Radio Ga Ga

My body was starting to ache. My hands were shaking. Not a lot, but enough to tell me I was gonna break soon if I didn’t get a fix. They didn’t care though. This was the game they liked to play.

When you were at the mercy of NEST, they liked to dig the knife in and wiggle it around.

This was my seventy-first interview since I started to remember more than just glimpses. I was a late bloomer. Most Re-Cars got their memories back around puberty. I didn’t get them all back until I was almost twenty and when I did, they were all jumbled bits of mental throw up.

Up until then, most normal people just thought I was crazy. A bad seed.

And I was.

God, I was a horrible girl. Sometimes I think back on those times and I feel sorry for my mom and stepdad. I feel like such a horrible person for what I did.

For Sam.

“You’re wandering,” he said to me, sitting across the stainless steel table.

I looked around the small interrogation room. Smelled the old plastic from the foam on the walls. Looked at the dead ashes in our ashtray. Four or five butts had already been put out in it and most of them were mine. I could feel little beads of sweat working their way onto my forehead. Not just from the lights overhead either.

I couldn’t look him in the eyes though. I couldn’t look anyone in the eyes. Never was able, really. They used to think I was autistic, but that’s not it. Something about it just kills me. It feels too personal. Too real. Something about people looking at me like that just makes me feel smaller. I just want to shrink into the floor.

“No. No, I’m here.” I said, taking a long breath.

I glanced up at his handsome, dark-skinned face. He was a tall, broad-shouldered man, maybe in his late forties. Looked like he could handle himself alright, but he and I both knew what he really was. At a moment’s notice he could snap me in half.

He was a celestial. Or, a lesser celestial if he was here on earth.

I guess if I thought about getting snapped in half that wasn’t particularly hard though. At five foot and ninety-two pounds with my pockets full, I’m guessing most anybody could break me in two. I remember reading somewhere that my ideal weight was like almost one-hundred and ten. I suppose I might be able to pull that off.

Y’know.

If not for crushing poverty.

“Your processing interview wasn’t the greatest this month. How are you adjusting?”

He tilted his head to catch my eyes and for a moment I looked back. It wasn’t long before my eyes retreated and I heard him cough out a sound that was probably a chuckle.

“I’m doin’ okay,” my knee started to bounce.

“Are you?”

“Yeah,” I said, nodding my head.

Too fast.

I wince.

“Are you back on drugs?” He asked, his dark eyes weighing on me.

“No.”

“Are you back on drugs?” He asked again, exactly the same way he had before.

“No.” I shifted in my seat.

“Are you back on drugs?” He repeated for the third time.

“Yes.”

He leaned back in his chair.

Fuck.

I was almost out of here.

“Look,” I said, “we’ve been at this for a while. I’ll tell you whatever you want to hear, I just,” my breath caught in my chest and I exhaled.

I tried to lift my hands to brush my frizzy hair back but one of my wrists caught on the handcuff they had me in. The metal clicked as I accidentally pulled it taut. I dropped my hands back on the table.

“You’re right. It’s been eight hours. And from the looks of your hands, I’d say it’s about time for you to fix. Isn’t that right, Charlotte?” The smug look on his face sickened me.

“Fuck you.”

I turned my head to look at the wall as he chuckled. The sound made me want to throw things at him.

I started to say something but instead forced myself to look at him.

“I’m sorry, Agent Atherton.” I lied with as much conviction as I could.

Seconds later my eyes retreated to the table.

“No you’re not, but I’ll accept it,” he opened his notepad again and fetched his pen from his jacket pocket.

“What are you taking, Charlie?”

“Vicodin.” I lied.

“What are you taking, Charlie?” His pen didn’t move.

“Vicodin.” I tried to lie again. His pen still showed no sign of movement.

I rolled my eyes and blew a heavy sigh.

“I take a pill cocktail in the morning before breakfast. Percocet, Vicodin, Adderall.”

I hesitated. He knew there was more. I could feel him judging me.

“I like ’em together,” I added, trying to hide my hesitation.

There was a long, pregnant silence. I heard him take a slow breath of his own.

“That’s all. I swear.” I looked down at my hands, wishing I’d spoken up louder.

“Pull up your sleeve, Charlotte.”

“Fuck.” I kicked the table leg. “Just lemme go home, alright?” I begged, disrespecting my New York roots.

“Pull up your sleeve.” He repeated and I just wanted to yell at him.

“Just- why a-,” I couldn’t get my words together. “God.”

“He doesn’t exist. Pull up your sleeve.”

I reached over to my shackled wrist, grabbed the sleeve of my sweater and yanked it up. I knew what was there. I was too ashamed to look down at it with him. I just sat there staring at the padded wall.

“And I guess those are all just bee stings. Right?” He said.

Tears started rolling down my cheeks. I was so mad at myself I was trembling. I held my sleeve up though. Defiance my last defense.

“Back on heroin,” he said in confirmation and I finally hear his pen scratching away at that notepad. The sound made me clench my jaw tighter.

“How much are you taking?” He asked.

“Two... maybe three bags a day.” If I didn’t sound defeated before, now I just sounded like a kicked dog. I shoved my sleeve back down and wiped my face.

“What do you get outta this?” I stared daggers at him for a moment.

Only a moment.

“Out of what?” He asked, genuinely curious, sitting back in his chair and looking at me.

I saw one of his eyebrows lift a little.

“Outta beatin’ me down all the time.” I said back, my free hand sweeping across the table, smacking his notepad to the floor, “like my life’s not hard enough without this shit. You guys drag me up here once a month, ask me the same questions for hours, make me feel bad about myself. Then I get to sit in here with you afterwards so you can make me feel worse.”

“I’m just-”

“Doin’ your job,” I cut him off, “yeah. Whatever. Look, I’m not proud of what I am. People in my position don’t get luxuries like pride. That’s for people like you that get to judge people like me.”

There was another long silence.

He picked his notepad up from the floor and started writing something else. I sat back in my chair. By then the need was really eating at me. All I could think about was shooting up. I just needed to get to my kit. If I could just get out of here and catch a bus home.

“Last question, Charlie. Where is it?” He asked, and I nodded my head.

It’s what came at the end of every one of my follow-ups.

The question.

“I don’t know.”

“Where is the Heart Fire, Charlie?” He asked again.

“I don’t know.”

“Where is it?” He scribbled a few lines on his pad then looked up at me. His eyes were squinting at me like he was trying to read into my head.

“Look, you gotta know if I knew where it was, I’d have told you by now.” I said, but he didn’t seem convinced. He just sat up in his chair and sighed.

“You don’t believe me. Right.” I blew a resigned breath of my own, “Am I going on ice?”

“No, I believe you.” He lifted both hands in a non confrontational way. The gesture was comforting. “I don’t think putting you on ice is going to do any good.”

I exhaled pure relief.

Nobody wanted the ice. That’s when they lock you up in a mental ward and tell your family you had a psychotic break. Not that they’d have to tell my family anything.

They all hated me.

On ice you’re on twenty-four seven lockdown. You don’t have any contact with the outside world. It’s just you and a couple other reincarnates bitching about not getting pudding on Fridays. You get process interviews every day, get force fed medication and have to stick out your tongue to prove you swallowed it. They humiliate you, treat you like a child, use sleep deprivation techniques to make you snap.

When you snap, you get what I always get.

When I get mad, I break shit.

When I break shit, an orderly beats my ass.

After they beat my ass, I get a zombie shot in the neck and a straitjacket to drool on.

NEST keeps a pretty tight hold on the lives of any reincarnated god. You act up and they’ll put your ass on ice so long you’ll forget your name. And for a Re-Car, that’s a big deal.

We live a really long time.

It’s hard to fit two lives in one brain. You end up losing touch with what’s real. Some people are stronger than others, but for the most part, NEST doesn’t have too hard a job finding us. You just check every behavioral program, nuthouse, county jail, lockup, rehab or ghetto and you’ll usually find one of us.

