worse all the time; he’s too focused on scoring drugs every night, and she’s fed up with that scene. And, as sweet as Kevin can be to her, because of his paranoia about “strangers” they don’t make other friends. It’s the three of them against the world—only she doesn’t believe that anymore.
She’s never told them about Aydee; they would neither understand nor approve.
Some days, Aydee is cheerful, wrapped up in the magical life of her alter ego or simply enjoying Russet’s company, but today Sandra can see that Aydee is having a rough time. She’s distracted and nervous, and not just about leaving Russet outside.
Aydee starts crying. At first Sandra is too shocked to react, but then she reaches out and squeezes Aydee’s wrist.
“Why did I wake up in that filthy alley? There’s no Lost Pages. Not for me. I wish that other Aydee would come and rescue me. She’s a hero, she really is. She helps people who think they have no place in the world find where they belong. I wish she’d be my hero. She runs Lost Pages now. She’s strong and beautiful, with her hair braided and beaded and her skin as smooth as a baby’s. Not like me.” Aydee disentangles her wrist from Sandra’s fingers and wipes her runny nose. “But we’re still connected! I know everything that happens to her! She has to know about me! Why doesn’t she come and find me, so I can be safe, too? Me and Russet. She has to find us some day. She has to!” Aydee glances outside at Russet, who is steadfastly focused on her. “It’s getting cold again.” She pauses. “I don’t know if I can take another winter.”
Not for the first time, Sandra wonders about Aydee’s age. When she noticed her last February, begging on the street with her dog on the coldest day of the year, Sandra had assumed from her weathered face and scraggly voice that she must be around fifty. She’s so frail and withered, but there’s something about her features—the delicately small ears and nose, for example—that makes Sandra think Aydee might be closer to thirty, maybe even younger. Whenever Sandra asks, Aydee always answers, “Oh, I don’t know. I’ve lost track.”
The boys are sleeping off whatever shit was in the pills Tom brought home last night. To avoid them both, especially after that hateful quarrel, Sandra bunked on the couch, even though she hates sleeping alone.
In the bathroom, Sandra turns on the shower, waits for the water to get scalding hot, and then climbs in.
She knows that she should leave, that this relationship isn’t working anymore, but where could she go? She’s been with the boys for six years, since she met them at her first rave. The boys, already a couple by then, had seduced her as a joke—a
let’s fuck the awkward, insecure virgin and make her cry
thing—but they ended up really liking her, and the three of them had become inseparable. Two years later, at sixteen, they ran away together, away from their intolerant families and from everyone else who claimed to know what was best for them.
As the steam soothes her, calms her, she watches her skin turn from olive to pink under the hot water. From the waist up, her entire body, including her face, is tattooed with stars, suns, moons, and planets of various sizes and shapes; dark green snakes coil upward from her ankles to bite her on the ass.
She’s startled when Tom suddenly steps into the shower, followed by Kevin, who comes in from the opposite end. They both wince at the scalding water.
She feels vulnerable and threatened, her five-foot-three self sandwiched between these six-foot giants.
Kevin, behind her, presses down on her shoulders, his strong, dark fingers gently massaging her. Her back is so taut that even such mild pressure hurts.
Tom—of the quick temper and hateful words; of the tall, gaunt frame; of the eerily pale skin—is careful not to touch her. Looking at her with surprising tenderness, he says, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t talk to you
She’s never told them about Aydee; they would neither understand nor approve.
Some days, Aydee is cheerful, wrapped up in the magical life of her alter ego or simply enjoying Russet’s company, but today Sandra can see that Aydee is having a rough time. She’s distracted and nervous, and not just about leaving Russet outside.
Aydee starts crying. At first Sandra is too shocked to react, but then she reaches out and squeezes Aydee’s wrist.
“Why did I wake up in that filthy alley? There’s no Lost Pages. Not for me. I wish that other Aydee would come and rescue me. She’s a hero, she really is. She helps people who think they have no place in the world find where they belong. I wish she’d be my hero. She runs Lost Pages now. She’s strong and beautiful, with her hair braided and beaded and her skin as smooth as a baby’s. Not like me.” Aydee disentangles her wrist from Sandra’s fingers and wipes her runny nose. “But we’re still connected! I know everything that happens to her! She has to know about me! Why doesn’t she come and find me, so I can be safe, too? Me and Russet. She has to find us some day. She has to!” Aydee glances outside at Russet, who is steadfastly focused on her. “It’s getting cold again.” She pauses. “I don’t know if I can take another winter.”
Not for the first time, Sandra wonders about Aydee’s age. When she noticed her last February, begging on the street with her dog on the coldest day of the year, Sandra had assumed from her weathered face and scraggly voice that she must be around fifty. She’s so frail and withered, but there’s something about her features—the delicately small ears and nose, for example—that makes Sandra think Aydee might be closer to thirty, maybe even younger. Whenever Sandra asks, Aydee always answers, “Oh, I don’t know. I’ve lost track.”
The boys are sleeping off whatever shit was in the pills Tom brought home last night. To avoid them both, especially after that hateful quarrel, Sandra bunked on the couch, even though she hates sleeping alone.
In the bathroom, Sandra turns on the shower, waits for the water to get scalding hot, and then climbs in.
She knows that she should leave, that this relationship isn’t working anymore, but where could she go? She’s been with the boys for six years, since she met them at her first rave. The boys, already a couple by then, had seduced her as a joke—a
let’s fuck the awkward, insecure virgin and make her cry
thing—but they ended up really liking her, and the three of them had become inseparable. Two years later, at sixteen, they ran away together, away from their intolerant families and from everyone else who claimed to know what was best for them.
As the steam soothes her, calms her, she watches her skin turn from olive to pink under the hot water. From the waist up, her entire body, including her face, is tattooed with stars, suns, moons, and planets of various sizes and shapes; dark green snakes coil upward from her ankles to bite her on the ass.
She’s startled when Tom suddenly steps into the shower, followed by Kevin, who comes in from the opposite end. They both wince at the scalding water.
She feels vulnerable and threatened, her five-foot-three self sandwiched between these six-foot giants.
Kevin, behind her, presses down on her shoulders, his strong, dark fingers gently massaging her. Her back is so taut that even such mild pressure hurts.
Tom—of the quick temper and hateful words; of the tall, gaunt frame; of the eerily pale skin—is careful not to touch her. Looking at her with surprising tenderness, he says, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t talk to you
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