Broken Compass

“Still,” I say, not sure why I haven’t shut up yet. This is a ridiculous conversation. “I’ve always looked younger than my age.”

“And those tats,” she says, sobering, and twines a lock of red hair around a dainty finger. “Yeah, you must be older all right.”

“Nah.”

“Are they real?” She leans closer and I fight the urge to move away. “The tattoos?”

“They’re real.”

“Is that a phoenix?” Nate asks. “That’s nice ink work, dude.”

“And that dragon is something,” West mutters, that laser-beam gaze burning my skin.

Fuck. Both Nate and West are staring at my arms now, and man, I should have followed my initial urge and gone out to smoke instead of sitting here, under everyone’s scrutiny.

Silence settles over us.

“I’m Sydney,” the girl says. “I live across the way. If you ever need anything, just knock.”

That’s so… nice of her. I blink, unsure why I feel so off-balance. Not like I haven’t met nice people before.

“What she says, man,” West says, his cool blue gaze on me. “Anything you need. Must be hard not knowing anyone around here. Though Nate’s parents are great. I’m sure they have you covered.”

I glance at Nate, and catch a shadow passing over his face, quickly gone. “Yeah,” he says, his voice a little hoarse, “we’ve got you covered.”

What was that about? Did I fucking imagine it?

No matter what, though, the pressure in my chest only grows. Their expressions, their words, their questions… I don’t know what this is. Doesn’t feel like a panic attack, but strangely like something bigger.

Dammit. It can’t be anything good. It never is.

I get back up on shaky legs and gesture at the door. “Going for a smoke. Have fun.”

“Nice meeting you!” Sydney calls out, and then West says something I don’t catch as I hurry out of the room, out of the building and into the afternoon warmth and the buzzing of insects.

Holy shit.

What was that feeling? Too big for my chest, too elusive for my brain to name or catch. Like… like joy and comfort and fear and the thrill of danger all rolled together.

This is a little group I need to steer clear from as much as possible, I decide as I roll my cigarette, adding a healthy dose of weed to the fragrant tobacco and licking the edge of the paper to seal it.

I can’t afford feelings. Feelings make you weak. Feelings blind you to the truth of the world, to the harsh reality of things.

They’re an illusion—the warmth, the comfort, the joy. I struggled so hard to see through them to the cold behind. Not gonna backslide now—and for what? Not like I’m staying here.

Too dangerous by half.

My new job isn’t half bad. I’ve sure had worse. Washing dishes and cleaning the small quaint Greek restaurant I found half an hour bus ride away sure beats the filthy bar I worked at last, where everyone liked to grope me like I was fucking merchandise.

Yeah, this is much better, and if I can find another tutoring job, like the one I had a few months ago, I should have enough for rent and food.

That’s all that matters right now. All that has mattered for the past year: survival.

If o

nly I wasn’t growing so fast I need new shoes and clothes every couple of months and enough food to feed a small army, I’d be fine. I mean, jeez, now I know why they say growing boys eat their parents out of house and home.

Returning home, I linger outside the building in the dark, rolling a cigarette, thinking how strange it is I still haven’t met Nate’s parents or any siblings.