Marrow

“I hate everything.”

Judah runs his finger along the outline of his lips. He looks like he’s thinking deeply about something.

“It’s all over the news,” Delaney says.

I look at Judah. “What are you thinking?”

“What if it was someone from here, in this neighborhood, that did that to her. One of us.”

“It could have been someone coming through the Bone. Doesn’t mean they’re from here.”

He nods, but he’s not committed to that nod. I stand up. “I have to go,” I say.

“Where?” Judah asks.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Delaney says.

“Dunno. I need to think.”

I walk the Bone in the drizzling rain. Up and down the streets, counting the scattered, balled up candy wrappers, until I am so cold my whole body is shaking. I walk past Nevaeh’s house. I want her to come running down the stairs like she always did when she saw me, her shoelaces flying around like a scraped knee waiting to happen. I want to steal her away before someone can steal her life away, and show her something other than the Bone. I want to show myself something other than the Bone. I don’t even know if that’s possible. Judah says that where we’re from is in us—in our marrow. You can put us anywhere else in the world, but we carry our origin with us everywhere we go. If he’s right, I’ll never fucking get away.

My new Converse are soaked through when I reach the end of the Bone. The highway that runs through our town is 83. It’s non-committal, winding this way then veering off like it can’t decide if it wants to be with us or not. If I keep walking, I’ll end up in the Cascades. I pass a hand over my face to wipe the rain out of my eyes. I should do it. Keep walking. Die trying. Anything to get out of here.

Ugh! I kick at a puddle. Kick, kick all you want. You’re too shit scared to leave.

I turn back, overcome. Shame drags my head down. I watch my cowardly feet plod through the puddles, water flowing down my neck, until I spot a blur of red in a pool of water. Bright red. I bend at the knees to retrieve it, my hand plunging into the little puddle without thought. I pull up a pair of sunglasses with red, plastic heart frames. Without hesitation I put them on.

Like the emotional defeatist I am, I stop at the Quickie Corner when I get back to town. I eye the rack of my usual choices: Honey Buns, Pecan Wheels, Oatmeal Crème Pies, Cosmic Brownies, Ding Dongs, Twinkies, and powdered doughnuts. They’re all on sale, but I can’t eat that shit today. Or maybe ever again. I don’t want to kill myself that way. I walk over to the refrigerators at the back of the store and choose an orange juice. I grab a super-sized box of raisins and a box of matches that has a teddy bear on them, which reminds me of Nevaeh. I feel around in my pockets for my money.

“What’s that for … you don’t smoke?”

Joe. We call him Knick Knack because he collects porcelain figurines of the Virgin Mary and hides them all over the store. Sometimes you’d pull a loaf of bread off a shelf, and the Holy Virgin would be right there, staring straight at you

“I’m going to commit arson,” I say, pushing it toward him. “I’ll need a gallon of gas, too.”

Knick Knack Joe reaches below the register and puts an empty gas can on the counter. It’s red with a spout, and someone’s written I’m Gassy on the side in sharpie. “You’ll need this, too,” he says, grinning. “Who you burning?”

I roll my eyes. “Everyone,” I say. I leave a crumpled ten on the counter and start to walk out. “You forgot your can!” he calls back.

“What?” I say, turning to look at him.

He pushes it toward me. “It’s a gift,” he says. “For your project.”

I don’t know why, but I take it.

I don’t take the normal way home, on the sidewalk, past the houses. I walk along the grass next to the highway, wearing my glasses, carrying my gas can. Winner, winner, chicken dinner, I think.

“Hey Gassy.” A rusted, brown pick up slows down next to me. Two men sit in shadow in the cab of the vehicle. An arm covered in red flannel hangs limply out the window, a single finger tapping the side of the door in time with the music on the radio. I can see the outline of a baseball cap on the driver. “Want a ride?”

I poke up my middle finger, letting them know how much I want a ride.

“Don’t be like that, baby. A girl like you has to take what she can get.”

Their laughter is like fingernails on a chalkboard, the keys of a piano being pounded on by a toddler. I am the joke. The hapless fat girl who needs two strangers to give her a ride and feel her up in the smelly cab of a truck. Fuck them. I throw my bottle of orange juice at their car. Fuck the whole world for making me feel like a loser when my life has barely begun. One of them throws a can out the window—beer. It hits the ground near my feet and sprays my legs. There is a kench of laughter as they speed off, kicking up gravel a few feet ahead of me, before swerving back onto the road. The back of the truck fishtails for several seconds, then the tires cling to the tar and propel them forward. I can see two heads through the back window. Two drunken idiots polluting the planet. I wish I had the power to flip their truck before they flipped someone else’s. Life is all about allowing people choices to be who they want. But the majority of people choose to be worthless. Not me, uh uh.

I’ve never been to the ocean, never heard the waves lick the sand in that quiet shushing you read about in books. I’ve never been to the zoo, smelled the elephant piss, and heard the cries of the monkeys. I’ve never had frozen yogurt from one of those places where you pull on the handle and fill your own cup with whatever you like. I’ve never eaten dinner at a restaurant with napkins that you set on your lap and silverware that isn’t plastic. I’ve never painted my nails like the other girls at school, in bright neons and decadent reds. I’ve never been more than ten miles from home. Ten miles. It’s like I live in the forever ago, not where buses rumble and trains have tracks. I’ve never had a birthday cake, though I’ve wanted one very much. I’ve never owned a bra that is new, and had to cut the tags off with the scissors from the kitchen drawer. I’ve never been loved in a way that makes me feel as if I was supposed to be born, if only to feel loved. I’ve never, I’ve never, I’ve never. And it’s my own fault. The things that we never do because someone makes us fearful of them, or makes us believe we don’t deserve them. I want to do all my nevers—alone or with someone who matters. I don’t care. I just want to live. Nevaeh never had any of those things either—and now she never will.