“Hmm,” she said, tapping her lips. “I don’t believe you.”
“Hmm,” I tapped back. “That seems like a you problem.”
She smiled. “Let me search your buckets.”
I slid one over and hugged it to my chest. “No.”
She bent down, I grabbed for her hands, and she swatted me away. We both laughed at the unexpected contact.
“Fine,” I relented. “I shave in the shelters.”
“Wait—you have access to shelters?”
“Everyone has access to shelters. It’s sort of in the name.”
“Why don’t you sleep there, then?”
“Spoken like a person who has never slept in a shelter.”
“I don’t have to sleep in a shelter to know it’s better than sleeping on the streets.”
Oh, how wrong she was. Shelters had four walls and one exit. I’d argue they were the most dangerous living situations of all. Not to mention filthy and filled with the mentally deranged. There was a youth shelter for the under twenty-one crowd, but age was just a number and in no way precluded a person from doing horrible things.
“I tell you what, Saks. Why don’t you give one a try sometime and then let me know how you like it?”
Her lively gaze dropped to the ground. Shit, I’d embarrassed her. Sometimes I could be too blunt, forgetting that not everyone had grown up on the same evil merry-go-round that I did.
“Is it time for me to dial down the dickery again?” I asked, hoping to ease the tension.
She stole a glance. “Maybe you should just set a timer at regular intervals. But you’re right. I shouldn’t be talking about stuff I know nothing about.”
I shrugged, not sure how to reply. I wasn’t used to people taking my feelings into consideration.
“Can I ask? Who taught you to play like that?”
“No one,” I said. “I taught myself.”
“Seriously?”
“I had a foster dad who was a drummer. Piece of shit, that one, but he used to play in a band, and his drum set took up most of the living room. He found me playing on it one day—actually I wasn’t interested in the drums at all, I was just watching TV and there was nowhere else to sit. Anyway, he taught me the basics. The high hat, snare drum, bass drum. Stuff like that. I took to it instantly. The constant movement appealed to me, you know?”
I stopped, remembering the scene as if it were yesterday. It was one of the few memories I could look back on without wanting to blow my brains out.
“So what happened?”
“With what?”
“That family?”
“I don’t know. I never know. Social worker just shows up, hands me my black garbage bag, and I move on.”
I thumped out a quick rhythm on the sidewalk, my feet getting in on the action. Bad memory. That was why I hated looking back.
“So, wait. You haven’t played on a drum kit since then?”
I looked up, shaking my head. “I’m not completely feral, Patagonia. I go to school.”
She seemed stunned, like the thought had never crossed her mind. “You do?”
