The Drowned Forest by Kristopher Reisz Page A

start a band called the Herpes Sponges. Or, you know, name my first child Herpes Sponge. Herpes Sponge Cassell. It’s more of a girl’s name, but it could work for a boy, don’t you think?”
    I stare hard at the floor.
    “Well? What do you think?”
    “I … I don’t know.”
    Is she going to kick me out? Holly, where do I go now?
    “You think I’m trashy, fine. I’ll still take care of your runaway butt. But don’t ever treat me like I’m stupid.”
    I nod, trying to cough up some chalk-dry apology. Then LeighAnn’s expression suddenly brightens again. “And if you can walk the dogs sometime today, that’d be a major help. Leashes are above the dryer. See you.” She turns and walks off. The front door opens and bangs shut.
    My hands tremble with relief. Or guilt. Or both. LeighAnn could have kicked me out—she had a right to—but some spark of grace kept her from dumping me out on the street. Holly, I have to remember that. I hug the clothes LeighAnn loaned me. No matter what else I think about her, about these people, I have to remember that.
    Outside, dawn hangs over the backyards like blue chiffon. The air remains night-cool and damp, but it’ll heat up soon. I go change into the clothes LeighAnn lent me. It feels good pulling on clean things. Right away, I’m sorry for acting stupid and stubborn last night and not asking to borrow something.
    I unwrap the bandages from my arm. Scabs and bruises mark where you scratched me, Holly. One sickly pale flower has grown under the bandage, curled flat against my skin. I prod at the silk thread of a stem. Part of my soul stretches into the flower. I can sense the delicious cool against the leaves. I taste the drop of musky sweetness hidden at the center of squashed petals. I pinch the flower’s base and yank. The blood on the roots is bright red. Smearing on more antibiotic ointment, re-wrapping my arm, I toss the little flower in the trash.
    I want to go home. My parents have probably been up all night worrying about me, praying, waiting for me to call. I wish I could at least text them so they’d know I’m okay. Stratofortress has a landline phone hanging on the kitchen wall. I could call Mom and Dad, just tell them I love them. But the police might trace the call. They’d come get me, and Mom and Dad wouldn’t let me out of their sight afterward.
    I can’t go home. It doesn’t matter how lonely I feel. It doesn’t matter how much it hurts Mom and Dad. I can’t go home until I know you’re safe. I force the idea away, deciding to distract myself by nosing around Stratofortress’s house.
    The flyers lining the hallway are from lots of different bands and venues—Calamity Jane in Birmingham, the Suicide Kings and Tom Waits in Nashville, a ton of shows at the UNA student center. There’s only a few flyers from Stratofortress’s own gigs. They’re all for local shows at the Brick or the Bandito Burrito. Stratofortress is usually an opening act, and on one flyer, they’re listed as Stradivarius.
    I look around the rest of the house. In LeighAnn and Max’s bedroom, a thick layer of clothes and sound equipment covers the floor. A marijuana pipe sits on the dresser, ribbons of purple running through its clear glass body. Ultimate Steve doesn’t have a bed, just a mattress on the floor. A Jolly Roger hangs across the window for a curtain. A hole in the ceiling exposes the roof joists like two-by-four ribs, and a pot on the floor catches dripping water.
    I want to go home, Holly.
    No, no, it doesn’t matter. I have to push the idea out of my head.
    Back in the kitchen, I pour myself some coffee. The bitter black crud scalds my tongue, but at least it’ll keep me awake. I check out the fridge. Almost no food, but there is half a case of beer.
    Seriously, LeighAnn? You seriously want to be this particular rock ’n’ roll clich é ? I’m a home-schooled Jesus dork, and even I know how lame this is.
    I shut the refrigerator door. They’re letting me