Scars

by Steph Campbell

  The man sitting on the bench next to me has a worn, black briefcase on his lap and is tapping his foot impatiently. It’s odd, because if he were on his way home from work, you’d think he’d be going out of the city, not into Boston at this hour. So I can’t help wonder what his story is? Did he forget an important piece of paperwork and now has to make the trip back into the city? Did he tell his wife that, just to go and meet someone? How is it that I’m cynical already?

  “Do you do this often?” Gabe asks.

  “Do what?” I ask, blinking myself out of the people-watching daze I’m in. “Lock myself out?”

  Gabe shakes his head and smiles. That smile… That smile is one of the biggest reasons that I’m on this train right now. “Run off to the city with a stranger.”

  “Are we still strangers?” I ask. “I mean, we have known each other…” I glance down at my wrist but realize I’m not wearing my watch. Or much else for that matter.

  “You’re right, I think we could definitely qualify as acquaintances by this point,” Gabe says. “Let’s make it official. What’s your last name?”

  “Pettitt,” I say. “And yours?”

  “Martinez. See, last names out of the way. We’re well on our way to being actual friends who ran off together.”

  I laugh lightly. “I don’t know if this counts as running off, really. We did stop by my house to leave a note on the door for my sister, so—”

  “What’s up with her, by the way? Is she really so bad you didn’t want to call her to get back into your house?”

  “She’s not terrible—it’s complicated.”

  “I gotcha,” Gabe says. Though I seriously doubt he understands at all. “Sometimes when I screw up, even when it’s something minor, I feel like I’m being judged for it. Like someone is always watching me and shaking their head.” He pauses and then says with a smirk, “And sometimes people literally are.”

  “What do you mean?” I ask.

  Alright, maybe I’m paranoid because I’m new to this ‘venturing out’ thing, but I can’t fight the cold chill that runs down the back of my neck when he says it.

  Gabe jerks his head in the direction of a poster on the interior wall of the train. It’s a beautiful woman’s headshot. Her dark hair is in soft waves around her face and she’s flashing a big, toothy grin while giving a thumbs up.

  I read the slogan out loud: “Maribel Martinez says: ‘Make the right choices, Boston or suffer the consequences.’”

  “Endearing, huh? That’s my mother,” he says with an expression that’s more of a grimace than the semi-pained smile I think he’s going for. “Always watching.”

  “Ouch.”

  “So I get why you wouldn’t want to rat yourself out to your sister. It sucks when people are just waiting for you to screw up. And anyway, I’m happy to have the company.”

  He inches in a little closer. I definitely don’t mind.

  “Whoa,” Gabe says. He wraps a sturdy arm around my waist and steadies me as the train comes to a stop and I stumble forward.

  “This is us.” He tips his chin in the direction of the open door.

  Gabe easily pushes his way through the crowds of people in the station, he must do this all the time. He mentioned he lives in the city, so of course he does. He leads me up a flight of stairs and then into the open air, all without loosening his grip on my waist. I stiffen under his soft touch. Not because I’m uncomfortable, but because I’m afraid if I shift in any way, he might let go.

  The rush of cold air stings my kneecaps and whips my ponytail against my face. Goosebumps cover every inch of me that’s exposed, making my skin feel tight. But that’s forgivable because Gabe hasn’t let go. In fact, he’s pulled me in closer, trying to shield me from what wind he can.

  “Here,” he says. He shrugs off the long, navy coat. “Put this on.”

  “I already have a coat,” I say, tugging at the ribbed edges of the cardigan.

  “That’s not a coat, Lena.” My name comes out with a rasp that makes me want to ask him to repeat himself. Over and over.

  “We’re only making one stop. I’ll be okay,” I argue.

  I realize this is a ridiculous argument to have, but I am so darn tired of having people dote on me and worry about every darn thing I do. I was dumb enough to go outside without the right clothes. I was dumb enough to lock myself out. I can suck it up and be a little cold for a few minutes.

