elanie

 

 

 

 

When my ex-best friend Stacey turned eighteen in January, her mom gave her a Visa card with a $2000 limit, and we took off in Stacey’s Range Rover and headed to Chicago. She rented a room in the Hilton on Michigan Avenue, and we snuck a bottle of her father’s Absolut in her suitcase. We drank it on the rocks, grimacing at the taste until it started going down smooth.

Her boyfriend Robby showed up, and she gave me the usual signal—a clumsy wink—so I took off for awhile to give them some privacy.

I know Chicago’s not called the Windy City because of the weather, but icy swirls of air bit my cheeks as I walked outside. It was late, past midnight, and not much was open outside the hotel. I was cold as fuck, but I could only think one thing: this will be my city next year. And until I finish college. And maybe forever. I don’t ever have to go back to Bells Park if I don’t want to. I was drunk and ecstatic, and it wasn’t just from the vodka.

I wasn’t lying when I told Jake at school that the best thing about my eighteenth birthday was meeting him. Other than that, it sucked. Just like I said. My mom promised me dinner, but when I got home she said what I knew she would. “Hey, honey! Can we go out for your birthday this weekend instead of tonight? I’m not feeling well.”

“Sure. Yeah.” I tried to ignore the two empty bottles—the extra large bottles—of cheap wine next to her computer desk.

“There’s some money on the fridge if you want to order something,” she said, touching my hair for a second, her voice full of apology, before heading to her bedroom and closing the door.

Underneath an “I Love Singapore” magnet—nobody I know has been to Singapore—was a crumpled ten-dollar bill. The only place that delivers here is Sausage Sausage, a pizza place. But a) I don’t like Sausage Sausage and b) ten dollars wouldn’t be enough for food and delivery.

It’s been two weeks, and we still haven’t gone out to celebrate my birthday, but the conversation at school today with Jake made it fresh in my mind once more.

My mom’s already in bed, so I’m all alone. I pull my phone out of my pocket and bring up the Netflix app. I don’t want to use my mom’s computer to watch—seeing her PowerPoint presentations depresses me. And she gets all anxious about people touching her stuff. “My computer’s running slower today,” she’ll say. “Did you do something to it?” Even if I tell her I only used it to look something up, she’ll insist I must have broken it.

The doorbell rings, groaning like it’s dying. Nobody’s replaced the batteries even though it sounds slow and low and has forever. When it stops working completely, I don’t think it will matter much. Our house is tiny, so if someone knocked, we’d hear it. And it’s not like we have visitors often. I’m curious as I get off the couch.

I open the door, and there’s Jake. Detective Beck. He smiles, and my heart feels weak. What the hell is he doing here? And how shitty do I look right now? And thank god I cleaned up the old wine bottles and dirty dishes from around my mom’s computer.

“Did you check who it was before opening the door?” He puts one hand flat against the door frame and leans, bracing himself on his arm. He’s got a bag in his other hand. His hair looks darker than ever in the lightless night, and his lips twitch, whether in anger or trying to suppress a smile I’m not sure.

“No.” I can’t tell if he’s seriously checking up on me, or if he’s joking around.

“Melanie. You need to be careful. Check next time, OK?”

I salute him. “Yes, sir.”

“Cut the crap. I’m being serious.”

“What’s it to you anyway?”

“I’m a fucking detective, Melanie.” His voice is low but stern, like he wants to let me know he’s pissed but doesn’t want anyone to overhear. My mom’s probably passed out, dead to the world, but he doesn’t know that. “It’s my job to make sure people are safe,” he continues. “There’s been more than one break-in around here this month.”

“I’m fine, OK? What do you need, anyway?” I don’t know why I feel so bristly around him, like I have to be mean even though I don’t want to.

“I don’t need anything. I brought you something.” He holds out a white plastic bag.

“What is it?”

“It’s for you. Thai food.”

I frown.

“You said at school that you wanted to go to some Thai place for your birthday, but you never made it?”

I can’t move for a second. Did he really drive half an hour each way to get me take-out? I told him my sad birthday story to make him feel a little sorry for me, I guess, but it wasn’t a hint.

“Seriously?” I ask. “You got Thai Lagoon for me?”

