over a stolen cigarette. But I know he would never hurt me, he tells me himself how he wouldn’t, ever. It’s like I’m this little egg Mark can’t bring himself to crush. Still, I’ll pester him over something stupid like him not phoning me. I’ll keep going on and on, calling him an asshole and prick, not letting it drop. Till I know I’m just testing him. Till his fist comes out in front of my face and he’s got spit on the cornersof his mouth and the veins on the side of his forehead are popping. And even though I know he’d never do it, there’s that second of silence when I close my eyes and brace.
And I know what people would say to that, which is why I never mention it to Carla or anyone, because no one understands Mark the way I do. No one gets that he’s trying with me, really trying to be a good person. And although people might think it, no one would admit that there’s something admirable about a crazy dog who obeys the mere snap of his master’s fingers, or a child who will stop frantically crying only in her mother’s arms. No one would admit a certain jealousy for such selective loyalty.
The next morning I drag my tired body to Carla’s house to say goodbye. I thought Carla would be angry that I’m late, but she’s not. Instead, she’s waving excitedly at me from in front of her house, jumping up and down on the curb, like she’s going to summer camp or something. She has only packed one suitcase because she says she’ll be coming back lots and can slowly move her things. She asks me to come to the bus station with her because her mom is refusing to drive.
“She’s being a bitch,” Carla says dismissively and shrugs her shoulders. She says that her mom had been all nice to her the past couple weeks, buying her clothes and ordering take-out food every night. She says she knew she was being like that just so that Carla would change her mind. She says she knew it wouldn’t work, but she wasn’t going to pass up the opportunity to get some new clothes.
We stand out in front of the house for a few minutes, waiting, but I don’t know what for. Carla fiddles around in her purse as if she were stalling. I see her mom peeking out from behind thedrapes and I quickly look away, but her sad expression lingers in my mind. It’s a look I’ve never seen before, one that’s never been directed toward me. It’s the look of someone being left behind.
“Did you say goodbye to your mom?” I ask, trying to sound casual.
“Yep,” she says happily and picks up her suitcase.
I look to the window and see that the drape is back to normal, but I know Mrs. Costa is still standing there; I can see the shadow outline of her body. I feel sorry for her and get mad at Carla for being so stupid. Because there’s nothing wrong with Mrs. Costa. There’s nothing wrong with a mother who nags at you only because she cares. I get so pissed at Carla for having a half-decent mother and not appreciating it that I can’t keep my mouth shut.
“Don’t you feel bad?” I ask.
“Whose side are you on?” she blurts out, dropping her case on the sidewalk. She stands there, fists clenched, glaring at me. Like she’s going to take me on, right there, on her front lawn.
“Yours,” I say, caught off guard by her intensity. “I was just wondering.”
“Well, shut up, then.”
We walk in silence until Carla starts breathing heavy, says she’s tired of carrying the fucking case and that she needs a cigarette break. We sit on a bench and I ask her about this guy named Jason that she met last week and that’s all it takes before, suddenly, she’s in a great mood. Carla blathers on about his car and his hair and his Rolex. I watch her mouth move and wonder how she can be so vacant in her own life. And I wonder why I can’t be the same.
When the bus pulls away from the station we wave at each other, like we’re in a movie. Carla is frantically flapping her hands and yelling something through the window, but
And I know what people would say to that, which is why I never mention it to Carla or anyone, because no one understands Mark the way I do. No one gets that he’s trying with me, really trying to be a good person. And although people might think it, no one would admit that there’s something admirable about a crazy dog who obeys the mere snap of his master’s fingers, or a child who will stop frantically crying only in her mother’s arms. No one would admit a certain jealousy for such selective loyalty.
The next morning I drag my tired body to Carla’s house to say goodbye. I thought Carla would be angry that I’m late, but she’s not. Instead, she’s waving excitedly at me from in front of her house, jumping up and down on the curb, like she’s going to summer camp or something. She has only packed one suitcase because she says she’ll be coming back lots and can slowly move her things. She asks me to come to the bus station with her because her mom is refusing to drive.
“She’s being a bitch,” Carla says dismissively and shrugs her shoulders. She says that her mom had been all nice to her the past couple weeks, buying her clothes and ordering take-out food every night. She says she knew she was being like that just so that Carla would change her mind. She says she knew it wouldn’t work, but she wasn’t going to pass up the opportunity to get some new clothes.
We stand out in front of the house for a few minutes, waiting, but I don’t know what for. Carla fiddles around in her purse as if she were stalling. I see her mom peeking out from behind thedrapes and I quickly look away, but her sad expression lingers in my mind. It’s a look I’ve never seen before, one that’s never been directed toward me. It’s the look of someone being left behind.
“Did you say goodbye to your mom?” I ask, trying to sound casual.
“Yep,” she says happily and picks up her suitcase.
I look to the window and see that the drape is back to normal, but I know Mrs. Costa is still standing there; I can see the shadow outline of her body. I feel sorry for her and get mad at Carla for being so stupid. Because there’s nothing wrong with Mrs. Costa. There’s nothing wrong with a mother who nags at you only because she cares. I get so pissed at Carla for having a half-decent mother and not appreciating it that I can’t keep my mouth shut.
“Don’t you feel bad?” I ask.
“Whose side are you on?” she blurts out, dropping her case on the sidewalk. She stands there, fists clenched, glaring at me. Like she’s going to take me on, right there, on her front lawn.
“Yours,” I say, caught off guard by her intensity. “I was just wondering.”
“Well, shut up, then.”
We walk in silence until Carla starts breathing heavy, says she’s tired of carrying the fucking case and that she needs a cigarette break. We sit on a bench and I ask her about this guy named Jason that she met last week and that’s all it takes before, suddenly, she’s in a great mood. Carla blathers on about his car and his hair and his Rolex. I watch her mouth move and wonder how she can be so vacant in her own life. And I wonder why I can’t be the same.
When the bus pulls away from the station we wave at each other, like we’re in a movie. Carla is frantically flapping her hands and yelling something through the window, but
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