“Where are we going?” I ask as she adjusts behind me.
“Your house?”
I blink a few times. “My house? You don’t want to go there.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s a shithole?”
“I don’t care. All we’re doing is playing music.”
I don’t know how to respond to that. It’s kind of a non-sequitur. Playing music has nothing to do with the fact that Mom and I live in a not-so-great section of town, and I doubt Kylie’s ever spent time anywhere like that. But yet somehow I can’t say no to her. I’m pointing the bike across town, weaving through traffic, running yellow lights, dodging onto the shoulder, relishing the way her hands tighten on my stomach and the way her thighs grip me.
The buildings get older, grimier, the streets get dirtier. The cars get rustier. We pass liquor stores and adult video stores, abandoned shop fronts, industrial buildings belching smoke, mechanic garages, apartment complexes. I can sense Kylie’s unease with our surroundings, can feel her discomfort, her fear. We pull into my complex, pass the abandoned swing set missing three of the swings, the rusted yellow merry-go-round, the climbing structure tagged with graffiti. The cars are all twenty to thirty years old. A plastic bag whips across the lot in front of us as I pull to a stop outside the entrance to my building.
I don’t cut the engine. “Let me take you home, Kylie. You don’t belong here.”
A trio of black guys with sagging khakis, oversized white T-shirts, and huge hoodies sidle slowly past us on the sidewalk that runs in front of the buildings. Their eyes meet mine, and I don’t look away. They seem to recognize that I’m one of them, unlike the chick on the back of my bike, and they keep walking. One of them nods, a kind of acquiescence. When they’re gone, Kylie sighs in audible relief.
“Do you know them?” she asks.
I shrug. “Nah.”
“Why were they staring at us?”
I don’t know how to explain it to her without scaring her. “We’re white.” I pause, and then continue. “It wasn’t a challenge, just…curiosity, I guess. I don’t know.” I wasn’t about to tell her that I didn’t dare look away, or show any kind of fear.
She seems to sense that I wasn’t telling her everything. “Is it safe here?”
I shrug again. “As long as you’re with me.” I twist to look at her. “Let’s go, Kylie. Let me take you home. We can play another time. At your place.”
I feel her stiffen, straighten. “No. It’s fine. Let’s go in. I want to see where you live.”
I sigh. “Okay. But…I warned you. It’s a shithole.”
With my hand on her back, I push her ahead of me, guiding her through the entryway, which isn’t secured. There’s a keypad and a series of call buttons, but they haven’t worked since before I born, probably. The door sticks, and I have to jerk it hard to get it open. There’s a small foyer, covered in threadbare industrial blue carpet. It smells of old beer and new piss. I nudge Kylie up the four stairs to the landing. A hallway extends to our left, the walls scratched and pockmarked, pale blue doors lining the walls, numbered with tarnished black numerals. A stairway leads up. Five floors, and the elevator is out of order. The steps have no backing, so you can see through them, and they’re covered in the same thin blue carpeting that’s on the floor.
“Third floor.” I gesture up, and she precedes me.
I watch her round ass sway up the stairs, not bothering to pretend I wasn’t staring when she glances back at me. I just grin, shrug. She blushes, keeps walking. Maybe even sashays with a bit of exaggeration. Nice.
We reach the third floor, and I curse under my breath when Dion, my pot hook-up, is locking his door. He lives across from us, conveniently enough. He sees me, lifts his chin in greeting.
“Whassup, Oz?” Dion is short, thin, with black skin and a slow, lazy demeanor that hides a dangerous edge. He’s cool, but I wouldn’t ever want to owe him money. We slap hands, grip palms, and bump opposite shoulders.
“Hey, D.” I mentally will him to not say anything, but he doesn’t get the message.
He points at his door with a thumb. “I just picked up an ‘O.’ It’s some serious icky-sticky, man. You want an eighter? I’ll give it to you for sixty.”
I lick my lips. I do want it. I’ve got cash in my room, and I’m almost out. But I can’t buy, not with Kylie here. “Nah, man. I’m good. Hold onto it for me for later.”
Dion nods. “A’aight. But I can’t promise it’ll last long. It’s good shit, man.”
“Thanks.” I unlock my door and usher Kylie in, who’s clearly trying to figure out what just went down.
I close the door behind me and lean back against it, waiting for the questions.
“Oz?” She steps into the living room, looking around, then spins to face me. “Do I want to know what that was about?”
I lift an eyebrow. “If you don’t know, then no, you don’t want to know.”
She’s frowning. “Is he a…drug dealer?”
I laugh. The way she said that, like she was referring to some mystical creature, like unicorns or griffins. It’s funny. “I guess. I mean, he just slings some herb. Eighths and dime-bags. Nothing serious.”
She’s clearly lost. “Herb? Eighths?”
I shake my head, still laughing. “I thought you didn’t want to know?”
Kylie blinks. “No. I don’t.” She turns away from me and looks around the living room and kitchen.
There’s a couch along one wall, picked up from Salvation Army when we first moved here. Mom never takes couches with us. It’s easier to just buy one from the Salvation Army when we get to where we’re going. There’s our TV, a fifty-inch that she got on a rent-to-own program from Rent-A-Center. It’s old, but it works. A low oak coffee table with a scratched glass top, a half-full ashtray, a copy of OK!, and an empty Coors can. The kitchen is tiny, of course, with scarred laminate counters, dirty white cabinets, an old fridge, a non-matching microwave and stovetop range. The sink is full of dirty bowls, a pot of leftover Kraft mac and cheese, the remnants of spaghetti. It’s embarrassing. I’ve seen what she comes from. I mean, I didn’t go inside, but I can imagine. Clean kitchen, dishes always done. Marble floors. Granite counters. Vast spaces and high-end appliances. The opposite of this, basically.