by W. H. Vega
Quietly as ever, I tiptoe down the stairs to the first floor. Blue light illuminates the living room, and I spot Paul and Nancy slumped against each other on the threadbare sofa. This is their daily ritual. In a couple of hours, they’ll wake up hungover as hell and stumble back upstairs for some sleep.
They both work pretty irregular hours, my foster parents. Nancy cleans other people’s houses, though god knows she never seems to make time for her own. Paul does something with cars, though he’s pretty vague about it. He either sells them or fixes them...or maybe he washes them, beats me. I pad past them into the kitchen and turn on the overhead light.
These are the most peaceful hours of the day, for me. I switch on the coffee machine and brew myself a cup of dark espresso roast. I’ve taken to hoarding my own beans so I don’t have to drink whatever instant bullshit Paul and Nancy are so fond of. As the coffee brews, I sit down at the oilcloth-covered table and open to a fresh page of my journal.
I keep the book on me at all times, and never write about my literal life. When I write, it’s about the places I travel in my own imagination, the things I’m dying to see and experience. I help myself to a glorious cup of coffee and spend the morning putting my thoughts down onto paper. I feel the edges of something a lot like happiness in this grimy pit of a home. I guess miracles do happen, once in a while.
The glaring digital clock above the stove creeps toward six in the morning, and I close my journal with a sigh. Time to start whipping up some provisions for the troops. Trace, Garrick, and Conway should be rolling out of bed sometime soon for school.
I grab a dilapidated frying pan and start to melt some butter—it seems like a scrambled eggs kind of morning to me. I crack open a couple of shells and tend to my friend’s breakfast, sending the toaster into overdrive along the way. The smells of a good breakfast rise into the air, and I know they’ll be enough to rouse my friends soon.
Like clockwork, I hear Paul and Nancy begin to shuffle from the living room, up to the second story. Heavy footsteps pass the kitchen, but as I listen closely, I only hear one set of feet start up the stairs. I focus on my cooking, tamping down the sudden unease in the pit of my stomach. I can feel something on my skin, something crawling and dirty. Cautiously, I peer back over my shoulder. The world seems to curdle around me.
Paul is standing in the threshold of the kitchen, staring straight at me. His eyes are hideously bloodshot, and even from here I can smell that he’s sweating straight vodka. His rumpled clothes strain against his bulky, uneven mass. He’s a mess of a man, but he’s never scared me before. Not until now.
“Well shit,” he rasps, crossing his veined arms across his chest, “Look at you.”
“Good morning, Paul,” I say crisply, turning my eyes back to the stovetop. “Why don’t you go up and get some sleep before work?”
“Don’t tell me what to do in my own home,” he snaps. “I do whatever I please, here. Whenever I please.”
I can practically feel his eyes rake up and down my body as he speaks. I grip the handle of the frying pan tighter, involuntarily. Paul’s barely said three words to me since I’ve gotten here, and I don’t like where this particular conversation is going.
“Paul,” I hear Nancy moan from the second story, “Get your ass up here. I can’t find the ibuprofen.”
My foster dad grunts in acknowledgement of his wife and walks slowly away. I feel my body relax as he departs, and glance anxiously at his steel-toed boots as they make their way up the stairs. What the hell was that all about? And why do I feel so unclean, after talking to Paul?
I drive the lingering nervousness out of my mind and set the breakfast table, doling out eggs and toast for the others. As I’m fetching a carton of orange juice from the fridge, I hear the basement door swing open. I straighten up, unconsciously fixing my hair. From the darkness of the narrow hallway, I watch Trace emerge. His sleepy eyes snap open as he takes in the sight of me. I feel a little flutter of glee, and have to fight to keep a grin off my face.
“Hey,” I say lightly, “You sleep OK?”
“What?” Trace says, staring at me unabashedly, “Oh. Yeah. I, uh...”
“There’s scrambled eggs,” I tell him, sitting down at the table and helping myself to a piece of crisp toast. “Come on, eat up.”
