New Girl in Town

Chapter 7

When I squish, sodden, into the house, I'm hoping to avoid Marco. But my luck's run out: he's home early from work and in the living room.

He's gray-streaked worry, tightly wound, and it makes me nervous because I haven't figured out what kind of guy he is yet.

For most of my life, Marco was a guy in a leather jacket in a black-andwhite photo—the only one my mom kept of him to show me—dark and remotely cool, like a man from an ad or something. A cigarette dangled from his smiling lips as he gazed at the camera like he loved whoever was behind it.

He was frozen in my memory in black-and-white in that cool vintage leather jacket. An idea, more than a person. And now he's a person to me, and maybe now I'm a person to him; we're not possibilities to each other anymore, and it sucks. I don't know what to do with it. I don't think I can love him. I don't know how. I don't know him.

He rises from the couch, taking me in. My hair's still sopping and my shoes are going to take a day to dry out.

"What happened to you?" he asks in concern.

"I took a dip in the lake," I say, walking past the row of guitars hanging in the hallway, me squelching with each step.

"Wait a second!" he protests, following me. "Lisa, are you okay?"

I turn around, trying not to feel humiliated and failing miserably.

"I did what you told me. I made some friends. Now I really need to clean up, okay?"

Before he can sputter an answer, I duck into the bathroom and close the door loud enough to make a statement. At least he won't bother me in here.

I turn on the shower, the steam from the water slowly filling the room as I peel out of my wet boots and socks, and then slowly peel off my jeans. Wet jean chafing is an experience I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy. Well. Maybe Kai. If he's experiencing the same chafing issue as me, then there is some justice in the world. But I don't have a lot of faith in that, unfortunately.

I peel off my tank top, and that's when I see it, standing there in my bra and underwear in a bathroom that's so clearly a dude's bathroom. The smear of ink on my arm.

"Oh no. No. No!" I stare at my arm, the phone number and screen name Jennie scribbled on it bleeding ink down my skin. My arm must've brushed against my wet clothes as I walked.

"Fuck!" I angle my arm to the light, trying to make out the blurred numbers. But it's just black ink ghosting to gray across my skin.

I sit down on the edge of the tub, the knot in my stomach tightening unbearably.

"Fuck," I say again, just to say it, because if I don't, I think I might cry.

And that's so stupid, right? I can make friends when school starts in August. Or I can just stay a loner. I don't need ...

I don't need anything. Or anyone.

Not anymore.

I don't.

***

When I wake up the next morning, the first thing I see is the notebook still on my stomach. Four pages full of scribbled-down numbers and possible screen names, trying to remember what Jennie wrote on my arm.

So yeah, I didn't give up after I accidentally smeared it all up. Pitiful, right?

I just ...

I dunno.

It was like forgetting for a second. That everything isn't shit. Talking to her, I mean.

And I don't want to forget everything. I don't want to forget my mom.