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bsp; “I can see the wheels churnin’ in your head.” Bishop spoke up, his voice softer than it had been before. “I don’t think it’s anything to try to wrap your head around. Bad shit happens all the time, Princess. You’ve just been living outside of the fucked up bubble long enough to avoid it.”
“So, tracking back to your question about why… That’s why we do what we do. Because boss man might be a little skeevy, but the things he does knock down people who need to get knocked down a peg or two. Granted, he don’t do it because he has a kind heart or whatever.” Misael waved his hand dismissively. “But that doesn’t matter. Still gets done. So if we gotta break into a house to steal some files that proves an exec is swindling people who aren’t privileged enough to fend for themselves, then so be it. And if it means sometimes doing shit we don’t really want to do because it’s what keeps us afloat, then that’s cool too.”
I let that sink in, chewing on my lip. The anger that had burned through me like an inferno was gone, its fuel dried up.
Because even though I could never truly comprehend what their lives had been like, the shit they’d had to deal with while I’d been learning how to play piano and greet guests properly at cocktail parties, I understood.
Our lives had been vastly different, not because I deserved any better than the Lost Boys or anyone else, but simply because we’d been born into different circumstances. And up until recently, my family had had the power and wealth to be able to shield me from the harshness of life.
Because the truth was, no one was truly innocent. No one was purely good. The world was full of terrible people and awful things, and only the strongest survived.
The Lost Boys might not have the money and privilege I had for so long, but they were strong. They might’ve been three of the strongest people I’d ever met.
“I…” My gaze shifted to each of them, tracking from Misael’s earnest eyes to Bishop’s pursed lips to Kace’s clenched jaw. “I didn’t know. I’m sorry—”
“Don’t be.” Kace’s voice wasn’t angry. It wasn’t anything. It was purposefully blank, as if he refused to waste more precious emotions on the things he couldn’t change. “We don’t need your pity. Don’t want it. We just need you to get where we come from and understand that your world isn’t how it is for the rest of us.”
I nodded silently, not offering another useless apology, even though the words pressed against my lips.
Bishop had told me it wasn’t worth trying to wrap my head around. And he was probably right, in a way. How could it be possible to comprehend a world that was full of such chaos and violence, where so many things—both good and bad—were based entirely on chance?
But that didn’t stop the thoughts from spinning over and over in my mind the entire drive home.
Twenty-One
My world felt like it was reeling out of my control. It felt like I’d lived my whole life with blinders on, and now that they’d finally been removed, I could barely see through the harsh, bright glare of the truth that shone down on me. I couldn’t stop thinking about where the Lost Boys had come from, and how it’d made them into the people they were today. And what about all the other students at Slateview High, who probably had similar stories? Because I couldn’t assume that the Lost Boys were the exception and not the rule. Not with what I saw of the world I now lived in.
In the two weeks after the ill-fated party, I saw it more than I had when I first arrived. How many of the pregnant girls that roamed the halls with their rounded bellies had fathers like Misael’s who just weren’t around? The students that sported track marks—how many of them got their drugs from their parents, and how many of those parents were locked in a cycle of dealer-user?
It had me hyper-focused on my surroundings, wondering how many of my perceptions were negatively colored by the fact that I simply didn’t know what life on this side of the tracks was like, and I would never truly know because I simply hadn’t grown up in it.
It was a sobering experience. I think the Lost Boys recognized it. We didn’t have another warehouse day or attend another house party, and although I still saw all three boys every day, still drove to school with them, I could feel them pulling away a little—keeping some distance between us. I wasn’t entirely sure if it was for my benefit or for theirs. Maybe a little of both.
But either way, I was grateful for it.
Since the moment Mom and I had pulled up in front of the squat little rental house, everything in my life had seemed to move like a whirlwind, sucking me up, tossing me around, and spitting me out in an unknown landscape where I could barely tell up from down.
I needed a moment to just… breathe.
On top of my attempts to sort through my broadening understanding of the world, and compounding my confusion about everything I knew and thought I knew, were the lingering questions about my dad.
My first trip to visit him at the prison was scheduled for a Friday afternoon in late October, and I boarded the city bus with some trepidation. I’d been excited when Mom had finally agreed to let me visit, but now I wasn’t sure how to feel; although part of me couldn’t wait to see him, another part of me almost didn’t want to go.
Mom had been uncomfortably secretive about my father since his first call. She still remained in her room most of the time, only going out sparingly in the new—well, newish—car that Isaac had gotten for us. I wondered where she went on these excursions, but I didn’t ask. If she wanted to tell me, she would. Besides, secrets seemed to be the recurring theme of our relationship lately. She didn’t tell me what she did when she left the house, and I never spoke to her about the Lost Boys.
I wonder what that conversation would be like.
A laugh got caught in my throat at the thought, and I dropped my head, staring at a piece of gum stuck to the floor of the bus. I couldn’t even begin to imagine what that conversation would be like, because Mom and I didn’t actually speak to each other enough for me to predict how it would go. It was almost sad; the only conversations I could picture clearly in my head were ones I might have with one of the Lost Boys, not even with my mother. I’d known them for less than three months, and in some ways, it felt like I knew them better than my own flesh and blood
That notion lingered in my mind as I transferred to a new bus that took me to the outskirts of Baltimore. Soon, city streets gave way to a large expanse of road, and the looming, concrete building of the prison came into view. I wasn’t the only person getting off at the stop just outside its gates; I wondered how many other passengers were going to visit a friend or family member like I was. How many of them were having doubts and second thoughts as to whether that person actually deserved to be behind bars?
My nerves buzzed under my skin as I checked in and waited. They took us back in small groups, and a guard checked us to make sure we weren’t bringing in anything we weren’t supposed to. The sensation of having a stranger pat me down and stare at me with eyes that seemed to penetrate sent a prickle of discomfort down my spine, but I tried not to show it. I hadn’t done anything wrong, so I shouldn’t have anything to fear. What was I going to smuggle into a prison anyway?
As I was ushered through to the visitation area, I almost wished I had someone with me. Not my mother though. She was too fragile for a place like prison, and I needed someone strong with me, to help me be strong.
Against my will, my thoughts flitted to Bishop, who I knew would be stoic in the face of leering prisoners and their salacious grins. Or maybe Kace, who would give them a cold stare right back to make them rethink ever looking at me wrong. The one who’d make it the happiest would be Misael. He’d probably just stride right on through, not giving a shit about who was watching or what they thought. He’d probably crack jokes, maybe even make me laugh.
