Trust(40)

“Don’t put yourself down like that.”

Nothing from him.

“And don’t call me Edith.” I stood tall, angry all over again. “So what if you’ve got a history? That’s what it is, history. You’re trying at school and you’ve got a proper job. You’re also the sort of person who risks his life for a complete stranger. How many people do you think would do that?”

His mouth stayed shut.

“I’m honored to be your friend. You idiot.”

“I was just pointing out that your mom cares about you,” he said with a hint of a smile. “Considering how pissed you were at my folks for giving up on me, her rules aren’t so bad.”

“Even if we are breaking them.”

“To study,” he clarified. “But thanks. Grab your books.”

“I’ll get my math textbook too; I think I’m failing,” I said. “You said you could help with that, right?”

“Absolutely, I’m great with numbers. Ran a successful business for years, didn’t I?”

“You mean selling dope?”

“Yep.”

Wide-eyed, I looked him over. John as an entrepreneur. An illegal one, but still. “Guess I never thought of it that way.”

Leaning back against the wall, he got comfortable, legs stretched out, crossed at the ankles. John Cole on my bed acting right at home. Happiness. Still, I tried not to let my body or brain get overexcited. We were just friends, after all. And the more I kept reminding myself, the sooner it would hopefully sink in. Crushing on friends wasn’t smart. God knows, his friendship was a big part of what kept me sane-ish these days.

“Building the customer base, getting and keeping their loyalty, dealing with all of the different suppliers, keeping track of everything,” he said. “I’m not just a stoner, Edie. Hell, I didn’t even smoke that much. Well . . .”

“Well?”

“Most of the time. Anyway, I was in it for the money, and that meant taking it seriously.”

“And your brother’s still dealing?”

“Oh, yeah. He’s his own best damn customer.” Pain filled his eyes, there and then gone in an instant. Shoved aside.

“I’m sorry. I’m glad you got out, though.”

“Me too.” He patted the mattress. “Stop delaying. Come on, you explain this Poe guy to me and I’ll help you with your math issues.”

“Deal.”

“And hey, Edie?”

I got busy rifling through the contents of my schoolbag. “Hmm?”

“You’re cute when you’re pissed off.”

My head snapped around like the chick from The Exorcist, but he was reading his textbook, not even looking at me. Weird. “Thanks. But I prefer the word fierce.”





Me: I’m bored. Text with me.

John: About what?

Me: Anything. What’s your favorite color?

John: I don’t know. Green. I’m guessing yours is black

Me: Truth. Tho it’s not really a color, it’s a shade or a tone or some shit. Favorite food?

John: Pizza. You?

Me: Tacos.

John: Good call. Music?

Me: Lots. Too many to have a favorite.

John: Me too. Movie?

Me: Deadpool. A perfect balance of funny, hotness, and wrong.

John: It was good. TV show?

Me: Used to be Stranger Things but now I’m not so sure. You?

John: Samurai Jack. Why are you not sure?

Me: I don’t know. Maybe I need more happy and light in my life.

John: Fair enough

Me: I loved Orphan Black too.

John: Excellent show

Me: You didn’t say your favorite movie…

John: I dunno. Star Wars

Me: A worthy classic. Tell me something I don’t know about you.

John: Like what?

Me: Anything you like.

John: Hell

John: Sometimes I eat pop tarts for breakfast

Me: What?! No… truly you’ve exposed your innermost self to me. I never would have picked you as a pop tart guy. My entire mental image of you is messed up now. It’s like the whole world has been turned upside down.

John: Great. Your turn

Me: I like texting you.

Me: And occasionally I eat pop tarts too.

John: :)





Because happiness is overrated, things fell apart again between John and me the next week.

It came in the form of John standing by his locker covered in Erika’s hands. The girl couldn’t seem to decide what part of him to publicly grope first. His chest, his lean hips, the hard lines of his arms. So classy, the way she tried to dry-hump his leg. I sincerely hoped he remembered to wash himself in disinfectant when she finished.

Why that bitch? Any other female and I’d have dealt. But no, poor delicate feelings and wounded heart, broken loyalty, etcetera. Without a doubt, it was my fault for getting all dreamy and delusional about the boy. Even though he’s just my platonic friend, to let that ho fondle him in the hallway after everything she’d said . . . how could he?

Before either of them saw me, I about-turned and made for the nearest exit. The brave thing to do was to immediately run away. God knows what would happen if I stayed. A limb might fall off or something. I’d made it through a solid three-quarters of Friday without hiding from reality by locking myself in a bathroom stall for a half-hour or more; to expect anything else of me this week would be insane.