  Normal people have to face the consequences of their actions. I’m normal, right? At least for today.

  “This isn’t an argument we’re going to have, Lena.”

  He lets his smoky eyes run down my legs, which feel borderline naked, covered with only these very few inches of cotton. I can’t fight the heat on my cheeks. I don’t know if I’ve ever been checked out before. Or maybe that’s not what he was doing at all. Maybe he was just re-noticing how ridiculous I am for stepping foot outside of my house in these shorts.

  “I’m really—”

  But he doesn’t allow me to protest any more. Gabe stops walking altogether and slips one of my arms through the armhole of the coat for me.

  “I can do it,” I say. I’m not an infant and I refuse to let this guy see me as one—to see me like everyone else in my life does.

  The coat is long and so warm. It almost covers my bare legs completely. I am so glad my stubbornness didn’t win out because I may want to live in this coat.

  As we step out of the crowd and the city opens up, and I take it all in.

  The densely packed, old brick buildings, the ornate signs that mark everything from churches to sports bars, the way the sunlight hits the icicles on the tall buildings and acts like a prism. The light is different here than it is in Gloucester. Maybe it’s not as crisp and perfectly blue, but it’s somehow just as vibrant. The streets look confusing to me, and are filled with the honking horns of hyper-aggressive drivers and crowds of jaywalkers, but Gabe navigates with no problem.

  This is it.

  This is my one shot. This is my one day of not being the pain in the ass sister or the miraculous daughter.

  This my one moment to just be Lena.

  Even if it’s just to go to an auto parts store. Not quite the breaking free dream I’d kept locked away in my mind, but it works.

  “I’m such a prick. I should have given that to you back at the house,” he says. “Don’t worry though, the place isn’t much further.”

  All of my feelings should be frozen along with the rest of me, but disappointment still surfaces. We just got here and he’s already talking about turning back home.

  “No rush,” I say.

  Gabe turns to me and gives me a quick, appreciate smile and a nod. That smile could easily have raised my core body temperature at least a few degrees.

  “So this car part, why so urgent?” I ask.

  His posture stiffens a little.

  “The car in the garage. It was my grandfather’s. I’m just trying to get it fixed up while I’m staying with my grandma.”

  “You’re just visiting though, right? How long are you going to be around?”

  Gabe sucks in a quick breath. “Not sure. Soon as things smooth out here at home.”

  He told me on the train ride in that he lives in the city with his mother but that he was staying with his grandmother for a while. He wouldn’t elaborate.

  “But, aren’t you in school?”

  He raises an eyebrow. “Aren’t you in school?”

  “I’m homeschooled.”

  “Ah,” is all he replies.

  “Not like those freaks who don’t leave the house and have no friends or social life, though,” I say. Actually, one-hundred-percent, exactly like those kids.

  “Well, I’m doing online courses right now, too,” Gabe says. Like we’re the same. Like he has any clue what my existence is like.

  “That’s cool,” is all I say.

  “Okay, so, school at home. What do you do for fun then?”

  I follow Gabe aro
und a corner, trying to keep up with his quick pace even though his legs are much longer than mine. I don’t have any idea where we’re going, but I can’t stop staring at the people we pass. Wondering where they’re going in their suits and dresses and khakis—whether they appreciate that they’re able to walk down the street and do whatever they want without having to answer to anyone.

  “I paint.”

  “I said for fun.”

  “Hey,” I playfully swat at his arm. “Painting is fun. To me. It’s like, cars are your hobby, right?”

  He shrugs. “I guess so, but the options are a little limited out in Gloucester…”

  “True. So painting is my hobby. And to be fair, I’ve never had to hop a train and then haul butt across town to pick up a paint brush, so—”

  “It’s right here,” Gabe says. He pulls the door open to a non-descript, dimly lit shop that I would have walked right past if he hadn’t stopped me.

  Inside there is nothing more than two metal folding chairs on a dirty linoleum floor, a beat up counter, and a flickering overhead light. The walls are painted a deep gray and the long blue counter’s paint is chipping.

