Lennon's Jinx (4 page)

“You
are real. You just don’t see it.” She gives me one last kiss before I get out
and trudge up the sidewalk.

I’ve
never led her on, but she keeps waiting for me to ask her out. It’s not like that
will ever happen. I’m not good at relationships.

An
orange Dodge Charger blocks the driveway, which is highly irritating because
I’ll have to move it tonight to get out in the morning. I walk in through the
garage, fingering the keys around my neck.

The
steel one secures my handgun that’s kept in the Toyota Highlander glove box.
It’s locked as well. There’s zero tolerance for firearms on school property,
but it doesn’t help me if the gun is inside the house where I can’t get to it.
I debate on retrieving it before going inside. I’ve only had to use it once.

Pulling
the gun out will only upset the babysitter Nicky. She would’ve already called
the police if it were necessary. Taking a deep breath, I walk inside the house,
knives stabbing my gut at what I might find. Nicky stands just inside.

“Your
mom’s male friend used the lamp to break his fall, which didn’t work out so
well for him or the lamp,” Nicky says, giving me the lowdown. After three years
of tending to Currie, she knows what to do and never tells her parents.
Otherwise, they wouldn’t let her come over.

The
Raku lamp Currie picked out lies on the hardwood floor in several pieces.

Nicky
points at the vomit. “He was so shit-faced—”

“Language,”
I say.

“Right.
Anyway, you don’t pay me enough to clean up that nasty stuff.”

“Where
are they?”

Nicky
laughs. “They retired to the bedroom. That’s what your mom said, as if I have
no clue what they’re doing.”

“Currie?”

“She
was sound asleep when I checked on her after Heather and friend passed out in
the
boudoir
.” Nicky pokes fun at what Mom calls her room of horrors.

I
frown because Currie’s good at faking asleep. She texted me close to ten. It’s
more likely that she heard everything, and that sucks.

“Here
you go.” I pay Nicky forty bucks for a little over two hours.

“Unh,
unh,” she says, holding out her hand. “Extra for not getting sick myself after
watching creepers puke.”

I
hand her another ten. This is why the babysitters love me. I pay the best rate
in our neighborhood.

I
check on Currie before seeing the babysitter home. Harry is curled up on her
pillow, snoring. Startled, he jumps up and growls at me. I snort out a laugh at
the soup-bowl-sized dog. When Currie brought the hairball home, I wasn’t sure
what it was. He’s a black and brown rat’s nest of hair, even after a trip to
the groomer.

Currie’s
chest rises and falls in an even tempo. I kiss her forehead. “Sweet dreams,” I
whisper.

Not
trusting Mom’s friend, I dead-bolt Currie’s bedroom that she can open from the
inside.

“When
would you like me next?” Nicky asks, tapping my shoulder.

“Probably
Friday night and Saturday day.” My band has two gigs this weekend, including
the wedding of the decade for Chicagoans.

“Good.
I need the money.”

On
the front porch, I stand outside in the cold and watch Nicky walk three houses
down from ours.

When
I go back inside, I attend to the mess. At least the puke isn’t on the Persian
silk rug Currie made me buy, but it’s disgusting just the same. It pisses me off
that Mom expects me to clean up after her guests.

I
pad to Mom’s room. A bare male ass straddles the bed. Her hand lies on his
back. I’ve had this discussion before, not to bring home guys unless she’s
serious about them and they aren’t musicians. It’s not like she listens. I
close the door, so Currie doesn’t have to walk past this lovely vision in the morning.
Unfortunately, she can never have sleepovers at our house because of Mom.

I
stink of stale beer, so the shower in my room beckons me. I toss the sticky shirt
and jeans in the hamper while my mind wrestles with Jinx. What is it with her? Why
do I care what she thinks? Why was she so mad? Then it dawns on me—the burned
down candles, the photos, her dad’s guitars.

I
press my hand to my forehead, feeling like a complete jerk. Stupid numb-nuts.

The
den is a shrine to her dead dad. Major screw-up on my part, which I should be
used to by now, but the saddest part is I don’t want Jinx to hate me.

The next morning, the tapping on
my face is so light it’s like a feather brushing my cheek.

“Get
up,” Currie says. “You’re supposed to wake me up.”

I
roll out of bed. “I’m up.” I tug on jeans over my boxers. No girl respects
briefs.