We can’t cope.

We can’t function in society.

My entire race was defined by being screw-ups, rejects, alcoholics and addicts.

We get born here no more powerful than anyone else. Only thing we get is a guaranteed hard life and when we turn sixteen we get handlers. Mine were agents Paul Lyons and Levy Atherton.

Apollyon and Leviathan.

There were other agents too. Like Lilly Little. Lilith. She was a real bitch. One of the Triumvirate. Paul Lyons, he was one of the Triumvirate as well. I didn’t see him much though. Mostly Levy here. Paul was far too busy coordinating NEST countrywide.

Most Re-Cars get moved to the States after they’re discovered. The one country that had a track record for locking up people they were embarrassed of.

Bring me your tired, poor and wretched masses yearning to get marginalized.

Problem solved I guess.

Lastly, there was William Lisle, the head of the Triumvirate. I won’t spell that one out, it’s too obvious. He was a cold son of a bitch. I met him one time by accident. Levy had me handcuffed outside in the hallway because me and my temper had decided to show my ass again. I started kicking shit over and throwing a tantrum.

He put me into the wall hard and sat me down right when good ol’ Billy was walking by. He looked down at me and said one word.

Icebox.

Off I went. Gone for three months to the land of drool and withheld pudding. But not before his right-hand lady Lilly got a piece of me.

She liked to hurt me.

Levy was staring holes into the side of my head but I didn’t look at him.

“Look at me.” He said, like he was reading my mind.

My face twisted and I gave a defeated whimper. I mustered defiance on my face and forced my eyes up.

“Good. Don’t look away.”

It was murder.

The only way I could keep staring him in the eyes was not to blink. My eyes started to burn.

“Now smile.”

Agent Atherton knew exactly what he was doing.

I felt exposed.

“C’mon, man.”

“Charlie, a handler is supposed to challenge you. My job is to remind you that you have no power. You are completely out of control.” He let a long silence creep between us again.

“Smile.” He said. It wasn’t a request.

I forced the world’s most cringe-worthy smile.

Levy stared right through me.

“Go home, Charlie.” He stood up and the cuff on my wrist released on its own.

I rubbed at the red ring on my flesh.

“Really? No foolin’?” I asked, afraid to stand up. Afraid it was another trick.

“Really,” Levy replied from the door, holding it open.

I stood up and quickly made my way to it. He tapped me with his notepad on my way out and I stopped.

“What’s up?” I asked, real worry in my eyes as I looked back, afraid agents were about to swarm me from the doorways in the hall. Afraid of a needle in my neck and a trip to the box.

“You talk to your family lately?”

“C’mon. You know they don’t talk to me.” I said. “’Scept maybe Max.”

“That’s who I mean. You told her about any of this?”

“No,” I shook my head, “I wouldn’t do that to her. And yeah... we talk off and on. I can tell she forces herself to speak to me, but it’s still kinda nice. Y’know. Like, I dunno. Like we’re still sisters.” I said, shrugging.

“Yeah.” He nodded, “She know you’re back on the needle?” He asked.

I felt my eyebrows twitch at what sounded like a touch of concern in his voice.

“No.”

“You should tell her.”

He tucked his notepad under his arm and started away down the pristine metal hallway.

Everybody was always trying to stick me somewhere they thought would help. NEST was always threatening the icebox, the cops were always threatening jail time. Max wanted me to go to rehab.

All I wanted to do was go home, get high and forget about all of them.

I even smiled a little at the thought. Not of Max, not about finally getting out of here. No, what excited me the most was the thought of being able to get back home to my love. My peace-giver. Just thinking about the prick of a needle gave me a wave of excitement and joy.

I hurried out to the lobby to check myself out. I stood in line, smiling to myself like someone had told me a funny joke a moment ago. I scribbled my sloppy signature on the line at the bottom of my out paperwork and confirmed my next appointment in thirty days.

“Charlie S. Ryan,” I said, giving the paperwork back to the woman sitting opposite the intake window.

“Ms. Ryan, your next appointment will be on the nineteenth at 5:00 AM. If you miss this appointment your NEST Agent will collect you by force. If you resist you will be detained and immediately processed for isolation pending an assessment by the Triumvirate. Any and all unpermitted travel is restricted. If you intend to travel outside of your geo-fence you are to report immediately to agents Paul Lyons or Levy Atherton. Furthermore, you are in no way permitted to raise your hands in any form of aggression, assault or self-defense for the betterment and safety of non-reincarnates. Any violation of your BTP or Borrowed Time Policy will result in immediate arrest and possible time spent in a NEST isolation and rehabilitation center. Your freedom is a privilege, not a right. Do you understand?”

It was the same speech everyone got when leaving but I didn’t hear any of it. My mind was on getting rid of this ache in my body. The soreness in my bones that could only be cured by one thing.

“I understand.” I nodded.

She slid my personal items under the glass window in a NEST bag. Inside it, right beneath the Naturalization Enforcement and Securities Triumvirate logo was my small wallet, a half-empty box of cigarettes and a cheap lighter with a gas station logo on it. They slid me my backpack and cellphone through the two-way drawer under the counter.

I had a habit of carrying a guy’s wallet. Not because I didn’t like girl wallets, but because when you spend half your life running or in one-sided street fights, dainty little magnet clip foldovers just didn’t quite make sense. That and I couldn’t afford a real wallet so I Googled a video on how to make one out of duct tape. One trip down to the maintenance closet in my building and I had a sturdy bifold job I could cram all my personals in.

I rifled through my cell phone out of habit. I don’t know why I bothered checking it. Nobody ever called. It wasn’t the most lavish thing in the world, the screen was cracked and my dollar store case had seen better days but it did its job. I had seven contacts saved: Mom, Dad, Max, Bobby, Andy, Sam and Tambourine Man.

Only two of them ever spoke to me.

Max and my dealer.

I put my earbuds in, shuffled my playlist, signed my acceptance of the terms of my temporary freedom and headed towards the big glass front doors. Several other Re-Cars sat in the lobby waiting their turn to be heckled, poked, prodded and made fun of. I recognized a few faces from being here previously, but I didn’t want a conversation. I didn’t want to say hi to someone I’d likely never see again if they gave the wrong answer in there and ended up getting sent up the river.

I just left.

It took almost an hour to get home. I missed my bus and had to wait for another. Then someone had a fender bender on the overpass so the bus driver had to take an alternate route. I sat at the back of the bus chewing my fingernails and dreaming about escaping reality on a needle ride. Every now and then I’d catch some bozo staring back at me with that look.

Some girls liked being pretty.

I didn’t.

Just meant half the people you meet were gonna be dishonest. Or make you promises they weren’t gonna keep. I wasn’t trying to be another biracial hoodrat with five kids I couldn’t afford, nor somebody’s trophy booty. Whenever they gave me the look, I acted like a stuck up bitch or ignored them entirely.

Sometimes I would get the insistent ones that stepped up with a ridiculous, ‘Hey, yo, ma! Ma!’, pants sagging halfway down their ass like a male prison yard slut. Or those preppy white guys with jungle fever hoping to impress me in the front seat of their daddy’s Porsche.

Get the fuck outta here.

I switched over to the radio.

Normally I listened to jazz. Right now, I just turned on the FM on my phone and listened to anything. Radio chatter, some political talk show on NPR. Radio blah-blah I could give two shits about.

I got off the bus at the corner of the street to the blaring sound of the train going by overhead. The familiar smell of urine and old beer hitting my nose from the underpass. I’d walked this street so many times I knew where every broken piece of concrete was, every chunk of unmown grass.

I had a cigarette fired up the moment fresh air touched my face.

I didn’t know a single one of my neighbors. All I remembered was one building after another, packed to bursting with tiny, low-income apartments and truly destitute people. Somewhere among them, I found my own broken down old building.

In my neighborhood all of the windows had bars.

By then my skin was practically on fire. I was sweating on a sixty-degree day.

Fuck, I needed to get these clothes off.

