“I’m still on it. I’m only here to get my stuff,” he says, smiling at Box, who beams back.
“Well, damn. Margot was right.” I finish the rest of the cider and crumple up the can, leaving it in a pile of snow. “Where are you going?”
“New York, for now. Box’s sister lives there,” August says. He puts his bag back on and starts digging around in his pockets.
“Oh. Awesome. I love New York.” I take out my keys, as they’re always attached to my jeans with a carabiner, and unlock the door for them. “What’s your real name, Box?”
“Oh, we don’t talk about that,” August says. An awkward smile passes over his face. He looks down at the crumpled Strongbow can, then back at me. “Anna? Everything okay?”
“Yeah, sure. Just having a weird day.” I turn back towards the door, opening it.
We walk inside the house. “How are you moving your stuff?” I ask.
August and Box drop their things on the floor of the kitchen with clear relief. “My friend is coming by with his truck. How about you? Where are you going to go?”
This is, indeed, a good question. Without an apartment, or money coming in from my dad, I have no idea where I am going to go. I try to think back to how much I have saved in my checking account. A few hundred dollars maybe? How long could I live off a few hundred dollars? What could I sell? But of course, I have nothing of value at all. Some portraits that no one will ever buy, because people only buy paintings of themselves or their kids, and who could blame them? The most success I’d had, besides commission work, was with tiny paintings of dogs I’d sold at a show titled Mini Art, where all work had to be under a hundred dollars, and you could take it home right off the wall. But I don’t have even one painting to sell this year, because all I’ve been doing is homework for classes I couldn’t care less about. And drinking. I can’t remember the last time I painted. Although, if I can finish my former guidance counselor’s commission in the next four days and also get him to drive down here to pay me for it, that’s another five hundred dollars. That could hold me over for a little while, if I’m not paying rent.
Or I could work with Tristan, I think for a moment, before shaking this thought away. No. I can’t steal from people. That would be wrong. Plus who knows if I’ll ever see him again.
What’s the point of any of it, if my dad really won’t pay for next semester? Would I be going to college at all, let alone living in Milwaukee, if he isn’t? I had never considered any other options, because my parents were so insistent on my going to college nearby that I had no space to wonder what I would want to do if it were up to me. The only place I would have wanted to go, had I had the time to consider it, was the Art Institute of Chicago, where a few people I’d been in shows with ended up, every day posting pictures of new elaborate projects while I burned away my time clicking. So my dad wants to cut me off. So what, then? No more college? Is it so horrible that I won’t be forced to spend all my time using Adobe InDesign anymore?
No. No it would not be so horrible. Actually it would be kind of great. Right then and there, standing in my kitchen like some kind of deranged lunatic, I feel a spark of hope for the first time in a while. I think of the photos I’ve seen of skyscrapers of New York, the cozy patios of Austin, Portland’s bridges and coffee shops. I imagine showing up to each place with nothing but a backpack of clothing and art supplies. Getting a job waitressing in some small desert town, like Liz Parker. Living, without the heavy weight of expectations, whatever combination of survivor’s guilt and tremendous fear of the unknown my parents have insistently forced me to carry. Just being and painting, all the time, like I’ve always wanted but couldn’t admit to myself. Or hell. Maybe I’ll just go straight to Chernovtsy.
I don’t even notice how long I stand there staring blankly until August comes by and waves a hand in front of my face.
“Hey. Hello? Talk to me,” August says. Part of me forgot he was in the room, but no, there he is in front of me, lighting a rolled cigarette and then handing it to me. I suddenly feel dizzy, and like I need to sit down. “You okay? What boy drama did I miss while I was gone?”
“No boy drama,” I say. I take the cigarette, but I’m not quite ready to speak more. My brain won’t stop turning. Should I even bother finishing the semester?
“What’s going on?” he asks me.
“I’m fine,” I tell August. I take in a deep breath and turn. “Sorry, I just have to do something quick.” I walk past him and into my room, which is uncharacteristically messy, so I hope August doesn’t follow. The bed isn’t made, my blue and green striped comforter drooping to the floor haphazardly, next to a pile of laundry. The ashtray is full and surrounded by old coffee mugs. I ignore it all and press the power button on my computer, and while I wait for it to load, I change my mind and carry a few of these mugs out to the kitchen sink. It’s extra slow today, so I have time to dump out the ashtray and make my bed all before the computer is awake and logged in. I open my MySpace account, and click on the messenger function.
“Hello? Anna?” August is asking, trailing behind me. It occurs to me that he has been talking this whole time and I didn’t hear him. “Are you listening?”
“Sorry. What did you say?”
“Come with us to New York,” August suggests.
“You mean… train-hop with you?” I ask, surprised.
“Yeah,” August says. “I think you’ll like it.”
I think about this for a second. Should I go? I’d been asked plenty of times before—before August left he’d asked, in fact—but I never really considered it till now. I try to remember all the times I had secretly fantasized about going on such an adventure, how I’d never let myself get very far in this illusion because I knew I could not go, not with my parents around, checking up on me regularly, pulling the purse strings. It does seem fun. Whoever has real adventures anymore? Everything is on Google. Everybody is on MySpace, telling you where they are and with whom. All the crevices of the world have been explored and excavated and monetized, even your deepest insecurities. August and his friends are the only people I know who don’t play into it. They go where the train takes them, sometimes without any destination. They don’t have plans and to-do lists and transcripts of vaguely useless skills. They don’t check a map four times before stepping foot outside. They just go.
My eyes finally focusing again, I look at August, in his all-black clothes and greasy hair, dirt-streaked cheeks. This lifestyle really suits him; he looks great. He comes off more weathered, more mature. Happier, too. I let out a breath so long it’s like I’ve been holding it all morning. “When are you leaving?” I ask.
“So you’ll come?” he asks, excited.
“I don’t know. I’ll think about it,” I say.
“What about your dad?” August is asking. He begins stretching his arms over his head, then bends over to touch his toes. “He won’t freak out?”
“He’s not going to be a problem for a while.”
I turn to the computer and start writing out a message to Zoya: Hey! Why on earth did you send my father the DNA test instead of me?
“Why not?” he asks, curious. “Did you finally stand up to him?” August raises his hand for a high five but I don’t meet it. I’m not exactly happy about our current state of affairs.
“No,” I say, blushing. I click refresh on my internet browser. Zoya is online, which means she might answer me soon. August is now sitting on the floor and stretching his arms over each leg, one at a time. “How long till you leave again?”