“Uh, no. It’s from Yum Thai. In Bolster?”

“Oh. Thai Lagoon’s my favorite.” But I reach out and take the bag from him, surprised at how heavy it is. There must be a ton of food in here, and now I can smell it too. My stomach gurgles, and I hope he can’t hear it.

He rolls his eyes. “Thank you’s the appropriate response.”

I smile. “Thank you.”

“See you.” He’s heading down the stairs, and I watch him walk to his car. He’s so gorgeous, I can’t help thinking it. But at the same time, I want to cry.

My eyes are prickly, and my nose itches, and I hate it that he’s done something nice for me and all I want to do is curl up in a ball and sob. Stupid asshole.

In the kitchen I put everything out on the table: pad thai and panang curry and spring rolls with dipping sauce. I lean my phone against an empty bottle of wine so I can watch Netflix while I eat.

~~~~

On Monday night I walk the mile to the library through cold drizzle. Earlier today it was deceptively warm out, and I opted to wear my other Station Gray T-shirt—the band totally reminds me of Jake now—without a jacket. Now I regret my decision not to go back for a jacket because it feels like tiny slivers of ice biting my skin, and by the time I get to the library I’m shivering and pissed off.

Despite the fact that I’m desperate to get inside and warm up, I stand against the doorway under the awning, where a dirty yellow light emanates from a cracked fixture, highlighting the bumpy and cracked sidewalk. After fishing around in my backpack for my cigarettes, I light one, my hands almost too cold and stiff to work right.

I inhale and blow out the smoke, watching the ghostly tendrils evaporate into the cold night sky.

“Not supposed to smoke within twenty feet of the building.”

I whip my head around.

Jake’s standing there, his denim-clad legs spread slightly. Drops of rain glisten on his leather jacket. Like usual, he needs a shave—but I like the way that looks on him—and his brown hair is tousled. His lips form a half-grin as he gazes at me.

“What? You going to give me a ticket or something?” I take another drag and feign nonchalance, when really my heart is pounding so hard.

“I could. But I’m trying to help you get out of trouble, not into it.”

I shrug. “I don’t need your help.”

“You need to finish this course so you don’t get a record.” He shifts his stance slightly and takes a step closer.

“Are you, like, threatening me? Or holding that over my head?”

“Jesus. No, Melanie.” He glances around as if to make sure nobody’s listening. “I want you to have a clean record, OK? I think you’re a good kid, and I think you have a great future ahead of you if you focus and stay out of trouble.”

A good kid. I know he didn’t mean that as an insult, but my soul feels like it’s being crushed. I don’t want him to see me that way. Like a kid.

“I’ll see you inside.” He passes me and heads to the door.

“Hey, thanks,” I call out.

He stops, turns. “For what?”

“The Thai food? It was really good.” I give him a small smile, hoping I look genuinely thankful and maybe even a little sexy too.

He stares for a second, maybe even a second too long. “You’re welcome.” His voice is a deep rumble. Then, without another word, he turns and heads inside. I’m alone in the drizzle.

I take a final drag, then flick the butt away, watching it bounce and spark on the pavement. And then my conscience gets the better of me, so I pick it up, grind it out on the ground, and throw it in the trash.

Inside the library it’s nominally warmer than outside, but I’m still shivering. In the stairwell I stop at the wrinkled cardboard box on which someone’s written “Lost and Found” in black Sharpie. I root through scarves and a few baseball hats and some ugly-ass jackets until I find a decent and plain black hoodie. It’s a few sizes too big, but it’s warm and comfortable. I pull up the hood and head down into the basement for class.

~~~~

About halfway through class I realize I hate the pretty rich girl, the blond who was wearing a suit the first day. Today she’s sporting a glossy white blouse tucked into these wool herringbone patterned pants, and she’s got a string of pearls around her neck. I seriously thought only old women wore pearls, but there she is, with her frosty hair and glossy lips, like she’s a middle-aged cougar. And she’s flirting with Jake.

“Does anyone know which drug’s usage has increased the most in the United States over the past few years?” he asks. He’s taken off his leather jacket so his biceps are showing, and he’s doing that thing where he half sits and half leans back on the front of his desk while lecturing.

