Good Girl, Bad Girl(19)
“What makes you ask?”
“A lot of the case workers here are former addicts. Why do you think that is?”
“Maybe they understand addiction.”
She points to my wrist, where my shirt cuff has ridden up, revealing the edges of a tattoo.
“Some people get tattoos to hide the needle tracks.”
“Not me.”
“Do you smoke dope?”
“Not anymore.”
“Why did you stop?”
“It was a crutch.”
“That’s very honest of you . . . and boring.”
“Do I bore you?”
“This place does.”
“Is that why you tell lies and take off your clothes and disrupt group therapy sessions?”
“Not really. Maybe. I have my wheel.”
“What’s that?”
“My hamster wheel—everybody needs one in a place like this. It keeps you sane.”
“What’s yours?”
“I stopped caring.”
“I don’t believe that’s true.”
“Suit yourself.”
Evie pulls up her foot and blows on her toes.
“Do you have any friends here?” I ask.
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Some of them are OK. Nathan and Cleary have been to prison and try to big themselves up, hoping the girls might sleep with them, but no bed-hopping is allowed.”
“Would you like to bed-hop?”
She raises one eyebrow. “Are you suggesting that I’m promiscuous?”
“I’m asking if you have a boyfriend.”
“Maybe I fancy girls. You shouldn’t assume. I once kissed Charlotte Morris—with tongues—but that was for a dare.”
“Was Charlotte a friend?”
“Not really. She went home. They all go home eventually.”
“Except for you.”
Evie shrugs and I can see a timeless humanity in her.
“What about foster parents?” I ask.
“I’ve had loads.”
“What happened?”
“They sent me back.”
“All of them?”
“Sometimes I ran away.”
“Tell me about the last family who fostered you.”
“You mean Martha and Graeme. They were hippies. Vegan. They treated their herbalist like he was a brain surgeon and kept blaming my behavior on my diet, wanting me to eat weird shit.”
“Is that why you ran away?”
She pauses and thinks. “I don’t know. Maybe.”
“Where did you go?”
“Edinburgh.”
“You were six weeks on your own.”
“And I would have been fine if they’d left me alone.”
“You were arrested for gambling.” I glance at the deck of cards on her table. “Do you like playing cards?”
“I’m good at it.”
It doesn’t come across as bragging.
“You were quite tough on Serena the other day.”
“She was lying.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Yes, I do.”
Evie looks up from painting her nails, the brush poised above her big toe. Wet strands of hair have escaped from her ponytail.
“Can I call you Cyrus?”
“Sure.”
“If you’ll permit me to say this, Cyrus, I don’t think it’s fair for someone like you to be studying me and not to tell me why.”
“You think I’m studying you?”
“Yes.”
Evie screws the lid onto the nail polish and points her toes towards me. “What do you think?”
“Nice.”
“I have pretty feet, don’t you agree, Cyrus?”
She stretches out her legs, resting her feet in my lap. This time when she points her toes, they press against my groin.
“Are you one of those guys who get off on women’s feet?”
“No.”
I lift her legs and put them back on the bed.
Evie smiles. “Definitely not gay. Are you married?”
“No.”
“Do you have a girlfriend?”
I hesitate before answering. “Yes.”
“Mmmm,” says Evie, as though not convinced. “What’s her name?”
“Claire.”
“Do you live together?”
“She’s working overseas.”
“When is she coming back?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Mmmmm,” Evie says again.
I’m annoyed at myself. Guthrie has me spooked. Is that why I’m being so truthful?
Technically, Claire and I are still together, by which I mean we haven’t broken up, although our Skype calls have gone from daily to weekly and lately once a month. She’s in Austin at the moment, working on appeals for death-row inmates on behalf of the Texas Defender Services. It was supposed to be a six-month assignment, which has stretched to ten months. Initially we had planned to spend this Christmas together in New York, but Claire told me two weeks ago that she has to work through the holidays. I offered to come to Austin. She told me I’d have more fun at home.