Blazed (27 page)

Me and her are in the basement now. I heard her, like, thirty minutes after I was done posting that new poem online, and I couldn't be in that room with those letters anymore, so I dropped down and found her snorting lines the size of my middle finger on a mirror.

She hasn't slept since Saturday either.

She volunteered that golden nugget about three seconds after I said, “What's up?”

Nodding, I say, “Totally ready,” and take a drink of beer.

“We're gonna start an artist collective somewhere. Buy a building outright with cash and fucking tune it up and move in just the sickest, dopest, coolest fucking kids and make our lives art just the way we're making art our lives. And money isn't an issue, man.”

“It ain't?”

“No sir,” she says. “I'll fucking straight-up rob Tyler and
steal all his drugs and cash and watches and car. Fuck him,” she goes. “I hate him so much and that's how we'll pay for our art, live space. With all the shit I steal from him plus maybe a loan or two from your father.”

“I love it,” I tell her, because that's what you have to do to anyone in this state. I know from having to deal with my mother and some of her friends. Appease them, agree with them, and tell them whatever they're saying sounds great and is an awesome idea. And in this particular case, I actually think Kristen's idea is pretty okay. Not the artist collective as much as robbing Tyler or fucking him over somehow.

“Like Tyler is only cool cos he dates me and sells coke. That's all he's got. Without me or the booger sugar, dude would be a no one. Over seventy percent of his customers are my friends and acquaintances.” She pauses and points up at the ceiling. “And family too,” she finishes, laughing.

I take another drink of beer and go, “What'd he do?”

She throws her arms up and says, “He's a joke. That's what he did. And he's a slut. Ya know what?”

Kristen leans right into me now, and our faces are only inches apart.

“What?”

“I'm pretty sure he's sleeping with this chick Katie.”

“Who's that?”

“One of my best friends,” she says.

“Jesus,” I say, pulling back. “Kristen. If you think that about both of them, it's prolly true.”

“Right,” she says, winking. “Anyway, whatever. Screw him.”

She pulls, like, five grams of coke from her purse now and throws them in the air.

“He gave these to me before he took off for, like, five hours without answering his phone or texts. Like, really? You're gonna pay me with coke to look the other way? Fuck that.”

She grabs one of the grams she threw and pops it open and dumps it on the ground.

“I like cocaine, but I'm not a whore.”

Her eyes start to water.

“You're not,” I tell her.

“I'm not. He's the whore.”

“You're right.”

Pause.

She looks so worn out and tired.

“Did Dominique text you?” I ask her.

She nods. “Yeah. They've got a show and she wants an outfit.”

“That's what she told me, too.”

“I love that girl, man. So much. She's like you, dude.”

“What do you mean?”

“You're just good people,” she says. “You're honest and you work hard and you don't fuck your friends over.”

“I don't have any friends to fuck over,” I say. “None.”

“Bullshit. You've got me.”

“For five more days.”

“For life, motherfucker.”

She throws her arms around my neck and kisses my cheek.

“I really hope he's not fucking that girl,” she says into my ear. “That would bum me out so bad.”

“It'll be okay,” I say.

Letting go of me, Kristen makes a face and says, “What'd I just tell you?”

“What?”

“I just said how honest you were.”

“Yeah.”

“Don't start lying now to me,” she says. “It's not gonna be okay. It hasn't been okay for a while.”

“Then leave that pilgrim dick,” I say. “Walk away from him and go be happy.”

“I love him so much,” she says.

“But does he love you?”

“I think so.”

“Then why isn't he here?”

“I don't know,” she says.

Grabbing the mirror again, Kristen mows down another line and then her phone rings.

“It's him,” she says, glowing.

She jumps to her feet and walks to her bedroom and closes the door behind her.

I can hear her laughing as I'm walking up the stairs.

MY FATHER'S STANDING IN THE
kitchen when I walk down there in the morning.

Awkward isn't the right word to describe how this feels at the moment, but it's the first word that comes to mind.

He's wearing a superexpensive-looking suit and his hair is all parted and he's finally shaved all the scruff.

I flip my head at him and open the fridge and grab the orange juice.

“How's it going?” he says.

“Wonderful,” I say. “Talked with my mother earlier, and she's doing really well and it looks like they're releasing her on Saturday morning, that's what she says anyway, and I can go back home on Sunday. I'm stoked. It's awesome.”

“I'm glad she's doing better,” he says.

I pour the juice in a glass and say, “Are you?”

“Of course I am.”

“Good.”

“So what's going on, Jaime? How are you liking the city so far?”

“I like it,” I tell him. “It's nice. But I can't wait to get home. Be back with the lady who made me who I am.”

I can see the irritation coming to a boil. I can see his body language shifting and getting a little bit more excited than it just was.

Like, you wanna stick some fucking letters that you wrote and were sent back to you in front of my door instead of coming at me like an adult, a fucking parent, and really talking to me and telling me those things that are probably in the letters.

Like, fuck that shit too.

This place is devoid of adults.

“Great,” he says.

I chug the glass of juice and pour another one and stare at him.

“I think so.”

“Okay,” he says, then starts to walk away but stops.

I got him now.

Flipping back around to me, he goes, “Did you look inside that box I left in front of your door at all?”

“Box?” I go. “There was a box in front of my door?”

Blood fills the whites of his eyes immediately. I can actually see the pulse in his throat. He's an angry dude just like I am. I know this violence. It's the same violence that runs through me. And I've gone too far with it. What I just said was a real asshole thing to say.

“Leslie told me what she called you yesterday,” he says. “She was crying to me, apologizing, begging me to forgive her for saying those nasty things to you.”

“Listen,” I say.

But he jumps back in, cutting me off. “She was right, though.”

