Jessica Sorensen - Saving Quinton

I hesitate, my mind briefly making it through the veil of drugs to see a real problem arising. “Tristan, maybe I should just go alone. You pissed off Trace pretty bad and he’s not a guy you want to mess around with. Remember when he and his guys stabbed that one guy for…well, I can’t remember what for, but he still did it.”

“I’ll be fine,” he says, brushing me off as he sidesteps a bucket. “If Trace is there, we’ll just leave.”

I want to argue with him more, because he’s only thinking with his addiction, but the veil in my mind closes back up, and I lose track of why I should worry so much. “All right, let’s get out of here.”

“You guys are such assholes,” Delilah huffs, stomping her foot and crossing her arms over her chest.

Tristan shrugs as he opens the front door, scooping up a backpack that’s near the doorway. I cross the living room and step over a large glass bong sitting in the center of the pathway between the two smelly old sofas, the only furniture we have. Then I walk outside into the sunlight and it stings my eyes, which already felt like they were bleeding. Tristan mutters something to Delilah about keeping his bed warm for him while he’s gone and I hear something shatter, probably the bong. Then he slams the door, shaking his head as we start across the balcony, past all the shut doors and windows covered with curtains or blankets.

“She’s such a bitch,” he says, slipping the backpack on.

“Yeah, but I don’t know why you encourage her.” I shield my eyes with my hand to block out the sunlight. “You didn’t used to.”

“Things change,” he mutters, scratching his arm.

“Not really,” I say as we reach the top of the stairway, stepping out from under the protection of the roof. The light hits me straight on and I feel like a candle melting under the sun. “Things have been pretty much the same for the last six months.”

“You say that like it’s bad,” he tells me, trotting down the steps.

I jog down the stairway after him. “No, I say that like it’s true.”

He halts when we reach the bottom of the stairs. “Maybe you shouldn’t be saying anything about it at all,” he suggests, grinding his teeth as he stares out at the gravel parking lot and then at the stretch of desert and run-down brick buildings to the side of us.

“Yeah, you’re probably right.” I decide to keep my lips sealed as we head for the street, because I really shouldn’t be talking to him or giving him advice. He’s probably doing all this shit because of me, because I killed his sister. I ruined his life—I ruined a lot of people’s lives, something I’m reminded of every day when no one calls me or really talks to me, which is pretty much the way it’s been since the accident. In the beginning I was stupid enough to believe that someone was going to say that it wasn’t my fault, that it was just an accident. But that never happened. The opposite did. And now I’m here right where I belong and the last time I actually had a conversation about something other than drugs was with Nova.

God, stop thinking about her. What the hell is my problem?

As we walk by the bottom-floor apartments toward the parking lot, we pass by our neighbor, Cami, a middle-aged woman who likes to walk around in spandex skirts and tight shirts with no bra. She’s smoking a cigarette, staring out at the parking lot, but when we walk by she focuses on us.

“Hey, baby,” she says, moving away from her front door that she’s leaning against. “Any of ya got anything good on ya?” she asks, stumbling in her heels as she blows out smoke, making a path toward me.

I shake my head. “No, I don’t.” And even if I did, I wouldn’t give it to her.

I step to the side to go around her, but Tristan decides to stop and doesn’t follow me, so I pause just behind Cami and wait for him.

“What are you looking for?” he asks and I shake my head at him. Cami is a whore, and I mean that literally. She sells herself for money or drugs, whatever she needs at the time.

“Tristan, let’s go.” I say, targeting him with a look that says, Don’t go there, man .

He looks genuinely baffled. “What?”

I nod at Cami, who seems oblivious. No way , I mouth.

“What do ya got?” Cami says, stepping forward. “I’ll take anything. I ain’t got any cash.” She sticks her chest out, like she’s trying to seduce him.

I don’t even wait for Tristan to respond. I grab the sleeve of his shirt and tug him away. Cami yells something at us about being a tease and that we need to come back, but I keep on walking with Tristan in tow, refusing to let go of him until we reach the edge of the parking lot.

“I can’t believe you were seriously considering that,” I say, releasing the sleeve of his jacket.

He kicks the tip of his sneaker at the dirt. “I wasn’t really…I was just curious what’d she say for future reference.”

“You know she doesn’t pay in cash, right?”

He wavers, deciding whether he really cares. “Yeah, well, it didn’t hurt anything, did it?”

I opt to drop the subject and turn up the sidewalk that borders the busy street. We walk by hotels that are pretty much crack houses and by shops, heading toward another apartment complex that’s about a mile down the road. It’s hot, probably pushing a hundred and ten, and the heat dries out my skin, throat, and nose. The Strip, which is the main tourist area of the city, is a ways in the distance, soaring buildings and casinos that reflect the sunlight. When you walk down it at night they’re even more blinding because all the neon lights are turned on and blinking. I actually hate walking down the Strip at all. Too much going on and it doesn’t fit with all the fast motion going on in my head.

“So do you think Dylan’s going to catch on that I’m ripping him off?” Tristan asks as we pause at a curb, waiting for a car to get out of the way so we can cross the street.

I rake my hand over my head. My hair’s grown out and is sort of scruffy, like my face, since I haven’t shaved in a while. Things like that just don’t seem that important anymore. It’s not like I get any benefit from looking clean. It’s just a waste of my time.

“Does it really matter if he does?” I ask as we cross the street. “You don’t seem like you’re afraid of him.”

“Who Dylan?” Tristan snorts a laugh. “Yeah, have you seen how much weight he’s lost? And he’s always drunk or so doped up he can’t even spell his own name.”

“I think we all look like that,” I say, stuffing my hands into my pockets.

“I look fine.” He scowls at me. “You know, I don’t get why you do that. Why you always point out where we’re all headed.”

“Because I don’t think everyone should be headed there,” I tell him. “Besides, sometimes I don’t think everyone fully understands where they’re headed.”

“Well, no one really does. Not me. Not you. Not that guy walking down the street over there,” he says, pointing at a guy holding up a sign that says he’ll work for food.

“I think some of us do,” I disagree. “I just think some won’t admit it.”

“You know, you’re really killing my buzz,” he says, annoyed. “And I know the only reason we’re talking about this is because you’re spun out of your mind and can’t turn your thoughts and mouth off.”

“I know that, but still, I really feel like I need to say it.”

“Well, don’t, because I don’t want to hear it anymore.”

“I have to.” I can’t seem to find the off switch to my mouth, so I just let it keep moving. “I don’t get why you’re here. I mean, I know you weren’t the best kid ever, but still this whole drug thing…I mean, your parents care about you.”