Hopping up the three stairs on the stoop, I punched in the door code fast and shoved it open. I smashed my cigarette butt out on the brick window sill outside, half listening to some radio interview playing in my ears.

Blowing a smokey sigh, I stopped and pulled an earbud out, turning to look at the tiny little office to the left of the front door. Inside, Jack was moving stacks of paperwork around and writing things on the big calendar I knew was in front of him.

“Charlie, my dad wants to know when you’re paying rent.” He tried to sound tough and authoritative. If I had a spine it probably wouldn’t have worked.

But I don’t.

My shoulders sank.

“I- yeah...” I looked at the floor in his direction. “I’ll get it.”

“Yeah?” He said, and my top lip curled on its own.

Here we go.

“I mean,” He gave me a toothy smile, “I can cover you if you want.”

“Can you, Jack?” I said more than asked. “And why would you be that generous?”

He sauntered over to me. He was tall, sandy-haired. Kind of guy who probably got lots of attention in high school. I wouldn’t lie to him if he asked me. He was attractive.

“I’ve been trying to take you out forever. I mean, if you’re not the dating kinda girl, we can always just be buddies. I kinda got a thing for mixed girls, y’know?”

“Do you.” I said, “What kinda mixed girls?”

“Your kind.” He replied and my eyes rolled.

“And what kind is that?” I asked, intentionally leaning my weight on one hip. I saw his eyes dip down.

Every guy’s eyes dipped down.

I was short and lean, but broad in the hips and thighs where most of my weight sat. My family’s genetic blessing. Or curse, I guess. Mom and all my sisters were coke bottles.

I was the only pear.

“Short, cute, pouty lips, great hips.” He said, confidence radiating from him.

This kid didn’t hear no very often.

I gave a short laugh, “What’s that got to do with being mixed?”

“Everything, my soft, sweet, mulato princess. Don’t be cruel. I’m just an honest man on a mission.”

“Princess? Yeah right. More like peasant. And what mission is that, Jacky?” I balked, tilting my chin down, throwing my coffee brown eyes up.

I didn’t want to look him in the eyes. I looked him in the mouth. He was looking me in mine, I figured it was fair game.

“C’mon. That booty’s calling my name.”

“No, it’s really not.” I smiled, shaking my head.

Jack was barely twenty years old. I’d be twenty-seven by the end of next summer. He was still full of youth and hopeful determination. He had that late-night soap opera, White Knight complex. Every time he talked to me I could tell he envisioned some stupid future with the two of us laughing, cuddled up on the couch. He’d have some hot shit job, I’d be his pretty little half-white, half-black wife he would brag to his friends about. Give him two little mixed babies. Wrap my pouty lips around his dick and suck him stupid after work while he watched the game. Let him blow his balls in my throat before I bring him dinner. A dime store porn story mixed with fantasy.

One day he would grow up and know better. I didn’t want to be the one to teach him about girls like me.

“Tell your dad I’ll get it to him as soon as I can. I’m just... kinda havin’ a little trouble findin’ a gig.”

“Yeah, it’s cool. I’ll try to keep him off your back. Just get it as fast as you can, alright? You’re cool. I don’t wanna have to get used to somebody else moving in.” I nodded at him.

He hesitated awkwardly and I knew why. He was searching my face. I finally gave him what he wanted. I forced my eyes up to meet his. He smiled that pretty, appreciative smile at me.

“I gotta get goin’,” I said, turning for the stairs.

I was positive he was staring at my booty. I didn’t wear skinny jeans and yoga pants to show off. They were only ninety-nine cents at the thrift store.

I made sure to give him a little extra swing in my hips during my short walk to the stairs. When I rounded the first landing, I glanced down and confirmed my suspicion. He had a goofy grin on his face.

I really should stop teasing him.

Anybody that said they didn’t like attention once in a while was just lying to themselves. The messed up part is, even though you say you don’t want it from anyone, what it comes down to is whose attention you’re getting. Most of the attention I get from men is all the wrong kind. Most of them see me as a piece of ass or a quick booty call they can pick up, fuck and drop back off in the ghetto. And that’s exactly why I’d rather go home and fingerfuck myself before bed.

Jack wasn’t like them though. He tried to act like a player, but I could see through it. I could read his eyes. I didn’t know how to deal with the way he looked at me. Like he saw me the way I could be instead of how I am. I could tell he saw me like I was somebody worthy of his affection.

If I could be that for him we’d both be the happiest people alive.

But that’s not me.

I made it to my apartment just as a wave of nausea hit me. I cursed myself for taking too long. I’d almost forgotten about my real lover. The one that rocked me to sleep at night and made all my tension go away.

Jack thought the world of me.

My body reminded me what I really was.

I forced my key into the lock of my narrow door, disgusted at myself, and pushed it open to step into my tiny little studio apartment.

It was two-hundred square feet of nothing, but it was mine. The door opened right up into my subatomic living room space. A little threadbare loveseat stood in for a couch. Across from it, my rain-bleached TV stand sat against the wall holding up a twenty-nine-inch television my sister Max gave me. My dresser separated my living room from my bedroom. On the opposite side of it, a twin sized bed sat with old but comfortable sheets on it. The blanket was a quilt I managed to scoop up at a garage sale for a few dollars and pillows purchased in a two pack from the local department store with a sales coupon.

My bed sat facing the tiniest kitchenette a landlord’s money could buy and to top it all off, the counter was hidden under a collection of whiskey and beer bottles. A few dirty spoons and forks were in the sink and the little garbage can next to it was spilling over with microwave dinner packages, popcorn wrappers, chip bags and the remains of last night’s five-star dinner. A half eaten box of donuts lifted from the concession table of my AA Meeting the night before.

I went to AA almost every week after I got out of prison.

I’ve only ever had the light blue token.

Twenty-four hours was as far as I’d ever made it. After a while I was so ashamed of myself I just stopped going. Once in a while, I’d come by to steal free snacks. I’d stand out in the hallway listening sometimes, but I couldn’t make myself go in.

Like last night.

I didn’t stop to take off my shoes. I dropped my bag by the door, made sure it was locked, then hurried my way to the bathroom. I threw on the light and looked up at the medicine cabinet above the sink.

The mirror was blacked out with electrical tape.

I stared at it and felt thankful I didn’t have to look at myself. I remembered it wasn’t just my own eyes I was blocking. Thinking about that I hesitated, imagining eyes on me. I felt myself cringing at the thought but pushed it to the back of my mind as I opened the medicine cabinet behind it.

I took out the little tin box inside next to all the stolen prescription bottles.

Popping it open, I breathed a sigh of relief to see it still there.

I knew it hadn’t gone anywhere. That no one had taken it; and yet still it was a huge comfort.

My needle, my old, burnt up little spoon and shoelace. My three little blue, square bags.

Moments later I was sitting on the loveseat, watching the evening news while I heated that nugget of white powder and liquid with a lighter under the head of my kit spoon.

I promised myself that I’d only do a little. Just to knock the edge off. Just to feel good again. My body was in so much pain by the time I was loading that needle, I could barely think straight.

I was excited.

I was already getting a little rush just thinking about it.

Nobody understood me the way that this did. The way my needle did. It was my friend. It was my counselor. When your head is full of thoughts you don’t want and you’re in so much pain you want to dig out the parts that hurt with a knife. When your muscles are cramping up like they hate you, your stomach is doing flips and all you want to do is find a corner, lay in it and die just to make the pain go away. When you just felt bad.

You would do anything to feel better.

I felt the familiar sting. It didn’t hurt. It felt wonderful.

I felt the pins and needles start at the crown of my head. I felt the wave of peace wash all through me.

Then the high. Oh, god the high.

I was floating up, but at the same time, there was a weight on my chest. A familiar press that felt both good and bad. Like a scolding hand from heaven, willing me to lay down on my little couch. My eyelids betrayed me. They weighed six hundred pounds and I didn’t want to fight them. They loved me.

Everyone loved me.