  “This is it?” I ask, raising a worried brow.

  “What’d you expect?” Gabe leans into the counter.

  “I don’t know,” I say, pulling the coat tighter around me. For the first time since we left Gloucester, I feel like this may be exactly one of the poor decisions my parents have always said I’d make if left on my own. “Somewhere I may not get hepatitis.”

  “I’m here to pick up a car part, Lena, not a prom dress,” Gabe says.

  The flimsy door behind the counter opens and a young guy with a scruffy face and a grease covered t-shirt comes in.

  “Can I help you?” he asks.

  “I’m here to pick a special order from Paul,” Gabe says.

  Counter-dude looks me up and down. Gabe notices. I know because Gabe takes a step forward and blocks half of my body with his tall frame.

  “Aluminum valve cover for a Corvair,” Gabe says, staring down counter-guy. “He called me, said I could grab it before closing.”

  “A Corvair? Like the car from Mr. Holland’s Opus?” Counter-guy asks.

  “Yep,” Gabe gives a quick nod.

  “That’s so…cute,” Counter-dude says with a condescending tone and laugh to match.

  “So, do I pay you or Paul?”

  Counter-guy leans around Gabe and asks, “What’s with the shorts?”

  “I—I was—” I stutter.

  Gabe reaches back and pushes me further behind him. “You don’t owe him an explanation,” he says through clenched teeth. “How about you just go get the part, man?”

  “I don’t know where it’s at, and Paul’s not around.” The guy says. I finally catch a glimpse of his nametag: Dreak. I wonder if that’s his given name, or a prison nickname, or some term of endearment for being such a prince? Whatever the case, he’s pushing Gabe, and I don’t know him well enough to know if that’s an incredibly bad idea or not.

  Gabe sighs. “When’s he gonna be back?”

  “Don’t know.” Dreak says.

  “Helpful,” Gabe mutters.

  “You’re free to hang out, sit there or whatever,” Dreak motions to the beat up chairs, then back to me. “Might be cold on your legs. You’re welcome to come in the back with me.”

  “Yeah, that’s not going to happen,” Gabe says. His stone cold voice matches the stare he gives Dreak. Gabe tears a piece of paper from the pad on the desk and scribbles a string of numbers on it before shoving it back toward the counter prince. “Here’s my number again. I need this part. Make sure someone gives me a call when Paul’s back.”

  “Will do,” Dreak says. “See ya, shorty.”

  Gabe takes me by the arm and leads me out the door.

  “What are we going to do?” I ask.

  His voice is still tight and controlled. “Coffee. But first, my place.”

  “Your house? Wait, back to Gloucester?”

  Gabe shakes his head. “No, my Mom’s place here. We’ve got to find you some clothes.”

  “You have a doorman,” Lena says, a cheesy grin stretched across her face.

  The mood is lighter now that it’s just her and me compared to how it was back at the parts shop, where I wanted to fucking throttle the guy behind the counter.

  I had to walk away though, because assholes like Dreak are just the kind of trouble I’m supposed to be avoiding.

  “I do. Or, my mom does.”

  I press the button for my floor and lean against the glass wall as the elevator doors close.

  I haven’t been home in weeks, and even though the gaudy marble and crystal chandeliers have never been my style, it feels good to be surrounded by familiar things. Just having Bruce, who’s been our doorman since I was a kid, say hello and tip his hat like he always has made me a little less pissed off about the shithead at the parts store and the way he was looking at Lena.

  Oh, and the part not being available yet of course.

  “But this is your home, too. It’s just cool. I’ve never been in a building with a doorman.”

  Her smile melts what little bit of anger still clung on. And I can’t help but chuckle.

  There hasn’t been a lot more than small talk since we left Gloucester, but I get the feeling this girl is more than just the cute exterior. There’s something clawing at her beneath the surface. Something that wants out. She just hasn’t shown the true Lena tonight.

  I know because I’m pretty damn good at hiding, too. I wonder when the last time she did let her out was.