The blonde raises her hand. Nobody else moves. The stoner kid picks at his nails, and the other misfits, including me, are doodling.

Jake nods at Pearl. I’m sure that’s not her real name, but that’s what I call her in my head. When I’m being nice, that is. I have other names that aren’t quite as friendly for her.

“Um, prescription drugs?” Even her voice is pretty, light and airy.

She wouldn’t stand a chance against me in a fight. But in a competition for Jake’s attention? I sink lower into my seat.

“No. Though prescription drug use is increasing, it’s heroin that’s seeing the largest increases nationwide. Let’s talk about the dangerous and oftentimes deadly side effects of heroin usage.” Jake picks up his information packet—the same one we all have in front of us. He leafs through it trying to find the right page.

“Detective Beck? It’s page seventeen.” Pearl pushes her chair back a little from her desk and neatly crosses one leg over the other. I can’t see her face, but I’m positive she’s smiling that innocent-but-flirty smile at him. Slut.

“Thank you, Miss Sheldon. Page seventeen, everyone.”

I zone out for the rest of class, too annoyed with Pearl for flirting and Jake for letting her. Not that he could stop her. She’s not exactly doing anything overtly inappropriate. I just hate feeling jealous—it’s such a useless emotion. If I lost it every time I was envious of someone for something I’d probably be dead or crazy by now.

When class is finally over, I pack up my stuff slowly, kind of hoping—without actually letting myself hope—that I’ll be the last one out. But Pearl’s doing the same thing. I recognize the tactic. Checking her phone even though there’s no reception down here. Pretending to look in her backpack pocket for something imaginary she needs. Saying bye to the other students that I know she normally wouldn’t deign to talk to.

Fuck it. I’m not going to lower myself, and I’m not going to get into a battle of wills with her. A contest to see who can take longer to put their things into their backpack and leave the room.

I sling my backpack over my shoulder and walk out without a look back at Jake. In my head he stares longingly after me. But I have a really good imagination.

