“Hey,” I said. He blinked, then ran a hand through his thick dreadlock-like hair, squinting in the sun. “Is Marshall here? ”
“Bedroom,” he replied, dropping his hand from the door and shuffling back to his own room. I didn’t know much about Rogerson, other than the pot thing and that he and Marshall worked together in the kitchen at Sopas, a Mexican joint in town. I’d heard rumors about him spending some time in jail—something about assault—but he wasn’t the most talkative person and pretty much kept to himself, so who knew what was really true.
I stepped inside, shutting the door behind me. It took a minute for my eyes to adjust: Marshall and Rogerson, like my mother, preferred things dim. Maybe it was a late-shift thing, this aversion to daylight in general, and morning specifically. The room smelled like stale smoke as I moved forward, down the narrow hallway, passing the small kitchen, where pizza boxes and abandoned soda bottles crowded the island. In the living room, some guy was stretched out across the sofa, a pillow resting on his face: I could see a swath of belly, pale and ghostly, sticking out from under his T-shirt, which had ridden up slightly. Across the room, the TV was on, showing bass fishing on mute.
Marshall’s door was closed, but not all the way. "Yeah? ” he said, after I knocked.
“It’s me,” I replied. Then he coughed, which I took as permission to enter and pushed it open.
He was sitting at the pre-fab desk, shirtless, the window cracked open beside him, rolling a cigarette. His skin, freckled and pale, seemed to almost glow in the bit of light the window allowed, and, this being Marshall, you could clearly make out his collarbones and ribs. The boy was skinny, but unfortunately for me, I liked skinny boys.
“There she is,” he said, turning to face me. “Long time no see.”
I smiled, then cleared a space for myself across from him on the unmade bed and sat down. The room itself was a mess of clothes, shoes, and magazines, things strewn all over the place. One thing that stuck out was a box of candy, one of those samplers, on the bureau top, still wrapped in plastic. “What’s that?” I asked. “You somebody’s Valentine?”
He picked up the cigarette, sticking it into his mouth, and I instantly regretted asking this. It wasn’t like I cared who else he saw, if anybody. “It’s October.”
“Could be belated,” I said with a shrug.
“My mom sent it. You want to open it?” I shook my head, then watched as he sat back, exhaling smoke up into the air. “So what’s going on?”
I shrugged. “Not much. I’m actually looking for Peyton. You seen her?”
“Not lately.” A phone rang in the other room, then abruptly stopped. “But I’ve been working a lot, haven’t been around much. I’m about to take off—have to work lunch today.”
“Right,” I said, nodding. I sat back, looking around me, as a silence fell over us. Suddenly I felt stupid for coming here, even with my lame excuse. “Well, I should go, too. I’ve got a ton of stuff to do.”
“Yeah?” he said slowly, leaning forward, elbows on his knees, closer to me. “Like what?”
I shrugged, starting to push myself to my feet. “Nothing that would interest you.”
“No?” he asked, stopping me by moving a little closer, his knees bumping mine. “Try me.”
“Shopping,” I said.
He raised his eyebrows. “No kidding,” he said. “One week at Perkins Day and you’re already fashion-conscious.”
“How’d you know I was at Perkins Day?” I asked.
Marshall shrugged, pulling back a bit. “Someone was talking about it,” he said.
“Really.”
“Yeah.” He looked at me for a moment, then slid his hands out, moving them up my thighs to my waist. Then he ducked his head down, resting it in my lap, and I smoothed my hands over his hair, running it through my fingers. As I felt him relax into me, another silence fell, but this one I was grateful for. After all, with me and Marshall, it had never been about words or conversation, where there was too much to be risked or lost. Here, though, in the quiet, pressed against each other, this felt familiar to me. And it was nice to let someone get close again, even if it was just for a little while.
It was only later, when I was curled up under his blankets, half asleep, that I was reminded of everything that had happened since the last time I’d been there. Marshall was getting ready for work, digging around for his belt, when he laid something cool on my shoulder. Reaching up, I found the key to Cora’s house, still on its silver fob, which must have slipped out of my pocket at some point. “Better hang on to that,” he said, his back to me as he bent over his shoes. “If you want to get home.”
As I sat up, closing it in my hand, I wanted to tell him that Cora’s house wasn’t home, that I wasn’t even sure what that word meant anymore. But I knew he didn’t really care, and anyway he was already pulling on a Sopas T-shirt, getting ready to leave. So instead, I began collecting my own clothes, all business, just like him. I didn’t necessarily have to get out first, but I wasn’t about to be left behind.
I’d never been much of a shopper, mostly because, like sky-diving or playing polo, it wasn’t really within my realm of possibility. Before my mom needed me for Commercial, I’d had a couple of jobs of my own—working at greasy fast-food joints, ringing up shampoo and paper towels at discount drugstores—but all that money I’d tried to put away. Even then I’d had a feeling that someday I would need it for something more than sweaters and lipsticks. Sure enough, once my mom had taken off, I’d pretty much cleared out my savings, and now I was back at zero, just when I needed money most.