“Nasty.
Dude, change your underwear.”

My
hand shoos her away. “Okay. Get out.” It’s cute when she goes urban on me.

I
do as Currie instructed me. After I put on clean boxers, jeans, and a Led
Zeppelin tee, one of the few things Jonathan ever bought me, I brush my teeth
and wash my face. I don’t shave because chicks dig stubble, and I’m lazy.

Harry
noses his way into my room, so he can hump my leg, even though we whacked his
nads off years ago.

“Buzz
off.” I shake him off my leg, not too roughly, because he’d blow away in a
light breeze.

Undeterred,
Harry follows me to the kitchen. He’s determined to impregnate my foot. He
licks his chops.

“Sorry,
bud. No treats here.” Currie’s a pescatarian, so there’s no meat in the house
for the little guy or me.

Harry
attacks my ankle again. “Would you get your gay dog off me?”

“He’s
not gay,” Currie says, matter of fact while spooning more yogurt. “Humping on
your leg is also a show of dominance. Harry’s simply letting you know he’s the
boss.”

“Why
doesn’t he hump your leg?”

“Because
Harry didn’t train me to feed him.”

“That
was supposed to be your job when I agreed to keep him.”

“You
are such a pawn in our game.” She shoves a bowl of yogurt and fruit over to me.
“Eat.”

Currie
has me pegged. I pick Harry up by the scruff of his neck and feed him yogurt
from my spoon. “Who’s your boss?”

She
waves her spoon at me. “Harry is. And that’s disgusting.”

“You’re
the one who told me a dog’s mouth is cleaner than a human’s.”

“It’s
still gross.”

Gray
circles smudge the skin under her eyes that she tried to hide with Mom’s
concealer.

I
peel a banana and stuff it into my mouth. “Didn’t you sleep last night?” The
thought of her overhearing Mom’s antics roils my insides.

A
world of knowledge churns in her dark eyes. “I have a hard time sleeping until
you get home.”

Guilt
works its way into my expression. “I’ll come home earlier from now on during
the week.” I can’t on the weekends because of the band. I don’t want Currie to
lose sleep, especially over me. Many a night I was stuck in the house alone,
waiting for the deadbeats to get home. I either pay a babysitter when I go out
or Currie goes next door to the Nowaks.

“It’s
your senior year. You should have fun.”

I
mess her hair. “You’re my fun.”

“Hey.
Stop that. I just got my hair to lay flat.” She pulls out a compact mirror from
her designer bag and fixes it.

“Diva,”
I say, laughing.

Currie
pouts. “Am not.”

She
pinches me. It doesn’t hurt, so I laugh harder. She huffs at me.

I
thumb through the paper to see what’s happening in the world and because Currie
makes me. She wants me to become more cultural. Nothing really helps, but I try
for her. A sour expression twists her lips, which makes me wonder what’s really
troubling her.

“Anything
going on with Zoe?” I ask. I’ve known her since the day she was born, which was
a week after Currie. I arranged play dates, so Currie had someone normal to
hang out with. Zoe’s parents adore me, maybe the only two grownups on the
planet who do.

Currie’s
face pinches with worry. “She has to have more chemo.”

Zoe’s
been in remission for almost four years. We were hoping forever. “That sucks.
We’ll sneak in real food for her at the hospital.”

Currie
nods, fighting back emotion. Most kids don’t stress about dying, but Currie
does. Like me, she’s had important people disappear in her life. That would be
Jonathan. The only problem with him is he keeps popping up like a serial killer
in a bad horror movie.

It’ll
devastate her if Zoe isn’t around anymore. Even though she was only six the
last time she had treatments, Currie helped Zoe every day. There’s not much
else we can do.

“Maybe
we should go to church and pray,” Currie says.

I
don’t have any feeling for the Dude either way. “Okay.”

“Dad
called.” Currie hesitates, reading me first before she continues, “He wants me
to stay longer this summer. I can take a dance intensive, and there’s this
great violin teacher. There’s also this really—”

“You
can do that here.” She doesn’t need him and neither do I. If I have my way, she
won’t have to go this summer at all.

She
swirls her yogurt with her spoon. “I like Denage. I wish we lived in LA so I
could see them more.”

Denage
is Jonathan’s latest entanglement.

