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“Look at you. You can’t even let go of the pole. You’re always on a pole, swinging around, pole to pole, dance to dance, cam to cam.” Mack sighs and gives me a look. “Words are just words, man. If you truly care about Richie, you gotta prove it.”
The train jerks to a stop, nearly throwing me from said pole. The voice overhead announces the stop—ours—and the doors slide open.
Mack gives me a look. “Well, Zak …?”
I let go of the pole and depart without a word. Mack is behind me a few steps as we ascend the stairs, leaving the subway station. He’s still a few steps behind me as we turn the corner, heading down a dark street two blocks from Aubergines.
I don’t know if I want to keep up this chat with Mack about my life and my choices. I’m afraid of what I might say back to him about his life and his choices—things I’d likely regret saying very much. Besides, I really am proud of his turn-around.
But now he’s dropped me into a stew of doubt. Am I really so “stuck in my ways” with my life that I can’t open up to let someone else in? Maybe a date or two with Richie wasn’t much of a risk for me. It didn’t put me out. But what happens when things get even more serious?
What happens if Richie moves here?
What happens if Richie moves in …?
It’s way too soon to be thinking these things, I know. But it’s in my nature to think twenty steps ahead, to plan, to account for, to foresee. These instincts got me this far. These instincts are the reason I have enough to afford online schooling—with money to spare to send back home.
Even if only one of my parents appreciates it.
Fuck, I’ve got too much on my mind tonight.
From the dark, a voice: “Don’t fucking move.”
18
Mack and I stop in place.
From behind a parked car on the street, a man emerges like a shadow in a gray hoodie—much like mine—and an irritable twitch in his weathered eyes. His face is indistinct. He might be thirty. He might be a teenager. His skin is pale and smooth, save for a splash of hair on his pointy chin. His hood is drawn tight over his head, but not tight enough to mask the urgency and malice in his eyes. And the sleeves of his hoodie are so long, they cover most of his hands.
But they don’t cover the knife he brandishes.
“Gimme your money,” the man growls at us.
I have never been mugged before. My whole time in this city, I’ve always wondered in the back of my mind if it’s a possibility. I work at night. I’ve walked many dark streets. I never imagined it’d actually happen—and especially not in Mayville.
And I never thought it would actually happen with those specific words I’ve seen in every movie with a mugging or robbery.
Is this life imitating art, or art imitating life?
“Dude, I’ll crush you,” Mack threatens him. “Think that knife scares me, you fucking punk?”
The man’s eyes—although full of anger—shine with nervousness. He hasn’t done this often; I can tell. He’s desperate and he’s snappish. “Don’t make me cut your fucking face,” he growls back.
“Alright, alright,” I say quickly, snapping out of it. “No problems, man. Calm down, Mack. Look, I’ll give you all my cash.” I pull out my wallet, which the man immediately grabs at, hungry for all I got. “Hey, hey,” I protest, “I said I’ll give you—”
Then his other hand—bearing the knife—lunges forward to pry my wallet out of my grip.
It happens so fast, I don’t even feel it.
But everyone freezes in place at once, and in a vacuum of space, I peer down at my arm, seeing a line of red drawn down the forearm and across the side of my right hand, down the thumb.
Even the mugger appears shocked.
The next instant, he’s running away with my wallet. Mack ditches me to chase the thief halfway down the street before realizing he’s too fast. Mack finds my wallet on the ground and snatches it up, cursing. “That motherfucker!” he shouts, hurrying back to me. “How bad is it? Are you gushing?”
“I’m fine,” I say, barely giving it a look as I take my wallet back from Mack. “I was even giving him all my cash, and he still insisted on—”
“Dude, you’re gushing!”
“Nah, it isn’t that bad. It’s just—” Oh. The thin red line has become thicker, and trickles of red are drawing veins down to my palm. “Fuck.”
Mack peels off his shirt at once without a thought, then quickly wraps it around my forearm and hand, tying it off. I’m amazed for a second at the initiative he takes—and grateful.
Then I stare at his ripped, shirtless torso. “You can’t walk the streets of Mayville like that,” I warn him. “You’ll get eaten alive.”