  “You seem—” I try to choose my words carefully, not wanting to offend her since I do want to get to know her better. “You seem like you haven’t—been out a lot.”

  It’s my nice way of saying I think she’s full of shit when she said she wasn’t a sheltered, stereotypical homeschooled kid.

  “My parents…they worry a lot about me,” she says.

  I probably would too if I had a daughter as cute as her. But I don’t think that’s the whole story.

  “So they probably wouldn’t like that you’re here with me right now, huh?”

  She shakes her head and smiles politely. “No, probably not.”

  The elevator doors open and I block one with my arm and motion for her to go ahead. “This is us.”

  Lena walks timidly out the elevator, letting her hand run along the thick, fabric wallpaper. Everything she’s touched tonight, she’s touched with such care. Like everything impresses her, everything is new.

  It makes me want to show her more. It makes me wonder how much she’ll let me show her.

  I fumble for my keys in my pocket and pause outside the apartment door.

  “This one?” Lena asks. She looks sort of ridiculous in my long coat, with her boots and shorts, but it’s an endearing ridiculousness. “Is your mom going to be home?”

  “Nah,” I say.

  “What if she is? Will she mind me coming by like this? Are you even supposed to be here? Never mind, that was rude,” Lena rambles, nervously rubbing her hands down her sides.

  “She won’t be.”

  “But are you sure, because, look at me—”

  “Stop. She won’t be home. I’m positive.”

  And I am. If my mom were home, Bruce is a good enough man that he would have warned me. Besides, it’s too early in the evening. She’s still at her office or maybe out schmoozing some judge or politician that she can ask for a favor later on down the line. I shouldn’t complain too much about that, since it’s one of those favors that kept my arrest off the books and my ass out of a cell since the minute she swooped down to spring me.

  I’m not sure Mom ever sleeps, and I’m certain she survives on a diet that consists solely of trail mix, espresso, and some expensive, bottled juice she has delivered to the apartment by the case each week.

  “Okay,” Lena says, though her eyes say anything other than ‘okay’.

  “
Look, even if she were,” I turn the key in the lock and press the door open. “Trust me, she wouldn’t care who I brought home.”

  That’s not entirely true. If I had Jemma with me right now, Mom would probably have us both thrown in jail.

  “Used to lots of strange girls following you home?”

  Lena’s features and tone relax now that the door is open and she can see for certain that we’re alone. I like the joking side of her. The quick wit that keeps peeking out from behind the shy smiles and wide eyes.

  “Hardly.”

  I take a step into the pristine apartment I called home until just over a month ago and Lena follows. It smells like the pine-scented disinfectant that the cleaning crew wipes down every counter, cabinet, and surface with twice a week, and, as usual, it doesn’t look lived in. The long, white couch has no dents in it from each of us having a usual spot. The pillows are perfect squares, basically brand new. The glass tables have no fingerprints, no rings from a glass that was sitting there too long, no books or magazines left half-read on the cushions.

  I close the door behind us and say, “My mom is just more interested in prosecuting than parenting.”

  “Right, the whole ‘always watching’ thing.” Lena blinks her dark lashes over her hazel eyes, and I catch myself staring a little too long.

  I toss my keys onto the antique table that my mother brought home from her solo trip to Prague last year. The one she claimed was strictly a business trip. Though, to be fair, I’m pretty sure she brought along her young paralegal Travis with her.

  “Yep. And it’s an election year, so she’s around even less, but somehow, watching even more.”

  “Sounds like she’s busy. You must be proud of her.”

  “It’s a job.” I shrug.

  In truth, her career has afforded us a nice, comfortable place to live. It put me in multiple private schools, bought me expensive clothes, gadgets, and tickets to any concerts I wanted to see. But I’d actually be proud if she loved my dad as much as she loved a win in the courtroom. Though I guess that wouldn’t have made her any happier. Ever since I was a kid, that’s pretty much been the central focus of our household—making sure Mom was happy.