He walks toward the table as if in a trance. Trace doesn’t even bother trying to pry his eyes away from me. A warm, satisfying pressure makes itself known within my core as he drinks me in. I let myself delight in his company in a way I haven’t dared before. I decide, in the moment, that I’m through pretending I don’t have feelings for him. What’s the point of acting like I don’t spend most of my spare moments thinking about him?
“Did you, uh...do something different with your hair?” he asks, sitting down.
“Yeah.”
“It...you...look nice,” he stammers.
I smile at him warmly, thankful that he’s as bad an actor as I am. Trace and I tuck into our eggs and toast, silent in the early morning hours. If I try really hard, I can imagine that it’s only the two of us here in this house. I imagine what it would be like to share a home with Trace, share a life with him. The delicious daydream transforms our humble breakfast into one of the best meals I’ve ever had.
Seven
Nadia
Creepy Fucking Paul
Though Paul’s strange behavior still tugs at the edges of my mind, I decide not to mention anything to Trace and the others. Once Conway and Garrick finally roll themselves out of bed, we all ship off for another day of school.
A wave of calm passes through me every time we pull away from the Daniels’ home and head toward our shabby high school. It may be far from perfect, educationally speaking, but it still feels like more of a safe haven than the house does. And since it’s Friday, I need to soak up all that goodness to get me through the weekend.
All day, I notice people looking at me differently. It’s laughable, really, the difference that a little lip gloss and a shirt that actually fits can make. This is fun, experimenting with all things feminine. And I have to admit, the attention feels sort of nice.
Boys and girls alike let their eyes linger on me, all of a sudden. But I don’t feel my ego inflating or anything. It’s sort of like a science experiment of my very own. As a foster kid, I don’t have many advantages to draw from. But if the way I look can be a means of influencing people one way or another...who knows. It could prove useful, someday.
When the final school bell rings, hundreds of kids leap up and charge for the exit, but not me. I’ve decided to go out on a limb at this school and actually try to make friends. One of my more ambitious teachers oversees a mock trial club, and recently invited me to join. I’ve never known much about law and order, but it seems like a good way to meet people.
As I’m making my way toward the club meeting, I feel a tentative hand rest on my shoulder. I whip around, ready to tell off whoever feels entitled to a feel, but I’m relieved to see that it’s just Trace. He, Garrick, and Conway have been waiting for me by the school’s front doors.
“You scared me!” I tell him.
“Oh. Sorry,” he says, “We were gonna get out of here. I’m swinging by my dealer’s place on the way home so we’ll have some supplies for the weekend. Are you coming?”
“Can’t,” I tell him, “I’ve got a mock trial meeting.”
“What the hell does that mean?” he asks. “You do something wrong?”
“No. It’s a club,” I explain, swallowing a smile.
“Screw that,” he says, “I’ve seen enough real trials to last me a lifetime.”
I want desperately to quiz him about what he’s seen, but this hardly seems the time. “I’ll be done in a couple hours,” I tell him, “Would you mind coming back to pick me up?”
“No problem,” he says.
“Great,” I smile, “See you—”
“Hey,” he cuts me off before I can turn away, “I was thinking. After I come pick yo
u up...maybe we could do something? Like...together?”
I feel my blood pick up the pace through my veins. “What kind of something?” I ask.
“I dunno,” Trace mumbles, squirming visibly, “Like...get some food? Or, uh, see a movie or something?”
“Are you...asking me on a date?” I say slowly.
“Would you...be down?” he returns, “I mean, if I was?”
“Yeah,” I tell him, “I’d like to go on a date with you, Trace.”
“Really?” he says, looking like a little boy on Christmas. His hardened eyes lighten up for the briefest of moments, and I feel my heart break a tiny bit on his behalf. I wonder if he’s ever even asked a girl on a proper date before?
“Figure out something for us to do,” I tell him, “I’ll see you in a bit.”
“Cool. Uh. Great,” he says, “Catch you...later.”