Currie
pushes out her bottom lip and pouts. It’s her favorite pastime.

I
hate to admit it, but Currie’s sour lip routine normally makes me give into her.
Jonathan is a whole other matter. Currie sees him at Christmas and during the
summer. That’s our arrangement for now. “Be careful what you wish for.”

“Dad
wants you to call him. He needs to talk to you.”

“I’m
sure it can wait.”

“Please,”
she says. “It’s important.”

“I’ll
think about it.” If Jonathan dropped off the face of the earth, it would be
better for us both.

Currie
doesn’t remember him strung out on crack cocaine and heroin or the endless
parties. Escaping from the harsh Chicago winters to the sunny beaches of Malibu,
where Jonathan lives, and shopping on Rodeo Drive hold fast in her mind. Her
memories don’t include Jonathan’s many relapses and broken promises. Once an
addict, always an addict.

We
have the Jonathan discussion every other day and sometimes twice a day. She
misses him, and that burns me more than hot coffee spilled onto my legs. I have
the scars to prove it.

While
we eat breakfast, my mind pores over Jinx. Jonathan can wait. Lord knows he
kept me waiting a thousand times at school, at my friend Clive’s house, at the
hospital with a broken arm from skateboarding off the roof of a house. I was
supposed to land in the pool. Jonathan’s list of forgetfulness is endless.

My
mind travels back to more important matters. Jinx threw me out. Why did I tell
her it was no big deal? That was stupid. And she was scared of me. I would
never hurt a girl.

“What’s
eating you?” Currie finishes her yogurt and places the bowl in the dishwasher.
At her request, I bought all stainless steel appliances so that the kitchen
appeals to her tastes.

“There’s
this girl. She called me a pig.”

Currie
laughs. The light, pleasant sound makes me smile. She inherited it from Mom. “Why?”

“She
caught me with my pants down.” Though Currie’s a muffin, she’s my closest friend,
and it’s not like she hasn’t seen everything living in this house.

She
laughs again. “Justified.”

“True,
but it bothers me.”

Currie
slaps her forehead. “It’s finally happened. You’ve grown a conscience.”

“I
wouldn’t go that far. She threw me out of her party,” I say, though guilt
needles me for defiling her dad’s shrine. God, I’m a dumbass.

“No,”
she says sarcastically while stretching out the ‘n’. “It was deserved. You’re
such a ho.”

“Why
are you with me then?”

“I
have low standards. Tell her you’re sorry.”

“What
good will that do?”

“It
doesn’t hurt to try.”

Harry
scoots over to the kitchen door where Zoe enters from the opened garage. “Hey,
Harry.” She pats his scruffy head. He doesn’t hump her leg. It’s only me and
Jonathan.

Zoe
rummages through the pantry. Her shoulders slump. “No Cocoa Puffs, Lucky
Charms?”

Dried,
sweet cereal makes me nauseous. I lived off it until I was eight and Zoe’s mom
showed me how to fend for myself and invited me over for meals.

“No
good food,” Zoe says. “No wonder you don’t have a girlfriend. You can’t be
trained.”

“I
have my two girls. That’s plenty.”

“You
need a real girlfriend.” She takes an apple from the fruit bowl on the counter
and bites into it. “All this health food is going to make me sick.”

Currie
makes a sad face at Zoe’s words but quickly replaces it with a feigned grin. “We
need to hurry, or we’ll be late.”

On
my way to get my backpack, I check to make sure Mom’s door is still closed. She
never gets out of bed until noon. One of the many reasons I’ve taken care of
Currie since the divorce. Well, actually since the day she was born.

I
secure my room and Currie’s. Mom’s boyfriends always take souvenirs, as Mom
puts it. They’re not allowed to collect from us anymore.

In
the garage, I slide into the Highlander where Currie and Zoe have already
belted themselves into the backseat. Currie insists I do the same before
backing out of the garage.

That’s
when I remember the orange Charger. “Sh…oot,” I mutter.

Currie
shakes her finger at me. “Almost.”

“I
didn’t say a bad word.”

“It
was close,” Currie says while Zoe giggles. “We can’t be late.”

I
run back into the house, tear down the hall, and throw open Mom’s door. “Hey,
you’re blocking the driveway.”

My
mom’s bunkmate rolls over. He’s hairy all over and disgusting.