“So Detective Beck? I was wondering if I could talk to you about something,” is the last thing I hear, in Pearl’s breathless voice, as I head to the stairwell.

~~~~

I toss the sweatshirt back into the lost and found box on my way up. Chances are whoever lost it originally has forgotten about it, or has no idea it’s here. But just in case, I feel bad keeping it, even if I planned to return it tomorrow.

Once I head outside and the library door clicks locked behind me, I regret my choice. It’s even colder than before. Despite the fact that it’s stopped raining, a bitter wind has begun, blowing through the still-empty trees and cutting into my skin.

“Fuck.” I cross my arms close across my chest and huddle into myself as I start the long walk home. I wish I had a car like Stacey. I wish I had a mom who could actually pick me up at night. I wish I still had my bike, but someone stole it from our garage last summer. Not that it was difficult to do; the lock on the garage door’s been busted for as long as I can remember.

Headlights from behind light the road, and when I hear a car slowing, I know it’s him. But I don’t stop; I keep walking, head down, into the cold. I don’t want him to know I want him. I don’t need his help, or his pity. I can take care of myself.

“Get in, Melanie. I’m driving you home. It’s fucking freezing out here.”

It is.

He leans over and opens the door from the inside. Gratefully, despite myself, I slip into the seat and slam the door behind me. My teeth are literally chattering—I think Jake can hear it, because he looks over at me, then turns the heat up to high and adjusts the vents so they’re pointing at me.

“Why are you out here without a jacket or anything to keep you warm? What happened to the sweatshirt you had on in class?” He starts driving, and when I glance at him his eyes are on the road.

But the fact that he noticed what I was wearing in class makes my stomach flutter.

“Wasn’t mine.” I hold my hands up to the car vents to warm them up faster.

“Not gonna ask.” He glances over at me. “You warming up OK?”

“Yeah. Thanks.”

“It’s not smart, you know, to be out when it’s almost below freezing in just a flimsy T-shirt.” I catch him eyeing my shirt. “Even though it’s a cool shirt.”

When I glance down, all I see are my nipples, hard from the cold, pressing up against my shirt. Did he notice? Is that what he was looking at?

I don’t respond.

“You’re going to get sick,” he continues.

“Being cold doesn’t make you sick. Germs make you sick. You know, bacteria or viruses.”

“Technically, maybe. Smartass. But being cold can lower your immunity and make you more susceptible to catching something.”

“I thought you were a cop, not a doctor.” I shiver suddenly, the core of my body still chilled despite the warm car.

“Jesus, Melanie. Here.” He pulls over and leans forward, slipping his arms out of the leather jacket. “Put this on.”

“No. I’m good.”

“You’re not good, Melanie. You’re shivering and need to warm up. Will you please take this?”

“Fine.” I sit forward in my seat, and he drapes it over my shoulders. It’s really warm on the inside, and all I can think about is how it was against his skin, how the heat in it was generated by his body. I wish I could pull it tighter around me. I wish I could curl up on the seat and close my eyes, take a nap while we drive for hours and hours.

But within minutes we’re at my house, where there’s not even a front porch light on for me. I can see the bluish glow of my mom’s computer through the window, though.

“Someone home? Your mom?” Jake’s deep voice breaks through the silence.

“Yeah. Thanks for the ride.” I wriggle my shoulders so his jacket falls off them, and immediately shiver, even inside the warm car.

He clears his throat before speaking. “Are you doing all right in the class? Any questions or problems with anything?” It’s kind of a weird question, apropos of nothing.

Is it an excuse to talk to me longer? My heart flutters at the possibility, and I glance at him out of the corner of my eye. He’s looking straight ahead, and in the lights from the dashboard I can see his shadowed face, his jaw strong, his lips full.

“The class is all right.” I turn away from him. I don’t want him to catch me staring. “I mean, it’s kind of boring, but I expected that.”

“You mean an extra two hours a week of reading and taking notes isn’t exciting?”

I roll my eyes even though he probably can’t see in the dark. “I can think of exactly a thousand things that would be more exciting than the class. No offense.”

He laughs, the sound low and growly and contagious, and I feel butterflies again. Then his tone gets serious and his smile disappears. “I don’t like that it’s so dark on your front porch. Tell your mom to put the light on for you next time.”

“Doesn’t work.” I shrug. “It’s fine.” I reach for the door handle.

“Look at me, Melanie.”

I turn my head so I’m staring into his eyes, glinting in the dark. I want to touch his cheek, feel his stubble-roughened skin. I want his lips on mine, even if only for a second. But I know he’s not interested anymore, now that he knows I’m only eighteen.

“It’s not fine.” He sounds angry. “It’s not fine that…” His voice trails off and he runs his hand through his messy hair.

“That what?”

“Forget it.” Jake shakes his head. “Just… be careful. I’ll wait for you to get in.”

“Bye.” I open the car door and slip outside into the cold night. All the way up the front stairs I resist the urge to turn around and wave, to see if he’s watching me. The front door’s unlocked and I make it in without a look back.

~~~~

I don’t see Jake all week. Everywhere I go, I look for his black undercover car, but I don’t even catch a glimpse of it or of him. Sometimes he drives a cruiser, and my heart skips a beat when I see one, but it’s never Jake.

In the antique shop, I keep waiting for the bell to jangle, and every time it does my pulse kicks up till I look up and it’s somebody else. It’s always people who come in out of curiosity and stay a few minutes longer than they want to out of guilt. I can see the way they pick things up and pretend to examine them, like they’d really want to buy a Smurfs mug from two decades ago or a page-yellowed romance novel from the eighties.

On Monday at lunch I head to Mr. Tallman’s room to eat. He’s the math teacher, and I’m in his AP Statistics class. In the beginning of the year he said we could have lunch in his room if we needed tutoring or wanted to work on assignments from class. I never showed up for that, but once Stacey and I stopped talking, I wanted some place to be away from the cafeteria, away from her. And it’s not like I have any other friends. So I started coming here.

Mr. Tallman’s old and bald, with a white beard, and when I told him I don’t actually need help, just a place to eat, he left me alone. Usually he goes off, to the teacher’s lounge, I guess, and I get to be in peace.

I pull a ham sandwich out of my backpack and unwrap the waxed paper. I made it myself this morning—we actually had groceries today—and take a bite, then set it down and get out my assignment notebook to see what I should work on first. I want to get everything done since I have the stupid drug class tonight. Though honestly, I’m actually excited about it. About seeing Jake. About him driving me home again.