The whole world just wanted me to feel better.

I did feel better.

This is what true love feels like. I’ve never been kissed like this; never been held like this.

I’m complete.

* * *

I woke up hard.

Nothing made sense. My mouth tasted like an ashtray, dry and foul, like whiskey and cigarettes. I looked around with one eye open. Light from my only window was blinding even through my cheap dollar store curtains. My body was sore from the position I slept in, my neck on the arm of the couch, my back curled like a question mark all night.

I looked down at the floor beside me. My ashtray sat there next to my now empty box of smokes, stuffed to spilling over with butts from the last three nights. A half empty bottle of whiskey was sitting next to one of my shoes, the other one was still on my foot.

I could have sworn I had one cigarette left, but I couldn’t be sure.

Dried drool had crusted up at either side of my mouth and that’s when I noticed it. I looked down to see dry vomit on my chest and I dropped my head back on the armrest.

“You did it again, Charlie,” I whispered out loud, my voice dry and cracking.

I climbed off the couch and found my feet.

Sorta.

The moment I got up, blood rushed from my head and I got an instant migraine. I fell to the floor in front of the tin can that housed my hype kit. Getting to hands and knees, I looked into it to see all three bags were gone.

“Fuck... I shot it all.”

I looked around for my needle, only to find it swinging from my arm. It was still in. I didn’t even notice the pain when I pulled it out, but the dried scab that was holding it in place tore and my arm leaked a fresh dot of dark red blood.

“You stupid bitch. Can’t afford this shit.”

I peeled my disgusting shirt off and tossed it to the floor, sitting back against the couch, looking down at my small breasts to check and make sure I didn’t get puke on my sports bra.

“I can’t keep doing this. I’m gonna die. You gotta stop, Charlie. That’s it. No more. You’re gonna accidentally kill yourself.” I rubbed my face.

Would that really be so bad? Shouldn’t I just die?

“Yeah. Keep telling yourself that. I’m sure it’ll help,” said an unfamiliar baritone voice from the corner of my place.

I snapped up, skittering across the living room in my panties and a single shoe.

Somewhere in my mind, I registered the fact that I managed to get skinny jeans off with one shoe still on. However the fuck I managed that is beyond me and my drug-addled, sleepy brain.

I stumbled and bumped my way across the room and hid behind my dresser.

“Holy shit. Holy shit! Who the fuck are you? How the fuck did you get in my place? This is my house!”

“Charlie, relax.” The baritone voice said.

“Fuck you, relax.” I peeked out from behind the dresser.

A young man stood in the corner of my apartment, leaning into the wall. He wore a white disheveled tie around his neck over an unbuttoned collar. His dark green button up was untucked above dark pants and sneakers with a long dark peacoat over top. He had a face full of youthful, male beauty. An accidental kind of handsome. His hair was a stylish brown, wavy bed-head that seemed like he gave a shit and didn’t at the same time.

I watched him light my last cigarette before I tucked myself back behind my dresser.

“Who are you?” I asked, trying to calm myself.

If he was going to hurt me, he certainly had every opportunity while I was laying on the couch in my own sweat and puke.

“Stag.” He said, “I’m not gonna hurt you.”

I peeked again to see him blow smoke out of the corner of his mouth.

“Said every serial killer ever,” I bit back sarcastically.

He gave a genuine laugh. One that was easy to like.

“What’s that accent, Bed Stuy?” He asked.

“Bed Stuy? Get your hearin’ checked. Flatbush.”

“Damn. So close.” He said.

“Close? Four miles makes a difference, Fucko. What kinda name is Stag, anyway?”

“It’s a short name.”

“Really?” I said, sarcasm dripping from my tone.

“Yeah. Y’know. A short name. Small form of a longer name given at birth.”

“Funny,” I responded, my tone flat. “What do you want, Stag?”

“Nothing in particular,” I heard him blow more smoke. “Just figured I should stay to see if you were gonna make it or not.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Means you overdosed last night. Hope you don’t mind me using your Narcan. I found you choking on your own vomit.”

A sudden wave of embarrassment threatened to shove me into the floor.

“Yeah, thanks. If you were smart you’d have just left.”

“I said my name is Stag,” he replied, I could hear him talking through a smile, “not Walter White.”

I laughed a little. “Nice. S’a good show.”

“Yeah, it is.” I could smell my cheap tobacco in the air.

“So listen. You gonna come out from behind the dresser, Brooklyn? It’s kinda hard having a conversation with somebody like this.”

“Not till you tell me how the fuck you got in here, Stag.”

“Oh, you know. Little magic trick. Full disclosure, you’re not supposed to see me.”

“Fuck. I knew it was a trick. I KNEW It!”

I stood up from behind the dresser and started opening drawers, getting out a fresh change of clothes.

“Look. Tell Levy I’m not resisting, okay? Just let me take a shower and get changed, I’ll come quiet. He doesn’t have to send Lilly. I’ll be good, I won’t break anything. Let’s just get it over with.”

“What?” Stag said.

The look on his face was genuinely confused.

I stood there with a shirt in one hand and a fresh pair of panties in the other.

“The box, right? How long this time? I swear, I’m really close to gettin’ a job, I just... fuck. I’m gonna lose my place.”

I dropped my hands to my sides and could feel them coming. I was gonna cry again like a fucking baby.

“I’m not-...”

“Shit. I ju-... I’m tryin’ so hard, I.. fuck!”

“Charlie! Charlie... j- relax!” He said.

“This is bullshit, I didn’t even do anything this time!”

He stood up, lifting both hands his eyes wide like he’d just seen a murder.

“I’m not taking you anywhere, kiddo.”

“You’re not?” I said.

“No.” He started walking towards me and I backed up.

“You promise?” I dried my eyes with the heel of my hands, “I don’t wanna go back there. I’ll go to rehab, I’ll stop using. I’ll get better.”

“I’m not a NEST agent, Charlie.”

“I don’t believe you. It’s always tricks with you guys. Always games.” I said, “Promise me.”

“Alright, I promise. I’m not one of Midvalley’s knuckleheads.”

“Okay... Okay, but either way... like, you know. About us.”

“Yeah, I do. Blue Veil isn’t completely controlled by The Lightning Emperor, you know? We don’t all agree with his world view.”

Stag took another step.

“Stop.”

“I’m coming to you slowly, okay?”

I backed up another half step, but something in his face put me at ease.

He put his cigarette out in the ashtray I left on the floor and kept his word, slowly walking towards me. He reached into his pocket and I stepped back again, bumping into my bed.

“Stop!”

“Charlie, hang on. It’s not a weapon, it’s not a needle, it’s just a scarf.” He said, pulling a neatly folded, long white scarf from his inside jacket pocket.

I looked at it, curious. It was knitted to perfection. It looked so soft, so stark white against the stained, scarred surface of my dresser where he sat it.

“This was yours,” he said, his tone reverent.

I looked at it again. I noticed the beautifully made patterns in its fabric. I noticed the tassels at the end of it. Things that were immediately familiar to me. I retraced my half step back to get closer, my small hand reaching out for it. That’s when I placed it in my mind. Something from a long, long time ago.

From before.

“That’s not mine anymore,” I said, and my hand dropped to my side.

Stag looked at me.

“You’re with the Republic?” I asked him.

“Kinda. Really, I stand with Chroma God... Which means I stand with you.”

“Stand with me for what?” I asked, shaking my head. “If you think I’m goin’ back to Blue Veil, you’re out of your mind. Look, I don’t know what part of the Endless Sky you came from, but you’re better off goin’ back there before NEST finds you here. They’ll hurt you real bad and then they’ll go to work on me.”

“Yeah, I know. But that’s not gonna happen.”

“And why wouldn’t it?” I scoffed.

“Are you gonna tell on me?” He asked, the playful smile on his face almost soothing.

I looked him in his hazel eyes and regretted it as soon as I did.

They fucking were beautiful.

My eyes darted away.

“What’s Stag short for?” I asked him.

