“Yeah, that’s my car. You want a ride?”
“You’ll put the top down?”
“Sure.”
He smiled. He had such an innocent, childlike quality, which reminded me that he was a good seven years younger than me.
I put the top down and Andre settled in, spreading out so that his tattooed arm was on the back of the seat. He took off the bandana and wrapped it twice around his wrist. His hair was cropped close, tight black curls that were copper-colored at the tips like maybe he’d done it himself. I had the strange sensation that I’d run my hand through his hair before, tugged at the curls and watched them bounce back as if they were living things.
“You should grow out your hair,” I said impulsively.
He ran his hand through it. “Yeah, now that I’m here, maybe I will.”
He lived in a bad part of town. Really bad. Bad enough that I put the top up before I even got a few blocks in. That was Miami. It could go from total swank to total poverty within a few blocks. Andre lived in the thick of it, where drug addicts offered themselves on the corners for a hit of crack, deals were made right under streetlamps, and cops didn’t interfere.
“This is it.” Andre pointed to a two-story cinderblock building, which had been split into efficiency apartments. There was a cluster of thugs hanging out at the bottom of the stairs, eyeing my car like it was a cereal prize.
“I can’t leave you here.”
Andre shook his head and smiled. “Man, this is where I live.”
“The shelter would be safer.”
“Naw, man, it’s all right. These guys are cool.” He glanced over at me. “You want to come up?”
I wanted to get the hell out of there and take him with me, but I parked the car and locked it, even though a dull blade could cut right through the top. I tried not to think about it.
“’Sup, y’all?” Andre greeted the gang, tapping each of their fists in turn. “This here’s my boy, Martin.”
They all nodded. One guy said I was pretty and snarled a little, flashing his gold grill. I couldn’t tell if he’d meant to be friendly or threatening. I followed close behind Andre, glancing over my shoulder to see if my car was safe.
Inside, Andre flicked on a dim fluorescent light, which illuminated the small space, giving it a sickly green pallor. I hated fluorescent lighting, the way it made everything look ill and dejected. Bad lighting was depressing. In the room there was a kitchenette, a table and two chairs, and a single bed with a plastic lawn chair across from it. No TV, computer, or electronics of any kind.
“You got a phone?” I asked.
“Working on it.”
I had a phone I wasn’t using. I’d get it charged, put some minutes on it and give it to him, for emergencies at least. God only knows what might happen in a place like this. Glancing around, one thing I was sure of, for him to come here and live like this….
“Alabama must have been pretty fucking bad,” I said.
He ran his hands over his hair, smoothing it down. “You have no idea.” He opened up the tiny refrigerator and pulled out a bottle of MD 20/20. “You want some?” he asked.
“Man, I haven’t seen a bottle like that since….” I paused. “Since I was your age.”
Andre shook his head. “Man, you’re still my age, and this shit never goes out of style. It’s like liquid candy.” He grabbed two plastic cups from the cupboard. “Hope you like mango. It’s my new favorite. They don’t have this flavor in Alabama.”
“How’d you get it?” I was pretty sure that even in this part of town, the liquor stores carded. Crack you could get at any age, but liquor you needed to be twenty-one.
Andre shrugged. “Why you ask so many questions, Martin?”
I had no good answer for that. “Just nosy, I guess.”
He handed me a Solo cup and tipped the rim of his against mine. “Cheers, man.”
I drank down the sickly sweet liquor. It made my tongue feel furry. “Still tastes like cough syrup.”
“Yeah,” he said with satisfaction. He stared at me, perhaps waiting to see what I’d do next. Maybe he thought I was going to make a move, like I’d given him a ride home in exchange for something in return. I didn’t want him thinking I was looking for a hookup.
