somewhere. Most of us had settled in somewhere. So, by that Wednesday, I was just a regular old homeless kid who occasionally fucked truckers from Montreal.
(And to think grown-ups thought I had “a lack of impulsecontrol” before Reactor One blew up. I guess it was always going to be a crapshoot to see who or what melted down first.)
“My mom’s getting out of jail,” Andrea said to me out of the blue.
“No shit? Where did you hear that?”
“A friend of hers sent me a text.”
“You need a new phone.”
“Yeah. Clearly.”
“What does she want?”
Andrea shrugged. “She wants to see me.”
“That’s too bad.”
“I know, right?”
“What are you going to do?”
“I don’t know. The problem is, she knows Poacher.”
I knew that; it was how Andrea had found Poacher in the first place. But I didn’t yet see where this was going. “So …”
“I didn’t text back,” she said.
“No?”
She shook her head. “I don’t want my mom to find me. I mean it: I don’t want to see her. I don’t want to see her or my dad—not ever again. They’re both total sleazebags. And my dad? He’s not just a sleazebag, he’s nasty. He’s just garbage.”
“But you think she’ll find you through Poacher,” I said.
“Uh-huh.” She pulled a half-smoked cigarette from her pants pocket and lit it with a very pink Bic. “I think maybe I’ll have to leave.”
I didn’t like the sound of that. Andrea was like a big sister to me. Already she had taught me so much. “And go where?”
“I don’t know.”
“Poacher gives us a roof,” I said. “And some freedom. And we have a little money.”
“We have chlamydia,” she said.
“We do not! At least I don’t.”
“You know what I mean. It’s just gross what we do. Our livesare just gross. Maybe we don’t have chlamydia today, but we will tomorrow.”
“Poacher would just find you.”
“Maybe.”
I motioned for her to give me a drag on her cigarette. “Think he’d track you down if you left? Would he hurt you?” I asked, after I’d exhaled.
“No. He’s way too mellow. That’s not Poacher.”
“Maybe he’d keep your mom away from you. You know, protect you.”
She seemed to think about this. “I guess he might.”
“Tell him your mom is getting out and you don’t want to see her. See what he does.”
“Okay,” she agreed. We watched an old couple detour away from us when they saw us. Then she said, “Want to get a tattoo?” This was not as random as it sounds. She had been talking about getting a tattoo all week—or, in her case, another tattoo. She already had a string of ivy tattooed around her left ankle.
“Nah. I don’t want to spend the money.”
“I know a guy who will do it for free for a pretty girl.”
“If she fucks him, I suppose?”
“No, it’s not like that. It’s that young guy with the dreadlocks—at the tattoo place on North Winooski. It turns out he knows my cousin. He’d do me a favor, I think.”
“So it wouldn’t cost us anything?”
“Nope.”
So I said, “Why not?” (See what I mean about me and impulse control?) And off we went. She got her second tattoo—an animal that looked like it was part lion, part snake, and part (I am not making this up) goat—and I got my first. It’s on my shoulder blade and my back. It says, “Set bleeding feet to minuets,” and the writing looks like calligraphy.
When I told the dude I wanted a line from one of Emily Dickinson’s poems, he nodded and said, “Hope is the thing withfeathers, right?” He wasn’t trying to be a smart-ass, but I still felt it was kind of condescending. It seems a lot of girls use that line, even if they have almost no idea who Emily Dickinson was. He even had the words on a pattern, and it was designed to wrap around a bird’s wing. After you pick the line, you pick the bird, and you can either have something as sweet as a bluebird or barn swallow, or some winged nightmare with talons that looks like it
(And to think grown-ups thought I had “a lack of impulsecontrol” before Reactor One blew up. I guess it was always going to be a crapshoot to see who or what melted down first.)
“My mom’s getting out of jail,” Andrea said to me out of the blue.
“No shit? Where did you hear that?”
“A friend of hers sent me a text.”
“You need a new phone.”
“Yeah. Clearly.”
“What does she want?”
Andrea shrugged. “She wants to see me.”
“That’s too bad.”
“I know, right?”
“What are you going to do?”
“I don’t know. The problem is, she knows Poacher.”
I knew that; it was how Andrea had found Poacher in the first place. But I didn’t yet see where this was going. “So …”
“I didn’t text back,” she said.
“No?”
She shook her head. “I don’t want my mom to find me. I mean it: I don’t want to see her. I don’t want to see her or my dad—not ever again. They’re both total sleazebags. And my dad? He’s not just a sleazebag, he’s nasty. He’s just garbage.”
“But you think she’ll find you through Poacher,” I said.
“Uh-huh.” She pulled a half-smoked cigarette from her pants pocket and lit it with a very pink Bic. “I think maybe I’ll have to leave.”
I didn’t like the sound of that. Andrea was like a big sister to me. Already she had taught me so much. “And go where?”
“I don’t know.”
“Poacher gives us a roof,” I said. “And some freedom. And we have a little money.”
“We have chlamydia,” she said.
“We do not! At least I don’t.”
“You know what I mean. It’s just gross what we do. Our livesare just gross. Maybe we don’t have chlamydia today, but we will tomorrow.”
“Poacher would just find you.”
“Maybe.”
I motioned for her to give me a drag on her cigarette. “Think he’d track you down if you left? Would he hurt you?” I asked, after I’d exhaled.
“No. He’s way too mellow. That’s not Poacher.”
“Maybe he’d keep your mom away from you. You know, protect you.”
She seemed to think about this. “I guess he might.”
“Tell him your mom is getting out and you don’t want to see her. See what he does.”
“Okay,” she agreed. We watched an old couple detour away from us when they saw us. Then she said, “Want to get a tattoo?” This was not as random as it sounds. She had been talking about getting a tattoo all week—or, in her case, another tattoo. She already had a string of ivy tattooed around her left ankle.
“Nah. I don’t want to spend the money.”
“I know a guy who will do it for free for a pretty girl.”
“If she fucks him, I suppose?”
“No, it’s not like that. It’s that young guy with the dreadlocks—at the tattoo place on North Winooski. It turns out he knows my cousin. He’d do me a favor, I think.”
“So it wouldn’t cost us anything?”
“Nope.”
So I said, “Why not?” (See what I mean about me and impulse control?) And off we went. She got her second tattoo—an animal that looked like it was part lion, part snake, and part (I am not making this up) goat—and I got my first. It’s on my shoulder blade and my back. It says, “Set bleeding feet to minuets,” and the writing looks like calligraphy.
When I told the dude I wanted a line from one of Emily Dickinson’s poems, he nodded and said, “Hope is the thing withfeathers, right?” He wasn’t trying to be a smart-ass, but I still felt it was kind of condescending. It seems a lot of girls use that line, even if they have almost no idea who Emily Dickinson was. He even had the words on a pattern, and it was designed to wrap around a bird’s wing. After you pick the line, you pick the bird, and you can either have something as sweet as a bluebird or barn swallow, or some winged nightmare with talons that looks like it
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