“Stagger.” He said, “Lee. Stagger Lee.”

He offered a hand to shake.

“I need a shower.”

“Yep. You smell pretty terrible.” Stagger nodded and I shoved his chest.

We both chuckled.

“Like vomit, cigarettes, and booze-sweat. Basically like a dive bar. You smell like a dive bar.”

“I am a dive bar,” I groaned and scratched my head through my big poof of frizzy hair.

“Make yourself at home, Stag.”

I grabbed up my things and headed towards the bathroom, stopping to look back.

“And thanks for saving my life. I guess I kinda owe you one.”

“Not the first time,” Stagger shot back, his back respectfully turned to me.

I felt my eyebrows fidget, unsure if they wanted to frown or lift in surprise. He wasn’t trying to look at my ass. Then again, I looked and smelled like a dumpster fire at the moment.

Maybe that was why.

“I’ll expect you to explain that sentence when I get back.”

“Yup.” He said, walking over to lean against the side of my window. He pulled the curtains back just far enough to see out of them.

I lingered, staring at him a little longer, wondering why after all this time someone from Blue Veil showed up in my shitty little life, in my shitty little apartment. It wasn’t completely unusual. Breachers who came across to Earth with gate keys not given out by NEST or Orcus were usually dealt with quickly. Locked up in a prison on Earth or Blue Veil; sometimes even killed. Either way, they just disappeared.

The real question was where they got their gate key from.

I tried to wrap my mind around it all while I washed the sweat, stink and the vomit residue off my body. I was so embarrassed someone had seen me like that. At my absolute worst. This wasn’t the first morning I’d woken up in this condition, but usually, I was alone. I never could handle heroin well, but the high was so powerful.

At least at first.

That’s how it traps you.

The high wasn’t as good anymore, but now I needed it. I chased after that first high so long my body was reliant on the chemical. I couldn’t function without it. It made me feel normal. Even now with a stranger in my living room from another world, all I was thinking about was how I was going to come up with the money to get my fix before the body aches set in. Or how I was gonna feed myself. My fridge was empty. I had about two dollars in my checking account and about three dollars in change in my backpack.

I slid down the wall of my shower and sat down under the hot rain. I liked to turn it up until it was almost scalding. Let it massage my muscles into jelly and get my mind off of the day I knew was coming. Every day was something to endure instead of enjoy. How I was going to get through it without shooting up, I didn’t know.

My big, bushy head full of black, loose curls soaked up the water like a sponge and grew heavy. It spilled over me, down my back, over my face and I just let it. I massaged shampoo through it and felt the bottle was getting a little light. I’d have to find money to replace that soon too. Conditioner followed, and by the time I had gotten to my frizzy hair care treatments, my hands were already tired of scrubbing and my arms hurt from holding them up.

Not having a job, a haircut was out of the question.

I forced my way through it, finishing the chore that my hair had become. Climbing out of the shower, I dried myself off and got dressed.

I was too lazy to mate my socks so I never wore two that matched. Today it was skinny jeans, knee high converse all-stars I’d stolen from the women’s locker room at the Community Center and an untucked, short sleeve button up from the clearance shelf in the boy’s section of a department store.

I made sure I hid my track marks with a long-sleeved undershirt.

I figured my best bet today would be to hustle at one of the local High Schools. I hadn’t been to Southside in a few months. Could probably sneak in there, blend in with the crowd and get a meal in. Maybe steal some shit off faculty I could flip for cash.

Maybe after that, I could ride the train for a few hours. Pick some pockets while married men grabbed my ass in the tight crowds.

I put my hair up into two big, frizzy balls high on either side of the back of my head and stepped out of the bathroom to find Stagger still standing at the window.

He looked back at me with a smile.

I paid him no mind, walking over to my dresser.

In my top right-hand drawer, I kept all kinds of accessories. Most of it stolen from arcades, department stores, fairs, people’s backpacks, you name it. Things I’d collected that people left on various kinds of public transportation, too. I pulled on a multi-colored, chunky plastic bracelet, slipped a black novelty store ring on my right middle finger, another thumb ring on my left hand and looked up to see Stagger staring at me.

His smile had grown.

“What?” I asked.

“Nothing.” He shrugged.

My shoulders dropped.

“What?” My voice was flat.

“Gonna go pretend to be in High School again?”

“Okay, what the fuck. Have you been watchin’ me? Are you stalkin’ me?” I asked, suddenly fearful.

“No. I mean, yes. But no.”

“What, you ain’t got a TV back home? A hobby, maybe?”

“Charlie, Chroma God sent me here a long time ago to keep an eye on you. I wasn’t supposed to get directly involved, I wasn’t supposed to ever let you see me, hear me... we aren’t even supposed to be talking.”

“So why did you?”

“Because things in Blue Veil are only getting worse.” He turned from the window to face me fully, “There’s another war coming. One big enough to rival the War of the Old Gods, and it’s not looking good for those of us trying to find Brahma God.”

“That’s not my problem.”

“Yes, it is,” He shot back. “Somewhere lost in your head is the location of the Heart Fire.”

“I don’t know where it is and I’m really sick and tired of people askin’ me about it. I don’t know where the Heart Fire is, I don’t know where Brahma is. I used to give a shit, I tried lookin’ for him. He’s nowhere. He could be in a NEST lock up for all we know. Perun killed him. It’s over. The Old Gods had their shot and lost. We all did. This is the life I got landed with and this is the only one I care about now.”

I slammed my dresser drawer shut and headed over to my backpack.

“Where’s my phone?”

“It’s over there,” Stagger pointed at the couch arm.

I walked over and snatched it up, swiping it open. I went to my messages, hoping, praying dad said something back to me.

Still nothing. Just a long line of text messages I’d sent him over the years.

Me:

Hey, Daddy.

Me:

Hi.

Me:

I’m out of jail now. Wanna get breakfast? I really need to talk to you...

Me:

I know it was my fault. I’m so sorry. If I could take it back, I would.

Me:

Please talk to me.

Me:

Hello?

It went on for pages. Not a single response back.

“He didn’t respond.” Stagger said. He was looking out the window again.

“Don’t be here when I get back,” I fired back at him, glaring at the back of his head.

I snatched my backpack up and stood at my door, suddenly hating him. How dare he even mention my daddy.

“I gotta go try to save my roof. Unless you happen to have four-hundred dollars to pay on it, consider your stay here now revoked, alright?”

“Doesn’t work that way.”

“Yes, it does.” I frowned. He didn’t even turn from the window to look at me.

“No, it doesn’t.”

The door slamming was the only response he got back. I carried that frown on my face all the way down the stairs, rifling through my phone to see if I’d gotten any other messages.

I had one.

Tambourine Man:

Hey got sum new shit u n need?

I texted back.

Me:

Ya but no $ rite now

Tambourine Man:

We can work sum out ;)

Me:

Lik wat?

Tambourine Man:

Bring me that round a$$. Ben tryna hit it 4 a min :P~

Me:

U want me 2 fuk u??!!

Tambourine Man:

Yuuuuup

Me:

No thx

Tambourine Man:

Watev. Lemme no wen u got the $

Me:

Kk

I locked my phone and shoved it in my back pocket.

“Fuckin’ figures.” I took the last set of creaky steps as quietly as I could, trying to slip past the office and to the front door without disturbing anyone in it.

“Where’s my rent, Charlie?”

Fuck.

The old man.

“I’m on my way to get it now, Mr. J,” I called back nervously.

“You’re twenty days late.”

“I know. I know... I’m,” I blew a sigh and walked over to the office, leaning against the door frame. “I’m having a hard time gettin’ a job. Bein’ a felon ain’t helpin’ either.”

“That’s not my problem, Cutie Pie,” he said and there was no flirt in his voice.

He didn’t care. That’s one thing I liked about Mr. Jenkins. Unlike his young son, loaded to spilling over with hormones and post-teenage angst, Mr. Jenkins was older, probably had all the pussy he cared to in life and just wanted his money. I could respect a man like that. Plus, both our families moved here from New York years ago and we shared the unmistakable attitude and accent of someone from Brooklyn.

