Can.
She steps into the humid night and skips down the sidewalk to the back parking lot. I wouldn’t have pegged this girl as a skipper.
Skip she does and I follow, tasting the sweet victory.
Victory doesn’t last long. I freeze midstep on the sidewalk. Before she can prance past the yellow lines confining an old rusty car, two menacing guys climb out and neither appears happy.
“Something I can do for you, man?” the taller one asks. Tattoos run the length of his arms.
“Nope. ” I shove my hands in my pockets and relax my stance. I have no intention of getting into a fight, especially when I’m outnumbered.
Tattoo Guy crosses the parking lot, and he’d probably keep coming if it wasn’t for the other guy with hair covering his eyes. He stops right in front of Tattoo Guy, halting his progress, but his posture suggests he’d also fight for kicks.
“Is there a problem, Beth?”
Beth. Hard to believe this hard-core girl could have such a delicate name. As if reading my thoughts, her lips slide into an evil smirk.
“Not anymore,” she answers as she jumps into the front seat of the car.
Both guys walk to their car while keeping an eye on me, as if I’m stupid enough to jump them from behind. The engine roars to life and the car vibrates like duct tape holds it together.
In no hurry to go inside and explain to my friends how I lost, I stay on the sidewalk. The car slowly drives by and Beth presses her palm against the passenger window. Written in black marker is the word signaling my defeat: can’t.
Beth
THERE’S NOTHING BETTER than the feeling of floating. Weightless in warmth. Comforter out of the dryer warmth. The warmth of a strong hand against my face, running through my hair.
If only life could be like this…forever.
I could do forever here, in the basement of my aunt’s house. All walls. No windows. The outside kept outside. The people I love inside.
Noah—his hair hiding his eyes, keeping the world from seeing his soul.
Isaiah—a sleeve of beautiful tattoos that frightens the normal and entices the free.
Me—the poet in my mind when I’m high.
I came to this house for safety. They came because the foster care system ran out of homes. We stayed because we were stray pieces of other puzzles, tired of never fitting.
One year ago, Isaiah and Noah bought the couch, the king-size mattress, and the TV from the Goodwill. Shit thrown away by somebody else. By yanking it down a flight of stairs into the depths of the earth, they made us a home. They gave me a family.
“I wore ribbons,” I say. My own voice sounds bizarre. Echoing. Far away. And I speak again so I can hear the strangeness.
“Lots of them. ”
“I love it when she does this,” Isaiah says to Noah. The three of us relax on the bed.
Finishing another beer, Noah sits at the end with his back propped against the wall. Isaiah and I touch. We only touch when we’re high or drunk or both. We can because it doesn’t count then. Nothing counts when you feel weightless.
Isaiah runs his hand through my hair again.
The gentle tug urges me to close my eyes and sleep forever. Bliss. This is bliss.
“What colors?” The normal rough edges of Isaiah’s tone disappear, leaving smooth deepness.
“Pink. ”
“And?”