A Different Blue(45)

anything to say to him.





It was one month since Manny had lost his mind. One month since I'd had a break from the madness

that had ensued. One month of intense unhappiness, one month of despair for the Olivares family.

They had released Manny, pending some sort of hearing, and Gloria had taken the kids and fled. I

didn't know where they were, and I doubted I would see them again. One horrific month. And so I

called Mason. It was a pattern with me. I didn't date. I didn't hang out. I had sex.

[page]Mason was happy to oblige, as always. I liked the way Mason looked, and I liked the way he

felt when I was beneath him. But I didn't especially like Mason. I didn't examine why I didn't

like him, or even if that should be a consideration. And so when I found him waiting for me

after school, pulled up on his Harley with his arms crossed so I could see the tattoos on his

healthy biceps, I left my truck parked in the school parking lot and hopped on back of the bike.

I slung my purse over my head and wrapped my arms around his waist as we roared away. Mason

loved to ride, and the January afternoon was cold but pierced by a relentless desert sun. We

road for over an hour, hitting Hoover dam and winding our way back as winter began to claim the

light, pushing back the cowing sun, which retreated far too soon. I hadn't restrained my hair

but let the wind whip it into a snarly black mass and slap against my face in a way that purged

and punished, which was what I seemed intent upon.

Mason lived above his parents' garage in an apartment that was accessed by a narrow set of metal

stairs that leveled off on a barely-there platform. We climbed into his apartment, cheeks

windburned and red, blood pounding, invigorated by the cold ride. And I didn't wait for sweet

talk or flirtatious foreplay; I never did. We tumbled onto his rumpled bed without a word, and I

shut off my anxious heart and my nervous head as dusk descended into another night, another

meaningless merging, another attempt to find myself as I gave myself away.

I awoke hours later to an empty bed. Music and voices bled through the paper thin walls that

separated Mason's bedroom and bathroom from the rest of the space. I pulled on my clothes,

wiggling into the jeans that I despised but continually donned day after day. I was starving and

hoped Mason and whoever else was out there had ordered some pizza I could steal. My hair was an

impossible tangle, my eyes a black-rimmed mess, and I spent twenty minutes in the bathroom

making sure Mason's company couldn't make nasty insinuations about the evening's activities.

I finished in the bathroom and, out of habit, switched off the light as I headed across the

room. I picked my way carefully around the bed, stepping around the strewn clothing and shoes.

The light switch for the bedroom was by the opposite door, but the bathroom was all the way

across the room, making negotiating the messy space treacherous in my high-heeled boots. I made

it to the door that separated me from something hot and cheesy and was feeling around for the

knob when I heard the outside door open and Mason greet his brother with a “What's up, Bro?”

I hadn't seen or talked to Brandon Bates since before the shooting. And I didn't want to. He

hadn't even been at the school that afternoon, yet I blamed him entirely for the events that had

transpired. I huddled by the bedroom door, hungry and indecisive, listening as someone else