The classroom door opens, and I look up, expecting Mr. Tallman. Instead it’s Stacey. Fuck.

“I had a really hard time finding you.” She stands still in the doorway, somehow managing to look sexy but not slutty in her black leggings and pink Nike crop top. Over it, of course, is an unzipped hoodie, since bare midriffs aren’t allowed at school. And she’s wearing her pink Converse sneakers.

I shift my feet, aware I’m wearing my red Chucks and remembering how we bought them together at the mall just outside Chicago, an hour’s drive away but the closest decent place to go shopping.

“Maybe I didn’t want to be found.” I squish my index finger down on my sandwich, making a circular indentation in the bread.

“I just wanna talk, Melanie.” She walks over to where I’m sitting, her mass of blonde curls bouncing around her shoulders, her lips glossy pink, and flops her Michael Kors purse on the floor before sliding into the desk next to mine. I’m not into purses, and I only know the brand because she dragged me with her to buy it, and even though I’ve always known her family has money, dropping several hundred dollars on a bag astounded me. It still does.

“There’s nothing to talk about.” I quickly fold the wax paper around my sandwich and shove it into my backpack along with my assignment notebook.

“Please? Just for a minute?” She lightly grasps my arm with her hand, sporting perfectly manicured nails coated in an effervescent pink.

“What?” I ask, hoisting my backpack into my shoulders but waiting. I’m curious to see what she wants to say to me.

“I’m sorry. I’ve texted you and I left that note in your locker and I just want you to know I feel really terrible about what happened.” Her eyes are pleading with mine.

“But not terrible enough to admit the shit was yours?”

She sighs and shuts her eyes, tilting her head up to the ceiling before looking back at me. “Then we’d both get in trouble, right? You don’t want that for me, do you?” Her voice is a plea. She continues, “I said I was sorry, Melanie. And I am. But you’ve got to understand! If University of Illinois found out about it, they might change their minds about admitting me. And it’s been my dream for, like, ever. Both my parents went there. They’d kill me. You know that. You know them.” She pauses, then says, “They’re not like your mom.”

“A drunk?” My voice rises and I cross my arms over my chest. “Is that what you mean?”

“No! I didn’t mean that. I didn’t say that! Your mom is just, I don’t know, more casual. About stuff.” She looks panicked. “Mel, you know I love your mom. She’s, like, so fun.”

“And what if University of Chicago finds out about me getting in trouble?” I ask. “What if they revoke my acceptance?” I stand up and glare at her.

“I don’t know, Melanie.” She steps back and plays with a curl. “Of course I don’t want that to happen! But I can’t say anything about me, you know? I can’t risk my future! It’s like… I’m, like, expected to go to college. I can’t ruin that.”

“So just ruin my chances instead? Because I’m not expected to do anything with my life except stay here in this shitty town?” I feel so angry and sad, wondering how this person I’ve been friends with since third grade could be so selfish and unaware and awful.

“Nothing’s ruined! You just have to take that class, right? And then it’s over? And, like, I owe you one, OK?” she says.

“I don’t want anything from you.” I head to the door.

“I’m sorry, Melanie! I swear I’ll make it up to you. I’m never going to bring, you know, stuff to school again, because I definitely learned my lesson. And I’ll… I don’t know. I’ll have your back, OK?”

