Unscripted Joss Byrd by Lygia Day Peñaflor Page A

reason, live bugs are fighting to get in. Take it from me: sometimes we’re better off in the dark.
    I could try to walk to basecamp and sleep in my dressing trailer, if it’s open. The sofa flattens into a bed. I could pee there, too; even have a shower if I really want to. Does it need the motor on for the water to pump? But there aren’t any towels. I wonder if there are enough paper towels to dry my whole body. Wouldn’t the kids at school love that—me living in a trailer, where they think I belong? My head finds the corner between the door and wall. Maybe if I close my eyes, Terrance will leave any minute. My mother says you can’t help who you’re attracted to. She calls it passion, but I call it a pain in the A-S-S. That I can spell. And according to her, there are two kinds of married men. She’s never said what the two kinds are, but thanks to Terrance naked in my mother’s bed, I’m learning by example.
    *   *   *
    â€œJoss? Joss?” Chris is shaking me awake.
    â€œHuh?” I rub my sore neck. “What time is it?”
    â€œIt’s late. Where’s Viva?”
    â€œInside,” I say softly.
    â€œThen what are you doing out here? Is she asleep?”
    â€œNo. She’s with someone.”
    â€œWhat do you mean? Like, a guy ?”
    I nod. Too embarrassed to look up but too tired to lie, I say, “Like … Terrance .”
    â€œWhat?” He lowers onto his knee. “What are they doing?”
    â€œGod! What do you think they’re doing? They’re screwing .”
    â€œHoly…”
    I hang my head while Chris goes through a dozen really s and are you sure s.
    â€œWell, just come to my room, then,” he says.
    â€œNo. I’ll get in trouble if I’m not back.”
    â€œYou can’t just sit here listening to them.” He stands and stares at the door. I don’t really hear anything, just commercials. “We’ll leave her a note. Let’s go, get up,” he says, kicking my feet.
    In his room a few doors down, Chris scribbles on the Beachcomber notepad. His room is exactly like ours except it smells like Vicks VapoRub and hard-boiled eggs. He steps out, leaving me with his Grandma Lorna who’s asleep in her bed with her mouth open. Her dyed orange hair is thin and faded around her face. Except for the triangle folded under her chin and the lump of her body, her bed is still made. I want my own bed in room 204 so bad. My pj’s are tucked under my pillow waiting for me, all soft and cool and smelling like sleep.
    There’s a bunch of scripts on Chris’s coffee table—not The Locals . New scripts. I wonder if any of them are worth missing more high school for.
    Chris closes the door and pushes the latch. “You can take my bed. I’ll just sleep on the end there.” He points at his snoring grandmother. That’s a big sacrifice, I can tell you that.
    While Chris washes up in the bathroom I pull off my sneakers and crawl into his bed. I’m so tired I can’t stay awake long enough to thank him.

 
    9
    Sandy feet and sticky pits. Barbecue sauce on my fingers, in my mouth, on my chin. The smell of firewood in my hair. I wake up feeling gross all over.
    â€œJoss, honey? Are you awake?” Grandma Lorna says. “When is your call time?” Chris’s grandma pulls the drapes open to a bright, sunny morning in Montauk Point.
    â€œTen. I have tutoring and a fitting.” My voice crackles. The other bed is empty, and the shower is running.
    â€œIt’s eight thirty now. Christopher told me your mother didn’t come home last night. Do you want to go check for her now? There’s a van that goes to basecamp at nine. You should go then so you can have breakfast.”
    â€œOkay.” I jam my feet into my sneakers without untying the laces. Then, after pulling the latch flat so that the door doesn’t lock behind me, I