Halston

From: [email protected]karma.com

To: [email protected]karma.com

Subject: Re: re: re: Where for art thou?

Time: 9:05 AM

Message: Tell me it gets better than this.

From: [email protected]karma.com

To: [email protected]karma.com

Subject: Re: re: re: re: Where for art thou?

Time: 9:08 AM

Message: Oh. You probably need context. I’m feeling sorry for myself because I hate my job. And I miss having you at my instant disposal. Some guy hit on me at work yesterday, and then he tried to follow me to the bus station. I told him off. Now I’m worried I’m going to get fired. It happened outside of work, but he could still complain to my boss. Going to be a long week for me, Kerouac.

From: [email protected]karma.com

To: [email protected]karma.com

Subject: Re: re: re: re: re: Where for art thou?

Time: 9:16 AM

Message: I wish I could tell you it gets better, but I don’t think it ever does. Most men are assholes who will break your heart when they’re not fucking your brains out (present company unfortunately not excluded). Most jobs will steal your soul if you’re not careful. And love is only temporary, at least it has been in my experience. But you weren’t asking about love, were you? I digress. Keep your chin up, Absinthe. Have yourself a glass of wine, a hot bath, and a good, old-fashioned orgasm when you get home tonight (make sure you’re thinking about me). I promise you’ll feel better.

From: [email protected]karma.com

To: [email protected]karma.com

Subject: Kerouac sucks. The author. Not you.

Time: 9:20 AM

Message: I changed the subject line. It was getting annoying. But thank you for enlightening me. And for not making me wait too long for another Kerouac fix. What are you doing today? What do normal families do together? I wouldn’t know. Story for another time, as you would say.

From: [email protected]karma.com

To: [email protected]karma.com

Subject: Re: Kerouac sucks. The author. Not you.

Time: 9:24 AM

Message: I’m at the gym right now, running on the treadmill. If I fall off and bust my lip, I’m blaming you. Not sure what we’re doing today. And not sure what your definition of a “normal” family consists of, but I doubt that entails having your sister pretend to be your wife to fend off stage five clingers. Yeah, that happened. I’m not proud. But it worked.

I smirk, laughing through my nose.

I like him.

Leaning against my headboard, I forget the fact that he might be some Quasimodo basement dweller who uses a stock photo and I imagine him at the gym, his shirtless runner’s body, his shorts slung low on his hips. Women passing by, checking him out. Him smiling at them …

The fact that he’s a real person living a real life outside of this weird little bubble we’ve created is something I haven’t given much thought to, until now.

Kerouac is real. Kerouac exists. And we’ll never have more than what we have right now.

I picture him with another woman for reasons I can’t explain. Someone else will know what it feels like to touch him, to feel him. But it will never be me.

Heat blooms through me. My stomach turns.

Is this … is this what jealousy feels like?

* * *

“I never see you anymore.” Emily lies on her bed that night, her head in her hands as I flip through a stale issue of Seventeen on her floor.

“Trust me, I wish I didn’t have to work, but I need a car.” I turn the page to an article on clearing up acne using all natural remedies.

My feet hurt from working all day, and my hair smells like mozzarella sticks and fried pickles, but I didn’t feel like hanging out at home after dinner tonight, so I came over here to bother Emily.

“You going to tell me where you’re working?” Emily asks.

I wince. “It’s not that exciting. Just a seedy bar and grill kind of place.”

“What’s it called?” Her eyes widen. “You can trust me. I’m not going to tell anyone.”

And it’s true. She wouldn’t tell anyone because I’m her only friend and she doesn’t want to jeopardize that.

“Big Boulders,” I say, exhaling.

Her jaw falls. She says nothing. Doesn’t even blink.

“Come on.” I toss the magazine aside. It bores me. “You act like I just told you I became a stripper or something.”

“Do you have to wear those little skimpy outfits?”

“How do you know about those little skimpy outfits?” I cock a brow.

“I might be a little sheltered, but I know what places like that are like.” She seems offended by my question. “Do they know you’re in high school?”

“What they won’t know won’t hurt them, right?” I chuckle. “They didn’t ask. They just made me check a box saying I was over eighteen and then prove it with a copy of my social security card.”

It probably helped that I don’t look like I’m in high school. Growing up, I’ve always been mature for my age, both physically and mentally. I got my period in third grade and by fourth grade I was filling out a full C-cup. By sixth grade I was the tallest girl in my class and by junior high, at least when I was attending, I’d catch teachers checking me out when they thought I wasn’t looking.

I’d have reported them, but school lunch was my only hot meal of the day, and I didn’t want to risk being accused of making shit up for attention, which is what the administration liked to say anytime a student pointed out an issue.

“Do you like it?” Emily asks. “Working there?”

“Hate it.” I exhale, brushing hair out of my eyes. “I’m treated like a piece of meat.”

Something I should be used to by now.

“I get hit on at least once every shift. I’ve seen men purposely spill their drinks on other servers to try to see through their shirts. Last shift, someone grabbed my friend’s ass.” I shake my head. It makes me sick to think about going back there. “But the money’s good.”