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For years, Dad’s been on me to get an insulin pump and I’ve refused.
“You’re not playing baseball anymore.” Dad throws the excuse I’ve used to not get it in my face, explaining to him that it would be a pain in the ass to constantly remove the device because it could get damaged the way I play.
I’m silent, because baseball was just that—an excuse.
“The pump can help. Instead of depending upon you to test and give yourself the insulin, it will do it for you.”
It’s more complicated than that, but it’s the general idea. I shrug like I might be considering it. Shrug like I have a valid excuse to say no. “I might play ball again this fall.”
“You’re just like your mother.”
Anger explodes through me and I point at the bathroom again. “I’ve already explained that I’m not a runner. That I’ve accepted what I am.”
“What you are?” Dad scrubs a hand over his face. “If you know it, mind explaining it to me?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“One day you’re a ball player, the next you’re into cars, then you’re playing guitar, tomorrow it will be something else. For years, I’ve watched you bounce—from one thing to the next. The next thing crazier than the one before.”
“Is this where you tell me I’m irresponsible?”
“You don’t commit. Not to a sport, not to a hobby, not even to a girl. A girl you were with was shot and your mother and I have heard nothing about her since.”
A mean streak originates in my gut and spreads fast like venom. “Back off of Abby.”
“No, I’m not backing off anymore. You’re so caught up in not wanting to be the person with diabetes that you’ve become everything and everyone else around you. That you hate what’s inside you so much that you’ve never bothered figuring out who you are! And that, Logan—that’s how you’re like your mother!”
We both notice her then—right outside the bathroom door. Mom tucks a lock of her curly blond hair behind her ear. She nibbles on her bottom lip before approaching us, her eyes slashing through my father. “And he keeps it all inside—just like you. No emotion. No conversation. Constantly living a half-life because both of you are afraid to feel.”
Her words strike deep. Too deep. So deep, the need for crazy emerges like a shark circling its bleeding prey. “Sounds like I inherited the worst of both of you and I got the bonus of a jacked-up pancreas to boot. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to find out if I fucked up my kidneys.”
I push past Dad, my shoulder hitting his and when I get a few steps away, he calls out my name, but I keep walking.
Abby
Rule number four: there’s no such thing as downtime—just another opportunity to make money.
Dad was pretty adamant about that one. Said it several times. He also used to tell me that the best thing about parties was the people watching. Second-best—is having fun while working overtime.
Dad had fun at these things. I used to, but I can’t find much joy in it tonight. Especially since the reason I’m here is because I’ve been summoned by Ricky.
In a motion so slick because I did memorize it, I meet Evie’s palm, accept her money and replace it with a joint. Places and people like this prefer premade to baggies. I don’t make as much money per person as I’m not selling in bulk, but I do nicely with how many people think they need what I have to offer and the markup I add for rolling.
I only do neighborhood parties, only sell to those I know. As always, I’m picky about who I sell to, but most everyone here has more to lose by getting busted than I do.
“Thanks, Abby,” Evie says, and I only nod in response. She disappears into the shadows of the thick crowd. Evie’s an honor student and not from this neighborhood. She was there today, at school, interviewing with colleges. Can’t help but wonder why she chooses here as her place to blow off steam.
The abandoned lot behind the strip mall and to the right of the Section 8 apartments is alive tonight. Someone even went fancy and strung up Christmas lights from metal poles crushed into the gravel. Music pounds from the open doors of a loaded-down-with-speakers Ford Explorer.
A long time ago, my father used to bring me here. I’d peruse the crowd, no fear of anyone hurting me, in search of someone else my age. I was Mozart’s daughter and no one touched me.
When I found another kid, we’d run and run...playing tag, playing hide-and-go-seek, and once I met Isaiah, he became my partner in crime.
I kick the heels of my feet against the crumbling concrete half-wall trying desperately to not miss Isaiah. Missing him is a cold feeling. Hollow. Doesn’t ache as much as losing Logan, but still, it’s not an emotion I like.
My cell pings and my soul twists at the sight of Rachel’s name: Physical therapy sucked today. My legs hurt and the therapist accused me of pushing myself too hard.
I find myself nodding, understanding why she’s texting me. Insomnia again?