“About what?”

“Who's really being a monster,” he says.

Now I'm all pissed again, and I say, “Screw that, man,” as I fling my arms over my head. “I saw the damn box. I read the note you left and saw what was inside those envelopes.”

“Did you read any of the letters?” he snaps.

“No.”

He gets all worked up and actually loosens his tie.

And I say, “Why does that piss you off?” Then, “And who loosens their tie unless they're about to fight someone or beat the shit out of their kid?”

“Shut up,” he snaps. “Just shut up!”

“Screw you,” I go. “Tell me why that pisses you off.”

“Because that's my story when it comes to you. Those letters were meant for you, and Morgan never gave them to you. She cashed the checks and sent the letters back to me without you even knowing they existed. That's why I put them there.”

“Bullshit,” I go. “You put them there to prove some petty point about how my mother had really lied to me about you ever trying to reach out to me. Me reading those letters isn't as important to you as making sure I knew that you'd sent me all that money and my mother took it for herself and kept me from knowing that you wrote to me a
couple of times a year. Yippee fucking yay, dude. So you wrote me some letters here and there. Pat yourself on the back. I know now. Thanks for thinking about me . . .”

Another pause.

“Dude.”

My father looks away from me now, shaking his head, and straightens his jacket.

“Those letters,” he says. “Everything I've always wanted to tell you and for you to know how I feel about you is in them.”

“They're letters!” I snap. “Letters. I'm right here, man. If you wanna tell me something, go for it. I'm five fucking feet away from you. Talk.”

Wiping a hand over his face, then turning back to me, my father goes, “Why? You've already made up your mind about me. I'm the evil prick who ruined your mother's life. Nothing I can say is gonna change that.”

“You gave me a box of letters.”

“Cos I thought they'd warm you up to me and then we could talk about some of this stuff. But I was wrong to do that. You're not interested in any of it.”

Images of me punching my father repeatedly in the face, then kicking him in the ribs smash through my head.

“You're fucking wrong, man.”

He smirks. “No I'm not, Jaime.”

“Yes, you are,” I snap. “Start talking, dude. Right now. I wanna know why you turned on me and her. I deserve to
know. Deserve to hear it from you and not read it in a letter you wrote some night cos you felt bad that I was about to turn eight and you didn't know what I looked like. So tell me. Why the fuck did you turn on her like that and beat her up? All she wanted to do was get back into the ballet. That's it. And you squashed that. You went back on the agreement you two made and when she acted out because of that, you went after her. You took yourself out of my life, man, and I wanna know why you did that.”

My father charges at me now, stopping just inches from my face, waving his finger wildly.

“Read the letters,” he says.

“Talk to me. I'm right here. Just tell me what happened. I deserve to hear it from you. I deserve to hear both sides, damn it.”

But he steps back and says nothing.

“Really?” I go. “You can't even talk to me?”

“I'm not going to go there,” he says.

“Cos you don't wanna say those things about yourself.”

“That's not it at all,” he says. “That's not it, Jaime. I'm not going to do that. It's too painful for me. I've worked so hard to close those wounds, and telling you won't do any bit of good.”

My father starts walking to the back door.

“Really?” I go. “You're walking out on me again?”

“I'm sorry,” he says. “I can't tell you why all of that happened.”

“Fuck!” I scream after he leaves the house. “Just fuck you! I hate you!”

This is when I ball my right hand into a fist.

After a few deep breaths, I punch myself in the chest as hard as I can until I literally beat the tears out of my eyes.

That fucking prick.

I SORTA FEEL LIKE A
dickhead to be doing this, but Dominique has band practice right now and can't kick it, Kristen is still sleeping, Brandon's out surfing with some friends, and Eddie's flipping two bikes he fixed up to some kids in Oakland, and there's no place to go except here.

I knock three times on the door of the Whip Pad and wait while I listen to the XX album
XX
.

It's gray in San Francisco today. Really windy, too. And I'm wearing a black hoodie and tight blue jeans and my white slip-ons. A black bandanna is tied around my neck.

The door finally opens and this black dude, who I'm pretty sure is Omar Getty and is wearing just a pair of cutoff jean shorts, answers.

“Can I help you, little dude?”

“Is James here?”

“James Morgan?”

“Yeah.”

“Who are you?” he says.

But before I can answer, James emerges in the hallway and says, “Gerry, man. It's cool. Let him in.”

“Thank you,” I tell him as I walk inside.

James is standing near his door, wearing a black V-neck tee, a pair of tight black jeans, and a navy-blue beanie rolled up tight around his forehead.

As I move toward James, I say, “I'm sorry, man. This isn't what I wanted to do, but nobody else is around.”

“You okay?”

“I don't know.” I stop walking. “Like, I should leave, actually.”

“It's cool, Jaime Miles. You're fine. Come on into the room.”

“Thanks, man,” I say, and he closes the door behind us.

“I listened to your music,” James says. “Me and Savannah did when we came back here after dinner.”

“Yikes.”

“No yikes,” he says. “It was good, man. I really dug it a lot. You're fourteen, right?”

“Yeah.”

“I wish I'd had just a drop of your ambition when I was that age.”

“Were you writing then?”

“Nah,” he says. “I was all into sports and shit when I was your age.”

“Well, thanks for listening, man. That's really cool. I don't even know what to say without feeling like some little fanboy gushing over his hero.”

“Well, I ain't no hero,” he says. “And if you gush, you're gone.”

I laugh.

Me and him are sitting at the table in the middle of his room, drinking cans of PBR and listening to Kendrick Lamar blast from his stereo speakers.

There's also a small mirror with tiny lines of cocaine.

“So what brought you down here, man? Something wrong or did you just wanna say what's up?”

“Both,” I say.