He turns to go, punching Garrick happily in the arm along the way. I wrap my arms around my waist, shaking my head in wonder. After a month of crushing hopelessly on Trace, he’s finally returning the volley.
“It’s about damn time,” I mutter, and head off to my meeting.
Even though my head is preoccupied with thoughts of Trace, I can’t believe how much I love mock trial. Every case that we discuss is like a puzzle. Someone is either guilty or innocent, neither both, and it’s our job to make that call. I can’t imagine what it feels like to really be in the thick of the legal process. It must be a high like nothing else.
Hopefully, I’ll never be on the wrong side of the whole affair, but having a hand in locking up criminals might not be a bad thing to devote one’s life to.
The meeting flies by, and I’m released back into the world. I hurry down to the front of the school, breathless and giddy at the prospect of my date. Part of me wishes I could have gone home and changed, but that's a bit ridiculous isn’t it? Trace lives with me, already. He knows what I look like when I’m tired, without makeup, grumpy. I’ve never really been in a relationship with a guy before, but even I can tell that this is a bit of an unconventional way to do things.
Trace is waiting on the hood of his car when I slip out of the school’s front doors. In a plain black tee-shirt and perfectly fitted blue jeans, he’s the epitome of effortless cool. He runs a hand through his sandy blonde hair as I approach, his green eyes gleaming brightly in the gathering dusk.
I wonder if he can possibly be as nervous as I am. For my part, I’ve never even been on a date in my life. There’s just never really been an opportunity. But I don’t feel vulnerable in Trace’s hands—if anything, I feel far more safe.
“Hello again,” I grin, stepping up to the car.
“Fancy meeting you here,” he replies, hopping off the hood. Trace takes a step toward me, closing the space between us. For a mad moment, I think that he’s going to embrace me—press me up against the car and kiss me. But instead, he reaches around and opens the passenger side door.
“After you,” he says with a smile. I fight to quiet my hammering heart and sink into the car. It’s one of the only times I’ve gotten to ride shotgun, and certainly the first time Trace has taken this whole “gentleman” thing for a spin. I know he thinks it’s dashing, but really it’s more adorable than anything else. Not that I’d ever say so to his face.
“So,” I say, as Trace starts the car, “Where are we off to? The movies? The mall?”
“Nah,” he says, “I sort of forgot, but you actually need money for those things.”
“Ah. Right,” I say, “So...where are we going?”
“You’ll see,” he tells me, and pulls out of the high school parking lot.
As we cruise along, Trace produces something from the glove compartment. I glance his way and feel my insides seize up. He’s got a joint clenched between his lips and is searching around for a lighter. My pulse starts to quicken as he lights up the smoke, sucking in a big lung full. I can feel panic pulling at the corners of my mind as Trace offers the joint to me.
“I don’t think so,” I tell him quietly.
“Really?” he says, “You sure?”
“Is that safe?” I ask, “Getting high behind the wheel?”
“Totally,” he insists, filling his lungs again. “It’s not like being drunk, you know. Your concentration actually gets better. Ask anyone.”
“I don’t know...”
“Trust me, Nadia,” Trace says, his face softening with every pull of the joint, “I wouldn’t put you in harm’s way.”
“My parents were killed in a car crash,” I tell him, my voice barely above a whisper.
That cuts through his burgeoning high. “Oh...” he breathes, “Oh, shit.”
“They think that the driver who hit them was drunk,” I press on, “Not that they ever caught the asshole. I’m sure it’s punishment enough for him, though. Living with that.”
“I get it,” Trace says, “I’m sorry.”
I stare at him as he stubs out the joint. “I don’t understand how you can put all that into your body,” I say, knowing that I sound judgmental. “I mean, after your parents—”
“What about my parents?” he demands, keeping his eyes straight ahead.
“Shit...” I mutter, “That...That was too far. I didn’t mean to bring them into it.”
“But you did,” he says, “So, say what you want to say.”
“It just doesn’t make sense to me,” I admit, “If they fucked up their lives with drugs and booze, why are you following in their footsteps, Trace? Don’t you want a different ending for yourself?”