There are a million things I want to say. Fuck you. Or kiss my ass. Or rot in hell forever you fucking slut. We used to curse at each other all the time when we were best friends, joking around and seeing who could come up with the worst insult. Only we’re not friends anymore. Only now I actually mean them all. I walk away without a word.

~~~~

I’m on my way out of school when Principal Evans stops me. “Melanie, I need to have a word with you.” Although she’s smiling, it’s a grim sort of expression, like she’s hiding something horrible.

Crap, crap, crap. What the hell is going on? Is this about Jake? Did she find out we slept together? My heart jumps thinking about how much trouble he’d be in, and I’m cold with guilt.

Principal Evans gestures for me to sit, and I balance on the edge of one of the cheap leather chairs in front of her desk. I expect her to continue behind her desk and sit in her own chair, but instead she turns the chair next to mine so it’s facing me and sits in it.

“Let’s talk,” she says, which I take as a cue for me to turn and face her. “Something’s come up,” she continues. Her eyes are really sad, and that freaks me out.

“K,” I say, my voice coming out quieter than I’d intended.

She takes a deep breath. “Melanie, there’s no good way to tell you this. So I’m just going to say it. The scholarship you got from Children of Incarcerated Parents? They’re revoking it. Something in the fine print about how recipients need to stay out of trouble…”

“But I thought that’s what the stupid drug class was about! To keep it off my record!” Panicked, I stand up and pace.

“It is. And that’s important. I don’t even know for sure how the group found out about you getting in trouble, but it’s within their rights according to the scholarship agreement you signed for them to revoke it. I’m so sorry this happened, Melanie.”

I can’t speak. My throat feels swollen, like anything I’d want to say would be trapped inside me. I can barely even breathe. “But…” I don’t know what to say.

“Melanie, I know the drugs weren’t even yours. I still don’t know why you insisted on keeping quiet about whose they were. It’s not too late to try and fix this, if you tell me what really happened.” She stands up to look into my face. “Mel?” She sounds hopeful.

“I can’t… it doesn’t…” What is there to say? My chance—my one and only chance in this whole miserable fucking world—for me to get out of this town and to Chicago for college is gone. “Would it even matter if I said they weren’t mine? I mean, they’ll just think I’m lying, right?”

“I can help you look for other scholarship opportunities. And there’s financial aid. We can also talk about deferring your admittance for a year…”

I shake my head. We both know it’s too late for scholarships. And even with financial aid, there’s no way I could afford the University of Chicago. I could wait a year, but the thought of that right now, when I was counting on getting away from Bells Park as soon as possible, feels like something in the distant future, so far away I can’t see it anymore.

“There are other options, Melanie,” Principal Evans is saying, but I can’t stay here. I can’t listen to any more.

“I need to go,” I manage to get out, and the last thing I see before I take off is her face, so concerned and sad that it makes my anguish that much worse.

I run out of the office, past the secretary who mutters a bewildered bye as I pass her. The hallways are nearly empty, since students evacuate the building as quickly as possible after the last bell, and once I’m outside, I take a deep breath, hoping the fresh air will calm me down. But it doesn’t.

My body is freezing and burning up at the same time, like I have the energy to run all the way to Chicago and back without stopping. But I need to calm down. I’m supposed to work at the antique shop for a couple of hours before going to the drug class, though I’ve already decided I’m not going to that. What’s the point?

“Hello, dear!” Mrs. Hart gives me a big smile as I enter, and though I smile back, she frowns. “You don’t look well, Melanie. Is everything all right?” Her soft face is comforting, her eyes kind, and I almost tell her. I almost break down in tears and open my mouth.

Instead, though, I nod. “I’m fine, Mrs. Hart. Just tired. Everything’s OK.”

“All right. Well. If you need to talk, you know where to find me!” She points at the ceiling and smiles.

I force my lips to turn up in response, but I’m grateful when she leaves me alone. Sitting still is impossible. Too much anger and energy is built up inside me, and I need to stay busy. I start with the bookshelves, organizing all the books alphabetically within categories. We’ve never done that before. A cookbook could be next to a mystery novel, which could be next to a children’s book. When I’m done, though, they’re arranged perfectly.

