Not that it’s any of my business—I just like knowing the territory and the people in it. Not knowing makes me uneasy, jittery. I hate being unable to plan ahead, to know what I need to be wary of.
Or maybe I’ve turned so paranoid no amount of information would help me relax anywhere. Besides, that West guy said that Nate’s parents are nice.
And then my mind replays Nate’s reaction to the words, that darkening of his expression, and I glare at my cigarette, all rolled up and ready. This is bullshit. It means nothing. Why am I so obsessed with Nate’s expression? Could have been a coincidence. Maybe he had a goddamn fight with his parents, and he’s pissed at them. Maybe he was thinking of something else.
But the unease persists.
I end up smoking my cigarette, letting the late night cool breeze roll over me, letting the smoke flow through me, calm me down.
It works, until a voice calls out, seemingly out of nowhere, “Kash?”
Jesus.
My heart starts hammering even as it registers that it’s a girl’s voice, somehow familiar.
Glancing around, I spot Sydney sitting on the entrance steps. At least I think it’s her. She unfolds from her perch, and the light from the next street lamp catches on her red hair that’s falling on her shoulders like burnished copper.
“Hey,” I say, hoping she can’t hear the shakiness in my voice. “What are you doing out here?”
“It’s my home,” she says patiently, like speaking to a child. “I live here.”
I shake my head. Turn away from her.
“And you?”
“I live here, too.”
“No, I mean, why were you out so late? Partying?”
Somewhere deep inside I rebel at this questioning, this directness. I’ve lived for a while now without anyone’s supervision. Anyone’s concern.
And yet I find myself replying, “I was working.”
She doesn’t reply immediately, and I’m not even sure she heard me. But then, before I turn away again, she says, “You work so late every night?”
“Yeah.” I put out my cigarette, then stow the rest of it away in my pouch. “In a restaurant.”
Why the hell am I volunteering info to this girl I barely know?
“I thought about working in a restaurant,” she says conversationally. “But then I got this babysitting job, and it’s way easier.”
“Says you. I’d probably get the kids killed.” I wince. “I’m not good with kids.”
Or people.
Or any living things. I bring darkness, and death.
“Bullshit,” she says, and for some reason that makes me grin. “I bet you’d be awesome with them. You’re not strict like West, or all over the place, like Nate.”
And how would you know that? I think, though what comes out is, “You’re good friends.”
“Me and the boys? Yeah.” Though there’s a trace of doubt in her voice, like she isn’t sure about it. “I mean, I’ve known them for a while. They’re good guys. You can trust them.”
Can I?
Can they trust me?
Clenching my jaw, reminded of why I’m here, I prepare to walk past her and go up to my room, when she says, “I may have to get a second job.”