dark hair, this private punctuation mark causing her this one final, awful, lingering pause. It was the last straw, so to speak, this tiny little hair, this private thing shed from who-knows-whose who-knows-what. It really was as simple as that: a black, wiry anonymous hair on a bar of Ivory soap. It was enough to send her packing again. Onward.
But as she shoved her dirty T-shirts and crinkly long skirts into her backpack, she realized that her whole life she has been nothing but a ball stuck inside a pinball machine, racing intently toward nothing, meeting obstacle after obstacle along the way, walls she smashed into. Bouncing from one place to the next—never resting long before being thrust from whatever small comfort she has found. This comfort, that comfort, each no more permanent or reliable than the next.
But she had no money, none of her own anyway. And so in a fit of rage and desperation, she’d raided Mica’s drawers, where she knew he kept his cash. He’d gotten the idea earlier that summer to grow weed in the attic of the rented house. There was a hidden crawlspace upstairs near the bathroom. And so he’d bought some seeds from some guy he knew, magic beans he called them, and spent every last cent he had on grow lights and timers, some primitive hydroponic equipment. Ten plants under hot lights hidden in the recesses of the house. And soon, the entire house smelled like Christmas. The pungent green scent seeped into the air, the misty air that filled the upstairs where they slept. All summer long he’d cared for them. At the worst moments, she was jealous of the plants, envied the way he nurtured them, the gentleness of his touch. At night he would check on them as though they were sleeping children. (She had even been foolish enough to think that this was evidence that he might make a good father.)
It took eight weeks before they were ready to harvest. And now, all that tenderness had offered its rewards. He’d harvested nearly three pounds of weed, which he’d hung to dry in their closet. Every item of clothing she owned was saturated with the scent of it. Earlier that week she knew he’d sold at least a pound of it, but he hadn’t told her how much he got. “Enough to pay the rent,” he’d said. “And the electricity bill.” He’d laughed, the grow lights pulsing like something alive through the cracks in the attic crawl space door.
He was still sleeping, so she went quietly back into the bedroom, trailing water across the dusty floor, and she told herself that he owed her this. That she had somehow earned it. Stupid cheating motherfucker.
There should be at least a couple thousand dollars, she thought. But when she reached stealthily into the drawer, pushing aside the ragged pairs of boxer shorts and threadbare socks, just four hundred dollars remained. The rest of it was already gone. And this, almost more than anything, infuriated her. The first of the month when all the bills came due was weeks away, but he’d already spent it.
Only four hundred bucks, but it was enough to pay for a bus ticket. Enough to go home.
She’d been running away when she left Vermont. But no one had followed. Though it killed her to think about it, her mother had probably been relieved. She was caught up in so much of her own shit back then, dealing with Nessa was just one more headache. But it had been two years; maybe things had changed with her mom, wherever she is. Nessa is practically an adult now. She’d be eighteen in just two more months. She wasn’t a child anymore.
She’d walked out of Mica’s, clutching the fistful of cash, not even glancing back up at that falling-down house as she made her way to the bus stop. She knew she didn’t have long. As soon as Mica woke up and realized she’d stolen the money, he was certain to try to find her at all their haunts. She didn’t have a single friend in Portland who wouldn’t tell Mica exactly where she was. She had nowhere to go. No one to go
But as she shoved her dirty T-shirts and crinkly long skirts into her backpack, she realized that her whole life she has been nothing but a ball stuck inside a pinball machine, racing intently toward nothing, meeting obstacle after obstacle along the way, walls she smashed into. Bouncing from one place to the next—never resting long before being thrust from whatever small comfort she has found. This comfort, that comfort, each no more permanent or reliable than the next.
But she had no money, none of her own anyway. And so in a fit of rage and desperation, she’d raided Mica’s drawers, where she knew he kept his cash. He’d gotten the idea earlier that summer to grow weed in the attic of the rented house. There was a hidden crawlspace upstairs near the bathroom. And so he’d bought some seeds from some guy he knew, magic beans he called them, and spent every last cent he had on grow lights and timers, some primitive hydroponic equipment. Ten plants under hot lights hidden in the recesses of the house. And soon, the entire house smelled like Christmas. The pungent green scent seeped into the air, the misty air that filled the upstairs where they slept. All summer long he’d cared for them. At the worst moments, she was jealous of the plants, envied the way he nurtured them, the gentleness of his touch. At night he would check on them as though they were sleeping children. (She had even been foolish enough to think that this was evidence that he might make a good father.)
It took eight weeks before they were ready to harvest. And now, all that tenderness had offered its rewards. He’d harvested nearly three pounds of weed, which he’d hung to dry in their closet. Every item of clothing she owned was saturated with the scent of it. Earlier that week she knew he’d sold at least a pound of it, but he hadn’t told her how much he got. “Enough to pay the rent,” he’d said. “And the electricity bill.” He’d laughed, the grow lights pulsing like something alive through the cracks in the attic crawl space door.
He was still sleeping, so she went quietly back into the bedroom, trailing water across the dusty floor, and she told herself that he owed her this. That she had somehow earned it. Stupid cheating motherfucker.
There should be at least a couple thousand dollars, she thought. But when she reached stealthily into the drawer, pushing aside the ragged pairs of boxer shorts and threadbare socks, just four hundred dollars remained. The rest of it was already gone. And this, almost more than anything, infuriated her. The first of the month when all the bills came due was weeks away, but he’d already spent it.
Only four hundred bucks, but it was enough to pay for a bus ticket. Enough to go home.
She’d been running away when she left Vermont. But no one had followed. Though it killed her to think about it, her mother had probably been relieved. She was caught up in so much of her own shit back then, dealing with Nessa was just one more headache. But it had been two years; maybe things had changed with her mom, wherever she is. Nessa is practically an adult now. She’d be eighteen in just two more months. She wasn’t a child anymore.
She’d walked out of Mica’s, clutching the fistful of cash, not even glancing back up at that falling-down house as she made her way to the bus stop. She knew she didn’t have long. As soon as Mica woke up and realized she’d stolen the money, he was certain to try to find her at all their haunts. She didn’t have a single friend in Portland who wouldn’t tell Mica exactly where she was. She had nowhere to go. No one to go
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