“You either pay your rent or you move out. It’s that simple.”

“I know. Just... gimme some more time, alright?” I asked, my eyes looking down at his desk calendar instead of at him.

“You should look people in the eyes when you talk to ’em. Yeah?” He said, waiting.

It took me a moment. I tried to keep my face from twisting up. I looked him in his smokey grey eyes and he nodded.

“Good girl. That’s much better, don’t you think? Young people these days don’t do it enough.”

“Y- yeah...” I said, forcing myself not to blink.

“Look, in a few more days, you’re gonna be two months behind. I can’t have that. Sets a bad example. Then I got Ms. Thompson up on the fourth sayin’ I’m going sweet on you. Trent down the hall there sayin’ I play favorites. It’s bad for business.”

“I know, Mr. J. I’m really sorry. I’ll... I’ll have it in a few days, I promise.”

“I thought you were on the way to get it?” He sounded exasperated.

“I am. Part of it. Just... I’ll pay both months. Just give me a few days. I’ll have this month and next for you by the twenty-seventh, I swear,” I lied.

He gave a heavy sigh and nodded his head.

“Alright, kid. The twenty-seventh. No later.”

“No later,” I confirmed with a nod.

“Alright. Get outta here,” he chuckled, waving me on my way.

I blinked my eyes a few times and skittered out the door, checking the time on my phone.

“Fuck,” I broke out into a full sprint down my block, seeing the tail lights of my bus up ahead.

“Shit!”

I was small, and not exactly the strongest, and even if I was allowed to fight back I probably couldn’t hold my own very well in a fist fight.

But I was fast.

Forrest Gump fast.

I saw the rear lights flash as the driver pumped the brakes. My feet pounded the pavement like they had a vendetta against concrete. The bus started to pull away as I made it to the end of the two blocks between us. My hand slammed against the glass door as I ran beside it,

“Wait, wait, wait! Wait!” The driver looked over to see me and the bus lurched to a stop. Panting, I waited for the door to pull open and bounced up the three steps, scanning my bus pass.

“Thanks, Jimmy,” I said to the elderly man at the wheel with his graying hair and frail face.

“Alright, Charlie. Almost missed you.”

“You’re the best.”

“I know it. My wife says the same thing.”

“I’ll bet she does, Handsome.”

“Alright, don’t start flirting. I’m too old to get divorced.”

We shared a laugh as I made my way to my usual seat all the way in the back.

My earbuds were in moments later and as the bus started away, I sat back there cracking my knuckles and listening to jazz.

I loved jazz. It was my life... a beautiful mess. Behind the melody, a little offbeat. Chaos that figured itself out as it went along.

Just like me.

Southside High School was twenty-eight minutes and a four block walk from my house. I rode the whole way to my stop with my head against the window, letting the sun warm my olive-yellow skin. Jazz spoke to me in playful piano keys and gently rolling trumpets, but nothing seemed to override the lump of worry in my stomach. I told my landlord a lie just to buy time. I didn’t have a clue how I was gonna come up with two months rent. Four-hundred dollars didn’t seem like a lot of money until you didn’t have it. But now I promised twice that and hadn’t the faintest idea how I intended to come up with it.

I dug my phone out of my backpack beside me and swiped the screen to unlock it. No messages. I tapped over to my dad’s thread like I did every morning.

Me:

Good morning, Daddy.

No response.

Like always.

I went out of my way to type out every word carefully, to punctuate the best way I knew how. Foolish hope. Maybe it was my spelling or my grammar? Maybe if I did better he would talk to me. Maybe it was just a lesson.

But I knew better.

He was my stepdad, but still the best dad a girl could ask for. My birth dad was out in the world somewhere.

Major S. Lawson was his name.

I didn’t know where he was. I tried to reach out to him a time or two after I got out of jail but I didn’t get very far. My grandmother on his side gave me a call once to check on me. She said Major was off being Major. Whatever that meant. Mom always said he wasn’t the father type. Said he disappeared when he found out she was pregnant with me.

He wasn’t missing much.

My stepdad raised me though. He was the one I thought about when my feelings were hurt. When I was way low. God, I wished he was there if only to say something encouraging. Maybe hitting rock bottom wouldn’t have hurt so bad.

It couldn’t be helped now.

The bus made it to my stop and I thanked Jimmy again for stopping before hopping down the three steps to the ground.

“Aww, Jimmy, you’re too good to me. Sure you don’t wanna leave your wife?”

“Oh, no. I’m too old to go chasing young tail, even if it’s on a fox. Besides, you’ll have me worrying about my ticker.”

“They make pills for that.” I smiled.

“I’d be too busy taking pills for other things.”

“Dirty old man.”

We both laughed and I waved as he closed the doors.

With my backpack over one shoulder, I walked the four blocks to the High School, my broken phone in hand, idly scrolling through news updates that I really didn’t care about. Something about some blue chip stock plummeting because of some scandal involving prototype tech and the youngest female billionaire in the world. A new Starbucks opening across town. Housing market crashing. I stopped to read a short article about Robin Rampage, the mixed martial artist who was about to go up against her greatest challenge to date. Some six-foot tall German girl who apparently had a death wish. Robin was going to tear her apart. I didn’t follow mixed martial arts much, but what I knew about Rampage, she’d gone almost completely undefeated for two years. And she had what fight promoters called a ‘Goodnight Right’.

Fuckin’ right she did.

By the time I got to the really boring stuff, something about Higgs Bosons and Spaghetti Recipes from the Food Network, I’d gotten to the campus. I didn’t want to read the recipe, or even look at the pictures.

I had Whiskey for dinner last night.

I was able to ignore the headache thumping at the back of my head out of shock and necessity. Buying pain meds wasn’t something that was in the budget, and Stagger showing up in my living room seemed to supply my body with all the adrenaline and endorphins I needed to make it this far, but it was starting to wear thin. I could feel the beginnings of a migraine coming on.

Walking over the dead grass and bits of snack wrappers left on the ground by inner-city kids that didn’t give a shit, I walked up to the old, rectangular building made out of red brick and dirty windows.

Southside was old.

I think I remember somebody mentioning it got built in the 1930s or something. It was supposed to be some equal opportunity Wonder School where the smartest people in America graduated from. What it turned into was another ghetto shithole that turned out a sixty percent year one drop out rate, a bunch of pant-sagging hooligans and the occasional success story of someone destined for greatness no matter what school they went to. The literacy rate was falling, the pay for the teachers was likely a joke and the school was far enough removed not to have cops stomping in and out of it all the time.

My kind of place.

Too many kids, not enough staff and a low chance of getting caught.

Shoving the front door open I took in the immediate smell of plastic, shoe rubber, old wood, and the collision of smells that come from too many people being indoors. It wasn’t a bad smell, but it was definitely a school smell. A kind of tame version of a woodshop mixed with a bit of sterilized hospital.

There was a big case of trophies to one side, mostly talking about what every predominantly black school ever touted.

Sports trophies.

I don’t know if being half black entitled me to be half offended, but I couldn’t help but notice the fact that the only time large groups of white people ever approved of black people was when they were playing sports.

Or maybe singing.

Whatever. I wasn’t even from this place. It’s not like I had grounds to complain about anything. People in this world seemed to define themselves by the shit they owned. How much money they had. Or what color their genes said they got to be.

Being as how I was the darkest face in my family, I saw that first hand.

When I was a kid, if I went anywhere on my own, I got disapproving looks or shop owners watching me to make sure I didn’t take anything. My skin tone and curly, Negro League Hermione Granger hairdo told them everything they needed to know about me.

When I was with my stringy haired white sisters who were two shades paler and a collection of blondes and redheads, I got free reign to walk around like I owned most places.

I’m not really sure if it’s that or poverty that made me steal more. Sometimes I took shit just to do it. I knew it was bad, I just couldn’t help it. It’s like when people expect you to do or be something, after a while that’s just what you become.

