urine and vomit of others who were here before. The boys cackle and slap each otherâs hands as they zip up their pants and sprint down the alley, their boots clicking over the pavement.
MAC
I love eating out at fancy restaurants, man. I donât know why, I always have. It just makes me feel normal for awhile, I guess. You know what I mean?
No?
Well, itâs like, if youâre out at a restaurant, being waited on, ordering food, ordering drinks, looking around at the other customers, youâre inside, out of the rain. How bad can it be? Anyone eating at a restaurant has it pretty good, if you ask me. It means youâre not dirt poor. It means you like yourself enough to treat yourself. And if youâre not alone, well, that means somebody else likes you enough to share a meal with you.
So anyways, me, Z, Mercy, and Kayos went for dinner at this upscale Italian place on Commercial Drive called Luciaâs. Weâd had a good day; we wanted to splurge a little. Before Iâd even ordered, I could feel people from other tables staring at me, at us. I saw some people whispering. Some greasy guys at the bar turned to look at usâMafia guys, maybe. Yeah, yeah, I know what youâre thinking. Paranoid, right? But just because youâre paranoid doesnât mean people arenât out to get you. Thereâs only so much to go around in this town, know what I mean?
I shouldâve expected this. I donât know. I guess I thought weâd be more low profile than we are. But now I realize that was stupid. Look at us, Gâd up from the feet up; all dressed in black, flashing bling, all packing. Yep, just four regular girls out to enjoy some spaghetti and meatballs! Is that normal? I hardlyknow anymore. I guess Iâm just glad I prefer Italian food to Vietnamese. Thereâs no way we could go in there. They know who we are, and they want us gone. Iâve seen where theyâve crossed out our name on the walls, written their own above. Iâve seen their girls in purple, glaring at us on the street. I just duck my head and keep walking. Avoid eye contact. Pretend like Iâm no one. I donât need to start a beef with anyone, man. Thatâs not what Iâm about. I donât think that Black Rosesâ ad campaign was the smartest idea, now everyone knows who we are. I know that was the point, but itâs not the way it shouldâve been done. I see that now.
As our waitress set my plate in front of me, my phone buzzed. I checked the text. It was from Sly Girl. Her message said: 911 crak ally. I looked at my spaghetti, steaming red and smelling so good. I looked at the others, happily digging into their food. I threw two bills on the table and stood up. We gotta go.
VANCOUVER
Lights flicker around the girlâs head; headlights bouncing off the wet pavement. She does not open her eyes. She lies perfectly still for a very long time. Later she stirs, reaches into her pocket, presses buttons. She touches the rose tattoo on her arm and waits.
Then they come for her. Her friends, the other four, come, and they wrap her in a blanket and heave her into the back of their tiny car. The spot where she fell glows red in the darkness of the alley.
MERCY
What the fuck happened to you? What the fuck happened to her?
Kayos is screaming in Sly Girlâs face, then in my face, then in Macâs. She is flipping the fuck out. Iâm trying to drive but keep looking in the rear-view at Sly Girl. She is bleeding, her face is all puffy, and her bottom lip is the size of a donut. Sheâs stretched out across Kayosâs lap. Kayos is holding her hand and smoothing her hair away from her face. There is blood in her hair, and Kayos wipes her hand on her new pants. Sly Girl looks like she is pretty goddamn close to dying, but she doesnât want to go to a hospital. We know because she said no hospital. Thatâs about the only thing sheâs said. I park in front of
MAC
I love eating out at fancy restaurants, man. I donât know why, I always have. It just makes me feel normal for awhile, I guess. You know what I mean?
No?
Well, itâs like, if youâre out at a restaurant, being waited on, ordering food, ordering drinks, looking around at the other customers, youâre inside, out of the rain. How bad can it be? Anyone eating at a restaurant has it pretty good, if you ask me. It means youâre not dirt poor. It means you like yourself enough to treat yourself. And if youâre not alone, well, that means somebody else likes you enough to share a meal with you.
So anyways, me, Z, Mercy, and Kayos went for dinner at this upscale Italian place on Commercial Drive called Luciaâs. Weâd had a good day; we wanted to splurge a little. Before Iâd even ordered, I could feel people from other tables staring at me, at us. I saw some people whispering. Some greasy guys at the bar turned to look at usâMafia guys, maybe. Yeah, yeah, I know what youâre thinking. Paranoid, right? But just because youâre paranoid doesnât mean people arenât out to get you. Thereâs only so much to go around in this town, know what I mean?
I shouldâve expected this. I donât know. I guess I thought weâd be more low profile than we are. But now I realize that was stupid. Look at us, Gâd up from the feet up; all dressed in black, flashing bling, all packing. Yep, just four regular girls out to enjoy some spaghetti and meatballs! Is that normal? I hardlyknow anymore. I guess Iâm just glad I prefer Italian food to Vietnamese. Thereâs no way we could go in there. They know who we are, and they want us gone. Iâve seen where theyâve crossed out our name on the walls, written their own above. Iâve seen their girls in purple, glaring at us on the street. I just duck my head and keep walking. Avoid eye contact. Pretend like Iâm no one. I donât need to start a beef with anyone, man. Thatâs not what Iâm about. I donât think that Black Rosesâ ad campaign was the smartest idea, now everyone knows who we are. I know that was the point, but itâs not the way it shouldâve been done. I see that now.
As our waitress set my plate in front of me, my phone buzzed. I checked the text. It was from Sly Girl. Her message said: 911 crak ally. I looked at my spaghetti, steaming red and smelling so good. I looked at the others, happily digging into their food. I threw two bills on the table and stood up. We gotta go.
VANCOUVER
Lights flicker around the girlâs head; headlights bouncing off the wet pavement. She does not open her eyes. She lies perfectly still for a very long time. Later she stirs, reaches into her pocket, presses buttons. She touches the rose tattoo on her arm and waits.
Then they come for her. Her friends, the other four, come, and they wrap her in a blanket and heave her into the back of their tiny car. The spot where she fell glows red in the darkness of the alley.
MERCY
What the fuck happened to you? What the fuck happened to her?
Kayos is screaming in Sly Girlâs face, then in my face, then in Macâs. She is flipping the fuck out. Iâm trying to drive but keep looking in the rear-view at Sly Girl. She is bleeding, her face is all puffy, and her bottom lip is the size of a donut. Sheâs stretched out across Kayosâs lap. Kayos is holding her hand and smoothing her hair away from her face. There is blood in her hair, and Kayos wipes her hand on her new pants. Sly Girl looks like she is pretty goddamn close to dying, but she doesnât want to go to a hospital. We know because she said no hospital. Thatâs about the only thing sheâs said. I park in front of
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