New Girl in Town

Chapter 32

Blake keeps all her windows rolled down. "I don't have any AC," she explains as we drive down the street. I've left my bike chained up at the 7-Eleven and the hundred-degree heat swirls in my hair. I scrape it into a ponytail, rolling the elastic off my wrist and securing it, even as strands fight their way free.

Her car's the definition of a beater. Not that I can really judge, since I get everywhere via bike. But her rearview mirror is duct-taped to the window, and the back seat is more duct tape than upholstery.

Blake pushes a CD into the player, and the sound of Nine Inch Nails blasts through the car. I try not to wince at the volume.

"I live out near the creek," Blake tells me, like I'm supposed to know where "the creek" is.

"That's nice," I say, because what else am I supposed to say. What creek? Then she'd ask where I'm from originally and then I'd start thinking about Mom and then I'd just ...

I want to fucking forget. Everything. Just for a little bit. The idea of getting really high sounds like heaven right now. I want to laugh at stupid cartoons or something and eat my weight in Cheetos.

Blake seems content not to talk much as we drive. It's strange, but I'm grateful for it.

The farther we get away from town, the more I realize "the creek" is far away.

"Wow, you really live out in the sticks," I say as she finally slows down to pull onto a dirt road.

Blake laughs. "I don't think I've ever heard someone call it that."

"It's not bad, is it?"

She shakes her head, pulling to a stop in front of a weathered house with a rusty roof. I squint in the sunlight to check, but yep, it's a tin roof. I guess I thought they retired tin roofs in favor of shingles long ago.

A dog barks at the chain-link fence surrounding the house. She leads me inside the cramped house. It's cool inside from the shelter of the trees around it, and the narrow hallway with beige carpeting she leads me down is dark. So is her room: she's got black curtains and a bed with a Buzz Lightyear comforter. A lava lamp is the only other light source.

She throws herself on the bed, and I creep slowly around the books and stuff stacked around her room in crooked piles.

"You like to read?" I ask.

"Sometimes," Blake says. "Mostly fantasy stuff. You?"

"Not really a fantasy fan," I admit. "But maybe I haven't found the right book."

She uproots a bong from underneath her bed. "Smoke?"

I nod, coming to sit next to her. The first hit is smooth, cooled by the bong water. But four hits in, it gets increasingly clear she needs to clean her piece. But by then I'm so stoned it doesn't even matter. I just lie back and stare at the popcorn ceiling of the old house. The world starts to spin a little, and I sit up, trying to clear my head.

"Bathroom?" I ask.

"Right in there." She points to the door off her bedroom.

I walk purposefully into the bathroom, my head fuzzy and slow as I splash water on my face. It helps a lot. But then I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror as water drips off my chin. In the cramped bathroom, all I can see is myself. I'm caught in my reflection, and all I can feel is hate. I hate Marco ... Jennie ... myself ... Mom.

Sometimes I hate her so much for leaving me. And I hate myself so much, all the time, for not being there to save her. For not being enough to keep her here.