I made my way past the big, hand-painted mural of historically significant black people on the wall and already I could smell the food from the cafeteria. The lunch bell would be ringing any time now. It’d be the first good meal I had in days. No, it wasn’t a restaurant, but when most of your meals came frozen, in a sealed bag or in day-old form, any hot food felt like a hundred dollar masterpiece.

The lockers weren’t far off. I skirted them, extending my arm with my hand out to smack the combination locks as I walked by. Hearing the clank of them thunk against those thin, sheet metal doors reminded me of back when I was actually in High School.

Before I ruined my whole life.

God, I was such a little bitch. Thought the world revolved around me and my stupid, nothing problems. My daddy gave me anything I wanted and all I ever gave him back was lip and hell. I got in trouble every day.

Every day.

I was thirteen and didn’t even realize what I had.

Thirteen years later and it’s all gone. The only thing I had left was a huge amount of respect for life, and how it managed to humble everyone eventually. Back then I was a wild child, an angry upstart that thought her problems were more important than everyone else’s. I don’t know if tamed is quite the word for it.

But it fits.

I found a locker without a lock in the latch and popped it open, tossing my backpack inside. Nobody else would be holding one. Helped to fit in.

Right when I did, the bell rang. I slammed the locker shut, looked up at the number, then up and down the hall, memorizing where I was.

Students flooded into the hallway faster than I thought they would. Whooping and hollering filled the air from teenage boys horseplaying. Chitter chatter from girls complaining, the sound of a hundred conversations bursting to life at once. A constant soundboard of cell phone ringtones, camera clicks and text messages being sent. The cyber conversations almost outnumbered the actual ones. Kids were posing for pictures. Boyfriends and girlfriends were holding hands.

I just kept my head down and followed the crowd towards the smell of food.

The way this usually worked is everyone had a lunch number. Four or five digits, no more. But usually most of these inner-city kids were poor; especially in the black schools. Over half of them would have free lunch, the other half would have it reduced. I had about a buck eighty in my pocket which meant I could cover it if I guessed the wrong number and didn’t hit a freebie. It was like the Mystery Meat Lottery and the way my stomach was aching for food, I didn’t give a shit which meat it was.

It was protein. I’d take it.

No one seemed to notice me at all. They never did. I was short, young looking and most importantly pretty. As much as I hated it, that seemed to count for a lot in these kinds of environments. My mom used to call it ‘untouchable beauty’. Not that you were actually too good for people, just most people assumed you were. Or that you were stuck up.

So that’s what I did. I kept my eyes on my phone, scrolling through nothing in particular.

I just walked.

“Hey, what up, Beautiful?” I heard someone say in my left ear.

Twisting my lips, I glanced up at him but not to his eyes. I looked him in the chin.

“Hey,” I said back.

“What’s your name? I ain’t seen you around here.”

He was a cute kid. Already coming into his own. He was tall and solid with smooth, tanned skin and a killer smile. I looked him up and down, looked over his trendy clothing and expensive sneakers, and my Fucc Boi Alarm went off immediately. On top of that, this walking monument to misappropriation clearly wished his parents were a different color.

I couldn’t quite figure out what people saw in this type. How girls fell for this Pussy Hound bullshit was beyond me. Guys like this didn’t give a shit about who I was or where I was from. He didn’t come sit next to me in the cafeteria. He came walking up behind me to talk. Guys like this saw booty first, face second, tits third and nothing else. He’d probably already fantasized about fucking me and telling his friends about it afterward.

Or remaking Malibu’s Most Wanted.

I couldn’t decide which.

“Andy,” I lied, giving him one of my sister’s names.

“Oh, alright. I’m Kyle.”

Of course his name was Kyle.

Let’s be honest. Does anybody know a Kyle they actually like? Not an actor or a writer or something. I mean a person they’ve met. You ever meet a Kyle that wasn’t a big fucking douchebag?

“What’s up, Kyle?” I asked, disinterest dripping in my tone as my eyes dropped back down to my phone.

“Not a lot. I just ain’t seen you around here. Trust me, I’d know. You kinda stand out.” He said as we made our way through the almost oppressive hallway with its drab taupe color and school spirit tags on the wall.

Go Wildcats.

I heard somewhere that taupe was very soothing.

Whatever.

The throng turned into two lines spilling out of the lunchroom. I put my phone in my back pocket and crossed my arms over my chest.

“I’m new.” I answered, “just moved here.”

“Oh, for real? From where?”

“Indiana.” I lied again, throwing out the first state in the midwest that came to my mind.

“Oh, cool. I got family up in Indiana. That’s where I wanna go to college. What part?”

Shit. I didn’t know a fucking thing about geography, let alone Indiana. I spent my entire time in high school high off my ass.

I remembered an Indy Five-hundred commercial and blurted that out quickly.

“Indianapolis.”

“For real? You sound more like you from New York. Got that sexy li’l accent. But Indy, I been there a few times.”

Course he had.

This is why I hated small talk.

“We moved around a lot. Look, Kevin,” I said, getting his name wrong on purpose.

“Kyle.” He corrected me.

“Kyle-”

“Before you kick me the rejection, how bout we just sit together and rap a little bit? Conversation ain’t hurtin’ nobody. I think between the two of us we can come up with a scenario that’s most pleasurable for the both of us. Let me expand your mind a little bit.”

If he only knew. I’d been expanding my mind since I was twelve. Usually on any drug I could get my hands on.

My first boyfriend was just like Kyle. Cute, had a way with words. Liked to lie to me. Liked to make me take different drugs, too.

And I was stupid enough to let him.

“I appreciate it. I really do, but listen. I don’t wanna say this too loud cus I... know you probably got your friends watchin’ you mac on the new girl.” I looked around, careful not to meet the eyes of any of his friends.

Not four people back, three more boys were leaning out looking at the two of us. Thankfully the roar of conversations around us was loud enough to stop my words from carrying too far.

“Trust me, you don’t want anything to do with me,” I said.

“That’s for me to decide, ain’t it?”

“Is it?”

He was a senior. Definitely a senior.

It took 3 years of rejection and identity crafting to get this good at dancing around. This kid was the fucking Muhammad Ali of sidestepping obstacles.

“In a world where everybody’s different, the one thing that’s always the same is we all wanna talk to somebody, Baby. And I’m trying to let you know you have my full and undivided attention. That’s a rare thing, wouldn’t you say?”

“Kyle, I might look pretty on the outside, but on the inside... I’m a train wreck. Look, I won’t make you look stupid, I promise. We can walk together, even sit together if you want, but after that just... tell your buddies I’m full of shit or somethin’.”

“Damn, Shorty. That’s some real shit. I mean, I’m not here to stress you or anything. It’s all good. I just thought you was kinda fly, figured we could hang out, but if it’s like that...”

“It’s definitely like that.”

God, I wished he would stop talking like that. Pretty sure ebonics lowers your credit score whether you’re white, black, or doing everything you could to pretend to be black.

Y’know. Like this guy.

“Respect. I won’t press.”

Holy shit, did I just meet a Kyle that wasn’t a douchebag?

“Thank you,” I said back, my eyebrows riding high.

“Bitch! Fuck you think you talkin’ to? ’Ey, that bitch played out,” Kyle laughed, walking back to his friends in line who then hooted with laughter and fist bumped each other.

“We don’t want no played out ho’s! Cut ’Em Gang!” he shouted, copying some ridiculous rap video.

My eyes rolled as the smile fell from my face.

I stand corrected. A little rejection and the defensive fuck goes right to defending his dick.

Of course, it was me that was the problem.

Right.

That’s why his fucking name is Kyle.

It took nearly ten minutes to get to the food services line. The conversation about my dismissal had died out already. The fickle High School mob had moved on to other topics. Mostly whatever carefully curated horseshit was circulating under the trending tab on social media.

Once again I was a face in the crowd.

