It’s like she’s answered my prayers.
An uncharacteristic,Yes, is on the tip of my tongue.
Until the blonde morphs into another blonde.
The only blonde who matters.
I shake my head and mutter, “No,” before I turn to face Johnny and mutter, “I need to go. There’s something I need to do,” while shaking two cigarettes from his pack. Stuffing one in my sweatshirt pocket and lighting the other. “These are illegal for minors too, you know?” I say, holding up the lit cigarette in my hand.
Johnny’s eyes slide to the side to meet mine. “I’m choosing to ignore that one for now, don’t make me change my mind.”
When I hop off the stool, the girls are gone. Dan tips his chin to me on my way out. I do the same in return. I’ll be back soon, you can drink in Colorado when you’re eighteen and I have a birthday coming up.
When I walk outside, the sun is low in the sky, setting over the mountains in the distance. The Victorian on Clarkson is only down the street from Dan’s so I haven’t even finished the cigarette by the time I get there. Each stair passing underfoot amplifies my anxiety. She’s going to be heartbroken. I don’t want to deliver the news that breaks her heart.
And by the time I’m standing in front of 2A’s door, hand raised and poised to knock, my courage plummets and I can’t do it.
I can’t break Alice’s heart. I can’t watch the revelation dissolve her.
My Friday nights are spent dealing with the aftermath of situations like this. I don’t think I can be the agent who provokes the disclosure of it.
Blissfully unaware is still blissful.
I know that’s complete bullshit.
But, I’m a coward.
So, I walk up to 3A and finish the cigarette in my hand. Followed by the one in my pocket. And then I force myself into a sleep so unsettling and hostile that I’m brutalized when I wake from it.
Chapter Thirteen
Present,March 1987
Toby
Saturday is hell.
The conscience is profound and unforgiving when self-preservation is lacking. It’s unguarded, a bully that antagonizes toward action, even though I have a plan in place to end this in June. Sometimes I consider forgetting the plan and acting on the impulse to stop the pain now instead of later. Today is one of those days. Standing on our fire escape, I look at the ground three stories below and wonder if the hard landing would be enough to stop my body and release my soul.
I decide that it probably wouldn’t and I’d only end up in the hospital with a plethora of broken bones instead. I can’t finish school and graduate from a hospital room in a full body cast.
I’ve kept busy trying to ignore the guilt chant in my head and dodge the occupants of 2A. This morning I cleaned the leaves out of the gutters and fixed a fence post that’s been loose for over a month. This afternoon I’ve been hiding out in the basement rearranging and sorting the spare parts and hardware on the shelves in the locked supply room where no one will find me. I told Cliff to come and get me only in case of an emergency. His idea of an emergency is dicey at best, so I’m surprised he’s complied. There’s a lot to do. Johnny keeps adding to the junk pile in the corner. If it has moving parts and is abandoned, he rescues it and dumps it here. I can’t blame him; I fix a lot from this stash without spending a dime.
I brought my boom box and one of my cassettes down with me to keep me company. Occasionally, I hear someone on the other side of the door putting a load of laundry in the washer or dryer, but for the most part, it’s solitary. When I’m done and the floor is clear, the shelves are orderly, and I’m covered in the filth of grimy old parts and avoidance, I sit on the floor with my back against the cool, stone-foundation wall and I hide.
I hide from the world.
I hide from the residents.
I hide from Alice.
I hide from Chantal and Joey.
I hide from Nina.
I hide.
That is until I hear a knock on the door. I pause, unmoving, and wait to see if they’ll go away.
