application, lady. For months I been telling you to get rid of the dog. Now we’re done talking. You got twenty-four hours. The dog goes and so do you.”
She stopped smiling. She stared at him, angry, and then, when she realized her anger would not affect him, afraid. It was true—she’d heard correctly. He’d actually used these words, “iced,” “you got twenty-four hours.” And something about this, his low language, punctured her where she was still soft, making her realize all at once that she had truly slipped down into a different world where kindness held no currency and age earned no respect. She would have to stop expecting mercy. She would have to adjust the way she talked, and the way she thought, about everything and everyone.
Be smart. Start looking out for you.
5
O N THE WAY TO THE AIRPORT , Jimmy blasted electronica from the car’s stereo. I rode behind Haylie. The sky was still dark, the controls of the car a green glow, and only Haylie’s swinging, glinting earrings were visible between the seat and the headrest. I couldn’t see her face; there was no way of knowing what she thought of the music or the volume. But when we were on the final curve of highway, the lights of the economy parking lots for KCI already in sight, she made a sudden whimpering sound.
“Can we turn it down at least?” She made a quick swipe at the volume knob with a fingerless glove.
Jimmy turned off the music, saying nothing. We rode the rest of the way in absolute silence.
At the airport, he handed me the keys without a word.
“Bye!” I waved, the keys jingling in my hand. “Have a good trip! Call my cell if you want to check on things!”
But he was already walking up to the doors, the metal chain attached to his wallet swinging behind him. If he heard me, he did not turn around. Haylie was still getting her bag out of the trunk. When the automatic doors slid open for Jimmy, she looked up, and almost lost her balance. She was wearing jeans tucked into velvety black boots with spike heels that looked hard to walk in.
“He’s not really a morning person,” she said. She lifted her bag and glanced at me.
Apparently, despite all the pretense, some part of Haylie Butterfield remembered enough of her old life for her to worry what I thought of her new one. I walked around the front bumper to the driver’s seat. Haylie was still looking at me. I shrugged, and lowered myself into the car. I didn’t know what it was she wanted me to understand. She didn’t need to apologize for him, or make excuses, if that’s what she was doing. I didn’t care if Jimmy was a morning person or not. She was the one spending the weekend with him. I just had the keys to his house and car.
When I was ten years old, I left my bike unlocked outside the library, and someone stole it. My parents refused to buy me another. “How many times did I tell you to keep it locked?” my father asked. My mother seemed distressed by my sadness, but she held firm as well: “I know you loved that bike,” she said. “But if you have to earn a new one, you’ll be more careful with it. You’ll appreciate it more.”
When I bought a new bike the following spring, I did appreciate it more, and I never once left it unlocked. And though my parents believed I was more careful because of what the new bike had cost me in hours spent raking, vacuuming, and picking up Bowzer’s poop in the backyard, that wasn’t really it. It was the year I spent without a bike, having to run fast alongside my friends when they all biked somewhere, or get on the back of someone else’s, which was easier, but humiliating. The day I got my new bike, I rode until dark, energized on pure happiness, my legs coiling and uncoiling like springs.
I felt that same pure happiness when I was finally alone in Jimmy’s car, slipping my own CD into the stereo. I know some people hate driving. But I would guess most of them have cars. When they want to go somewhere, they do
She stopped smiling. She stared at him, angry, and then, when she realized her anger would not affect him, afraid. It was true—she’d heard correctly. He’d actually used these words, “iced,” “you got twenty-four hours.” And something about this, his low language, punctured her where she was still soft, making her realize all at once that she had truly slipped down into a different world where kindness held no currency and age earned no respect. She would have to stop expecting mercy. She would have to adjust the way she talked, and the way she thought, about everything and everyone.
Be smart. Start looking out for you.
5
O N THE WAY TO THE AIRPORT , Jimmy blasted electronica from the car’s stereo. I rode behind Haylie. The sky was still dark, the controls of the car a green glow, and only Haylie’s swinging, glinting earrings were visible between the seat and the headrest. I couldn’t see her face; there was no way of knowing what she thought of the music or the volume. But when we were on the final curve of highway, the lights of the economy parking lots for KCI already in sight, she made a sudden whimpering sound.
“Can we turn it down at least?” She made a quick swipe at the volume knob with a fingerless glove.
Jimmy turned off the music, saying nothing. We rode the rest of the way in absolute silence.
At the airport, he handed me the keys without a word.
“Bye!” I waved, the keys jingling in my hand. “Have a good trip! Call my cell if you want to check on things!”
But he was already walking up to the doors, the metal chain attached to his wallet swinging behind him. If he heard me, he did not turn around. Haylie was still getting her bag out of the trunk. When the automatic doors slid open for Jimmy, she looked up, and almost lost her balance. She was wearing jeans tucked into velvety black boots with spike heels that looked hard to walk in.
“He’s not really a morning person,” she said. She lifted her bag and glanced at me.
Apparently, despite all the pretense, some part of Haylie Butterfield remembered enough of her old life for her to worry what I thought of her new one. I walked around the front bumper to the driver’s seat. Haylie was still looking at me. I shrugged, and lowered myself into the car. I didn’t know what it was she wanted me to understand. She didn’t need to apologize for him, or make excuses, if that’s what she was doing. I didn’t care if Jimmy was a morning person or not. She was the one spending the weekend with him. I just had the keys to his house and car.
When I was ten years old, I left my bike unlocked outside the library, and someone stole it. My parents refused to buy me another. “How many times did I tell you to keep it locked?” my father asked. My mother seemed distressed by my sadness, but she held firm as well: “I know you loved that bike,” she said. “But if you have to earn a new one, you’ll be more careful with it. You’ll appreciate it more.”
When I bought a new bike the following spring, I did appreciate it more, and I never once left it unlocked. And though my parents believed I was more careful because of what the new bike had cost me in hours spent raking, vacuuming, and picking up Bowzer’s poop in the backyard, that wasn’t really it. It was the year I spent without a bike, having to run fast alongside my friends when they all biked somewhere, or get on the back of someone else’s, which was easier, but humiliating. The day I got my new bike, I rode until dark, energized on pure happiness, my legs coiling and uncoiling like springs.
I felt that same pure happiness when I was finally alone in Jimmy’s car, slipping my own CD into the stereo. I know some people hate driving. But I would guess most of them have cars. When they want to go somewhere, they do
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