Blackbird by Anna Carey

the table.
    “Maybe you should stay with me,” Ben says. “I’m supposed to be at my aunt’s while my mom is getting better, but that fell apart already.”
    “What do you mean?” you ask.
    “She caught me selling pot and . . . ‘asked me to leave.’” He makes quote signs in the air when he says it. “Kicked me out Beverly Hills style. So I’m back at my house now, which is closer to school anyway. There’s a bungalow in the back. No one will know you’re there.”
    “I can’t.”
    “It’ll be safer than at some motel.”
    “Nowhere is safe.”
    “I said safer .” As you walk he scans the room, the way you have been for the past few days. He glances over his shoulder at the back exit. You can see how it’s changing him, how he already seems on edge. He’s involved now.
    “You don’t want me there.” But what you really mean is You don’t know you don’t want me there . There’s too much you haven’t said. It’s not fair.
    “It’s just me anyway. My mom isn’t coming back for another month at least.”
    “Where is she?”
    His face changes, and you can see he doesn’t want to answer, but you stay silent, waiting. “This treatment center just north of here.”
    Something in you recognizes it—the way he doesn’t look at you when he answers the question. His mom is sick, and you wonder if part of you has gone through the same thing. It feels too familiar . . . too real.
    “It’s just that . . . I’m in enough trouble,” you say. “I can’t be responsible for anyone else.”
    “I know.”
    But when you get into the parking lot he points to his Jeep. It’s not a good idea, not even an okay idea, considering what happened this morning. But here Ben is, chewing his bottom lip in a nervous gesture, digging the toe of his Converse into the pavement, grinding down a few stray rocks. His face is becoming more familiar—you could probably picture it if you closed your eyes, you could probably hear his voice even if he weren’t here.
    You should go back to the motel, back to the impersonal room with the beige wallpaper and empty drawers. But when he shrugs and steps away, you follow. And for the first time all day, you don’t look back.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF–NOT FOR SALE
    HarperCollins Publishers
    ..................................................................

CHAPTER ELEVEN
    WHEN YOU STEP out of the shower the steam is so dense it clouds the air. The mirror is fogged up and you’re relieved not to see your reflection. For once there is no scar, no tattoo on the inside of your wrist. You pull on the clean T-shirt and pajama pants Ben gave you, wearing your sports bra underneath so you don’t feel as exposed. When you walk into the bungalow something is burning.
    “I got hungry,” Ben says. He moves around the narrow kitchen, flicking on a vent overhead. It sucks up the smoke coming off the frying pan. “Two grilled cheeses, well-done.”
    You get a second look at the pool house now that all the lights are on. It’s just one room, the kitchen island jutting out, separating the couches from the stove and tiny fridge. The coffee table has been moved into the corner. The loveseat is folded open, the thin mattress covered with a few blankets. There’s nothing on the walls—not a single framed photo, not a painting or poster. The furniture doesn’t match.
    “You don’t use this place much?” you ask.
    “Not really,” Ben says. He pushes the sandwich down with the spatula, the smoke rising up around him. “When my grandma was alive she’d stay here when she visited. That’s about it.”
    You go to the window, pulling the shades aside so you can see the main house again. The back wall is all glass. There’s a single lamp on to the right, revealing a sleek modern kitchen, a few metal stools lined up in front of a counter. The upstairs windows reflect the stars. Beneath it, the pool is just a puddle on the brick patio, the lights out, the surface still. “So you’ve