My line split off into two going to either side of the metal food counters. I grabbed a tray and sat it on the three rounded metal beams that served as a serving station. Sliding my tray down with everyone else in front of me, I was practically drooling at all the food selections. The kids around me were bitching and complaining about it being country fried steak day. I asked for two. And extra helpings of gravy. I got two pieces of bread, broccoli, and cauliflower. I got a brownie, double mac and cheese and french fries with chili and cheese on them. My tray was stacked to nearly spilling over and I didn’t care who was looking at me.

“Oh my god!” I heard a girl laugh from where the line had u-turned behind me. “Somebody’s a fat kid!”

Yes, I am, random girl. Yes, I am.

She and her friends were tittering behind me like the basic bitches they were. Every now and again they broke into some lame retelling of whatever drama was going on with the famous-for-no-reason reality show barbie-bots. I was actually kind of happy to see that the school wasn’t entirely made of poor black kids. Those three girls were as white as my sisters.

Like the Starbucks line got lost in the ghetto.

When I made it up to the top of the line near the register, an elderly woman rang me up.

“That’ll be seven dollars.”

I quickly spat out a number, “4454.”

She typed it in.

“Antonio Brown?”

“I’m sorry. 4544.”

“Rosaria Delgado?”

“Yeah,” I said.

The conversation behind me changed.

The lunch lady punched a button.

“Dollar seventy-five.”

“What?” One girl hissed quietly to her friends as they started talking amongst themselves.

I paid with my pocket full of change, grabbed my tray and headed for a table.

Looking down at all of the food on it, I couldn’t believe my fortune. If it wasn’t for the negligence of the public school system, I’d still be hungry. I made my way to an empty table, grabbed my fork and started shoveling food into my mouth.

It was obscene.

People stared and I didn’t care. My jaws were swollen with food and I couldn’t swallow it fast enough. I dabbed my lips with a napkin as I polished off one of my country fried steaks.

I was cutting into the second when the girls from the line headed towards my table. One of them had positioned herself in front of the others as they marched towards me.

She wasn’t small. She also wasn’t happy.

Fuck.

They came over and took seats all around me. I was in the eye of the storm and I knew it. I took another bite of my Mac and Cheese.

“What’s up, Rosaria.” The hostile, sarcastic tone wasn’t lost on me.

Her voice sounded like she had dreams of moving to Southern California one day.

I didn’t say anything. Instead, I stabbed chili and cheese fries and stuffed them into my mouth, staining my cheeks in red sauce. Reaching for my milk container, I opened and poured it down my throat, gulping desperately as they stared daggers at me from all around.

“Hey.” The girl beside me said, shoving me hard in the ribs with her elbow.

“You look different.” One of the other girls said and I nodded but again I didn’t say anything.

I grabbed my fork and started stacking mac and cheese onto a piece of bread. I shoveled some cauliflower on top of that before one of the girls slapped my fork out of my hand.

“I’m talking to you, Bitch.”

My shoulders dropped. I put my second steak on top of the cauliflower and topped it off with my last piece of bread, looking up at her chin as I sucked gravy off my fingers.

“You stole my friend’s lunch number. She’s out sick today.”

“My fault. I get confused sometimes.” I said.

“Yeah?” The bigger girl leaned in.

Great. Boujee, mean girl hoodrats. Just what I needed today.

I met her eyes by accident. We held the stare across the table from one another for a brief moment before my eyes retreated.

She read me instantly.

I was a coward.

I got up from the table with my sandwich and started walking towards the door, taking big bites along the way.

I knew they got up right after. Neither of us could afford to make a scene. I’d go to jail and they’d lose their opportunity to beat my ass into cookie dough.

I looked back at their murderous expressions as I made it out into the now vacant hallway. All the other students were in the lunchroom either in line or eating. I fast-walked towards the locker I’d stored my bag in, now almost halfway done with my sandwich when I heard them. They were walking just as fast as I was.

“Rosaria, where you going?” One of the three said.

Goddamnit.

I wasn’t even in school anymore and I was about to get beat up. Panic hit my heart with a flutter and I broke into a sprint. I was still stuffing that sandwich into my mouth, desperate to finish it. Swallowing so hard I almost got the hiccups.

My sneakers gave a loud squeak as I hit the corner, almost falling, cramming that last bite into my mouth.

“Get back here, Bitch!”

No ma’am, I will not.

With my hand free, my arms churned, my legs sent my feet practically slamming through the floor as I turned on the gas. I had to get a head start to get my bag.

“Fuck she’s fast!”

Now I could care less. Where were the teachers? Anybody? Jail be damned.

I hadn’t planned on getting spotted this soon. I thought maybe I could check for half-closed lockers and steal some cell phones, maybe jack some cash from wallets. This had turned all bad.

I made it to my locker and cracked it open with a loud metallic pop, grabbing my bag, but by then, they were close.

I hustled out past that mural and made it to the door. My speed had given me a little bit of a head start again, but when I threw my body into it, aiming my hip at the long horizontal latch, it knocked the air right out of me, dropping me to the floor.

They’d locked one side.

Aching, I tried to recover, picking myself up, pushing the other door frantically. It blew open with the force I ran into it with, sunlight hitting me in the face as I took to the yard, but it was too late.

A hand grabbed one of my puffballs atop my head and it felt like my neck would snap,

“Aah!”

“Gotcha, Bitch!”

I tugged my head trying to get free while we were all panting for air but I couldn’t get away. I knew where this was going.

They forced me to walk with them to the back lot. The whole way I had to listen to them talking shit about what they were gonna do to me. All I could think about was if I hit any one of them back, NEST would have my ass.

They held me one on each of my arms. All but one of them was taller and bigger than me. I couldn’t believe this was happening. It felt like the 9th grade all over again. Back then it was my sister Bobby and her friends trashing me.

This time I was about to get my ass kicked by a bunch of teenage soon-to-be dropouts. Two years from now half of these girls would probably be well on the road to failure and I was about to supply the story they’d tell their friends about how they fucked up some chick who dared to cross one of their pack.

They took me around to the faculty parking lot and put the big stone dumpster barricade between us and the school’s windows.

“Who the fuck are you?” The big girl demanded, shoving me into the brick wall, blasting the air out of my lungs.

I dropped my bag.

“I don’t even recognize this slut,” one of the other girls said.

“I’m nobody.” I shrugged.

“Fucking right you are,” the big girl shoved me again. Harder.

“Must be some new bitch. You think you’re cute, stealing from my friend?”

“No. It’s not like that, I-” she shut me up with an open-handed slap across my face that dropped me to the ground.

“Shut up.”

She hoisted me back up by one of my puffballs.

I wanted to cry.

I knew better though. High School didn’t give people compassion. Life did. They would just see tears as a weakness.

I let them take turns kicking the shit out of me and calling me names. I let them punch me, slap me, dump my shit out of my backpack onto the ground.

One of them even stomped on my phone.

“My turn, my turn!” One of them said as I got to my feet again.

She pummeled me back down into the dirt while her friends whooped with laughter.

When they were done with me, they left me there on the ground. Discarded like the garbage on the other side of the barricade.

The big one shoved her dirty shoe against my face and pinned me down.

“Stay the fuck away from us,” She said while her friends kicked my things all over.

“If you tell anybody about this, I’ll come fuck you up again. I mean it.”

And then she was gone.

All things considered, it wasn’t the worst I’d ever gotten. Kid strength is a little different than adult strength.

I sat up, coughing from the body shots the big girl gave me, refusing to lose my lunch on the ground.

I just got jumped for that meal. I refused to puke it up in vain.

I leaned my back against the brick barrier.

Pain gave me a brief inventory of what kind of shape I was in.

Busted nose, split lip. Sore ribs. Nothing that wouldn’t heal in a few days.

I tasted blood on my teeth and swallowed the coppery taste down.

What little pride I had left hurt the most. I made sure they were long gone before I let the tears fall out of my eyes.

“Fuck my life...”