I nod and step back as he packs his gym bag. “I don’t want a superhero, Dylan.” I swallow. “I just want you.”
His eyes soften. “Jasalie, I get it. But I had to defend you back there. I’llalwaysdefend you.”
He kisses me quickly, picks up his bag, and he’s gone.
I shut the door behind him, feeling frustrated and lonely. But there’s something else. Something I haven’t felt since I lost my mother. It’s grief.
* * *
I get out my clay and sculpt Dante and Harlow—two snake-like figures intertwined with one another in a death spiral. When I’m finished I pick up my cell phone.
Before I visit my mother, I want to remember the years I was without her. Maybe that way it won’t hurt as much if she rejects me again.
Lionel answers the phone.
“Hello, Lionel. It’s Jasalie. How are you?”
“Hi, Jasalie,” he says. “Long time, huh?”
Lionel was the father in my second foster family. They had a lot of money and traveled and helped give me the belief that I could reach for more.
“Yes, it has been. How’re things?”
“Good, real good. Just got back from a business trip to Brussels. Got to stop in Paris as well. Lovely weather, too.”
“Great.” I work hard to sound enthusiastic. “I’m glad you had a nice time.”
“How are things with you?” he says.
I can hardly hear him because another phone starts ringing in the background. “I’m good.” The ringing keeps going. “Do you need to get that?”
“Yeah, hold on a second.” I hear him answer the other line, and then he’s back. “I have to take this call, okay? But don’t be a stranger. Take care of yourself, and make sure to let us know how…”
“Is Zoe home?” I interrupt him.
“Oh, yeah,” he says. “Zo! It’s Jasalie!”
I hear footsteps, and then she’s there.
“Sweetheart,” Zoe breathes into the phone.
“Hi, Zoe.” I wonder if she’s already started her cocktail. I glance at the clock. Not even two o’clock. She can’t be drinking yet. But it’s never too early for those pills.
“Where are you?” she says.
“Arizona. Business trip.”
“Wonderful. We just got back from a trip ourselves.” Zoe’s voice sounds muffled now. She must be holding the phone between her shoulder and ear while she paints her nails. That’s something she did quite often when I lived there.
I lasted with the Hughes from eleven to fifteen when they needed to use my bedroom for two younger foster kids. So I went back into the system and bounced around until I turned eighteen. And at that point, I was on my own and still a senior in high school.
The first apartment I tried fell through, and that’s how I ended up on the streets for six months. I dropped out of high school, ate at the soup kitchen, and was lucky to never be abused. But I learned how to defend myself really quickly—a woman who’d been homeless for ten years taught me a short course in self-defense, and I used it whenever I had to. Then I lucked into an apartment with a few other girls. One of them took pity on me and helped with my share of the rent so I could get my GED. Then it was up to me—between working as a sales clerk and other odd jobs, I made it work until I got my college degree. Then Bill hired me, and the rest is history.
“Yes,” I say to Zoe. “Lionel mentioned it. Paris must have been nice.”
“Oh, it was,” she says. “Although it’s a dirty city, especially in late winter. All that rain ruins the streets you know.”
I don’t. But I remember how Zoe and Lionel were kind to me, and so I answer her politely. “Yes.”