“Like what?” he asks, uninhibited under the influence, “Go to college? Become a doctor? Start a family?”
“Sure,” I say, “Why not?”
Trace laughs bitterly. “Where you go in life depends on where you come from,” he says, “And I happen to come from a couple of low life pieces of shit. There’s only one way my life ends up, Nadia. I’m just helping things along.”
“You can’t really believe that,” I say softly.
“Oh, but I do,” he says, “Shit, I’m halfway there already, you know? My fate was sealed before I was even born. I’m just playing my part. Accepting my lot in life like a good little boy.”
“So we’re all just fucked, then?” I ask, alarmed by the turn our conversation has taken.
“Not you,” he tells me, “You’re different. You could get out, if you wanted. I know it.”
“You're damned right,” I say, “The second I turn eighteen, I’m done. I think I’ll go to law school. Be an attorney, or something.”
“You must dig all that mock trial stuff pretty well, huh?”
“I do,” I tell him, “It makes sense to me. It’s clear cut.”
“What...justice?”
“Sure.”
“That...is hilarious.”
“What?”
Trace drives on in silence for a while, refusing to address my confusion. He guides the car through darkened streets, streets that he knows like the back of his strong hand. Finally, we begin to slow. I peer out the passenger side window and watch as we make our way into a small neighborhood park. It’s overgrown with weeds, strewn with abandoned car parts and toys alike. Trace pulls up beside a small pond, dimly lit by a lone street light. He steps out of the car and fetches something from the backseat. I pull myself out of the car to see what he’s doing.
I watch as he approaches the pond and snaps out a worn quilt on the grass. He smoothes down the blanket and sets a backpack on top of it. Looking up at me in the near darkness, he pats the ground beside him.
“Come on,” he says. I can tell from his voice that the high has mostly faded, “Don’t make me have this picnic on my own.”
“You...packed us a picnic?” I ask incredulously.
“Sure,” he says, “I’m not a barbarian, you know.”
I lower myself onto the blanket as he pumps the contents of his backpack out onto the ground. A little laugh escapes my throat as I see the goodies he’s brought
along for us. Fruit by the Foot, Hostess Cupcakes, Doritos, and Mountain Dew comprise our feast. But despite the quality of the feast, the gesture is incredibly sweet...no pun intended.
We dig into the snack food, sitting in silence as our tense conversation hangs over our heads. Finally, as I swig down a bite of Twinkie with some rich strawberry milk, I work up the nerve to speak.
“I really do believe that you’ve got a shot,” I tell him.
“I know you do,” he says, casting aside his stick of beef jerky, “That’s what makes it so hard to talk to you.”
“What do you mean?”
“I know myself, Nadia,” Trace tells me, “I’m not a good guy. Never have been. You talk about law and justice in the abstract because you’ve never been in the trenches, but I have. I’ve broken the law, I’ve been to court. The only reason I’m not still in juvie is because of a technicality.”
“You...you were in juvie?” I ask softly.
“For a year,” he tells me, “Drug stuff. You know.”
“How...how are you so OK, then?” I ask him, “After that? I’d be a wreck.”
“You’d never be there in the first place,” he says, “You’re a good person, Nadia. A pure person. I can tell just by talking to you.”
“I’m no better than you,” I insist, “If you could just believe in yourself half as much as you believe in me...Maybe I can help you, Trace.”
“Help me?”
“You know...tutor you and stuff? Bring you to my clubs, keep you from drinking every single night?”
He falls silent, and I’m afraid that I’ve offended him again. But when Trace lifts his eyes to mine, they’re full of something I’ve never seen there before: gratitude.
“What the hell do you see in me, Nadia?” he asks, “I’m serious. There’s nothing in me that’s good enough for someone like you.”
“I think that I get to be the judge of that,” I tell him. My voice rides low in my throat, and I realize for the first time how alone we are, out here by the pond. I take a deep breath and, inch by inch, move closer to where he’s sitting.