Next I tackle the framed artwork, leaning three deep against the back wall. All the landscapes go together. Portraits with each other. Homemade art gets its own stack, and these always make me feel sad. Once a person painted a picture, then later someone stopped caring, or didn’t like it, or died, and the art ended up at a secondhand store like this one. Same thing with framed photographs, especially school photos. If it was worth framing once, wouldn’t you always want to keep it? What happened that made someone say, “I don’t need this photo of my kid when he was five”?

There’s more to do—it would take days of nonstop work to organize the whole store—but it’s time to close up and not-go to the stupid drug class. I turn off the light and lock the front door, double-checking, like always, that it’s secured. Not like anyone would try to rob a place like this, but still.

Molly, the orange cat, appears from behind the building, skinny and loud, mewling at me as she brushes against my shins and calves.

“Molly,” I whine, but I can’t turn her down, even though I’m sort of in a hurry. “Fine. Come on.” I reopen the shop and she glides in, then follows me while I get food and water. Once I set them down, she stops crying and eats vigorously without stopping till it’s gone.

“I can’t cuddle today,” I whisper, petting her back. Her fur is soft, but I can feel the sharp bones right under it. And then, despite myself, I scoop her up and hug her, grateful beyond belief for her warmth, grateful to have someone to give me comfort, even if it’s only a stray cat.

I clean up the bowls, then let us both back out into the cold evening. The chill air pricks my arms, even through my sweatshirt. Then again, it’s practically paper thin since it’s so worn out. The antique store doesn’t carry clothes, and when people drop them off here we donate them to the shelter in Bolster, so there’s nothing to grab.

The library’s not far, so I jog there, backpack bumping against my back. Inside, I head straight to the stairwell and grab the black hoodie again. Except now I’m not just borrowing it. I’m going to keep it. I drop my backpack to the floor to pull on the sweatshirt, then grab my stuff and head outside once more, this time down the street to the Save Lot grocery store on the corner. I don’t have much money, but tonight it doesn’t matter.

Only one cashier is working in the two check-out aisles, though working isn’t exactly accurate. She’s staring out the murky window, and gives me a half-hearted wave as I come in. The store’s almost empty, which makes what I’m planning to do much more difficult. But I’m determined. And pissed. And maybe a little desperate too.

I pass by the table of expiring bakery goods, the ones that will be stale even though they’re still technically legal to sell, and pretend to browse while I check out the tiny liquor corner at the back of the store. I’ve got my eye on the smallest, cheapest bottle of whiskey; it’ll be easy to hide under my shirt, and even though I’m sure it will taste like shit, I know it will do what I want it to.

Scanning the aisles as surreptitiously as possible, I make my way to the corner, pretending to be checking my phone on the way. I reach out my hand, my fingers grasping the cool glass of the bottle, and snag it quickly, thrusting it up under the sweatshirt and into the waistband of my jeans.

I need to get out of here. I can’t get caught. Though what does it matter, really? It’s not like I have anything to look forward to anymore. It’s not like I’m getting out of this shitty town any time soon.

At the checkout I grab a Twix bar and set it on the belt. I feel like it’s less suspicious if I actually buy something. Plus, I haven’t eaten all day, the ham sandwich from lunch no longer appealing after my talk with Stacey. It ended up in the trash, and my stomach feels raw.

“That it for you?” asks the clerk. Her eyes are tired, and her hair is in really bad need of a dye job. I think she’s about my mom’s age, but it’s hard to tell. Though I’ve seen her around, I don’t know her name. But I do know she’s been here forever. Maybe this will be me someday, staring out the window of the Save Lot at nothing, waiting for people to come into the dusty and pathetic excuse for a store, day after day after day.

“Yeah. Just the Twix.”

She rings me up and I pay. “Need a bag?” she asks.

“No.” It’s just a fucking candy bar, I want to add, but I don’t say anything except thanks as I head back out into the night.

~~~~

If you walk east down the railroad tracks, there’s a spot where they run along a bridge, and you can climb down underneath it into a wide tunnel. The river’s there, and it’s gross, but it’s receded so much that there’s plenty of space to hang out on the cement slabs on either side of the water. Graffiti decorates the walls, and the ground is littered with beer cans and broken bottles. It’s the sort of place homeless people would live, but even vagrants stay away from Bells Park. Sometimes kids come here to drink or smoke, but I’m alone tonight.

After brushing a spot clear of glass and debris, I sit down, leaning against the wall, and crack open the bottle of whiskey. I don’t drink a lot. Sometimes Stacey and I used to, but it was usually good stuff, wine we snuck from her parents’ special temperature-controlled cabinet. This smells strong, but I take a sip, shivering at the harsh bite.

God. It’s fucking awful. But I take another sip.

I don’t have a plan. Not for my future, and not for tonight. All I know is I don’t want to be home. And the drug class? No fucking way. I’m never going back to that. I don’t even want to go to school anymore, because what’s the point?

I recap the bottle, then pull out my pack of cigarettes and light one, my hands numb from the cold. Huddling into my new-to-me sweatshirt, I inhale and blow out the smoke, watching it float away. Like angels. Or fucking ghosts.

The tears surprise me, unstoppable even before I know they’re coming. My body heaves, taken over by uncontrollable sobs.

“What the fuck am I going to do?” My words are a blubbery mess, and there’s nobody to hear them. But nobody would have an answer anyway.

“Melanie?” A voice stills me. It’s Jake, and I don’t want him to see me here like this.

I hold my breath, hoping he’ll go away. But the bushes near me rustle until he’s pushing through them and walking toward me.

“What the hell are you doing here? Why aren’t you in class?” His voice doesn’t sound as angry as I’d have thought it would.

“Why aren’t you in class?” I counter.

“I called in a favor from a friend when you didn’t show up.”

“It’s a stupid class anyway. What’s it to you if I skip?”

“If you skip you get a record. Is that what you want?” He comes closer, then sits down next to me on the cement. He smells clean, like he recently showered, and even though we’re not touching, my leg next to his feels warmer than the rest of my body.

“It doesn’t matter what I want.” I take a final drag from my cigarette and flick it into the stagnant river, where it hisses before going out.

“I talked to your principal. I heard what happened.”

“Yeah. Well. That’s fucking life. How did you know where to find me anyway?”

He laughs. “Cause I used to be your age, and this is exactly where I’d have hung out back then.”

“So of all the places I could have gone, you just knew I’d be here?” Bullshit.

There’s humor in his voice when he says, “Well, that and I saw you darting off into the woods. I followed you.”

“Stalker. I’m not a kid, you know.”

“I know.”

“Then why do you treat me like one?”

“What do you mean?” He turns to me, I can see it out of the corner of my eye, but I just keep staring out at the murky black water.

“I mean the way you talk about me with the principal. Like you’re both so worried about poor little me. When you say things like when I was your age like you’re so much older than I am. I’m an adult now too, you know.”

He sighs. “Melanie, I am older than you. And Principal Evans and I are worried about you. We both know how smart you are. And we both know the pot in your locker was someone else’s. We care about you.”

“See, that’s exactly what I’m talking about!” I turn to him, my heart pounding in anger and something else I can’t quite pinpoint. “The whole we thing. Like you’re working together to help the poor high school kid.”

“Fine. I care about you, Melanie, OK? Separate from Principal Evans and separate from the class and just the fuck on my own. Got it?” He sounds as mad as I do.

I turn away and pick up the bottle, unscrewing the cap.

“What the fuck, Melanie?” He grabs it from me. “Where did you get this?”

“My mom.”

“Bullshit.”

“Fine. Save Lot.”

“Jesus, Melanie, did you steal it? Or do you have another fake ID?”

“I stole it.” I’m past the point of caring what I tell him. What’s he going to do? Arrest me?

He stands and strides to the edge of the river, where he upends the bottle and pours the contents out.

“Hey! That’s mine!”

He turns back to me. “Let’s go.”

I shake my head. “You can take the whiskey, but you can’t make me go home. I just… can’t right now. OK? Just leave me here.”

“I’m not going to leave you here. It’s dangerous. And cold. And ten bucks says you haven’t eaten dinner, and probably not lunch either.”

The second he mentions food, my stomach growls, and I clench my stomach muscles to try to stop it. I don’t want to prove him right.

“Come on.” He steps toward me, reaching out his hand. “I’ll get you something to eat.”

“I’m not going anywhere. I’ve been crying, and I look like shit. Any anyway, there’s nowhere to go around here.”

For a second he’s silent, like he’s contemplating something. Then he sighs. “Let’s go to my place. I’ve got food, and you can clean up. And then I’ll take you home.”

“Fine.” My heart flip-flops, but I pretend I don’t care. When I reach out my hand he grasps it, and his skin is warm, his hand strong as it enfolds mine. With a gentle tug he pulls me to standing, and I grab my backpack.

“Let’s go.” He drops my hand and starts to climb the embankment.

The loss I feel the second our hands disconnect is terrifying, so I ignore it. I follow him through the mud and brambles and out into the open air along the tracks.