When T.J. caught Luc’s eye, he lifted a hand lazily in greeting. “Dude. What’s up?”
“Screw off, T.J.” It took a conscious effort not to jump across the table and crack him in the face. Karen was already giving him “the look,” and starting a fight in the street would only get him into more trouble—with her, and with his coach.
T.J. smirked. “What’s your problem?”
“You.” Luc lowered his voice. Other diners had started to stare. “I know what you’re about. So stay away from my sister.”
T.J. raised both hands. “She’s a big girl.”
“She’s fifteen,” Luc said.
“She can look after herself. Trust me. The girl’s grown.” T.J. smiled—his lizard smile.
Luc couldn’t help it. He shoved his chair back and was on his feet before he knew what he was doing.
“Luc!” Karen cried out.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” T.J. stepped backward, nearly stepping off the curb, out of Luc’s reach. He’d lost his confidence. Now he just looked sweaty, and oily, and sorry. “Look, I’m serious. I haven’t seen your sister. Not for a few weeks, at least. Look, I hear she got into some trouble last week.” T.J. licked his lips nervously. “I’m sorry, all right? But I had nothing to do with it.”
Karen was gripping Luc’s arm. He could sense her staring at him, pleading with him, but he kept his eyes on T.J.
“Just get out of here,” he practically growled.
T.J. took off down the street. If Luc had been in a different kind of mood, he would have thought it was funny watching T.J. book it with his dark skinny jeans strapped halfway down his butt.
“He’s right, you know,” Karen said quietly, after Luc had sat down. “Your sister has to learn to take care of herself.”
“You don’t understand,” he muttered.
“Then try to explain it,” Karen said.
For a second, he imagined what he would say if he blurted it all out: My dad’s been hitting the bottle again; my fifteen-year-old sister tripped out and had her stomach pumped. I’m worried she’s going to be like Mom. Luc looked away. “I can’t.”
Karen crossed her arms. “Right. As usual. Come on, Luc. You’re not her father.”
“She’s my sister. She’s all the family I have,” Luc said, too roughly. Then: “Sorry. I’m just in a bad mood.”
Karen sighed and rubbed her eyes. “No, I’m sorry. I know you have … shit going on. Lots of it.” Karen spun her water glass between her palms. She kept her eyes on the table. “It’s just sometimes I feel like I’m on the outside of all of it, you know? Like I’m locked out.”
His anger dissolved. She looked so uncertain. Karen never looked uncertain.
“I’m sorry.” He took her hand and laced his fingers with hers. “I’m here now and you’ve got all of my attention. And I’m all yours at the party tomorrow night, too. I’ll even get there early, promise.”
“I hope you do.” There was an emotion on her face that he couldn’t quite read, but she blinked and it was gone. In its place was her trademark sexy grin. “You really don’t want to miss it.”
After dinner, Karen wanted to go over to her friend Margot’s house, which had its own private screening room; Margot was having people over to drink and watch old horror movies. Margot’s talent was inventing drinking games for every kind of entertainment.
But Luc was tired. He’d been at the gym at five-thirty that morning for weight-lifting and sprints and had run drills with the team for another hour after school. And that was before scrimmage—which Luc took as seriously as any real match. It went nearly two hours, and he played hard the whole time.
Karen had said nothing when they split up, just given him a hug and a quick kiss, no tongue—but he could tell he’d disappointed her. Again.
On his walk down Market Street, he tried listing constellations but got stuck after Cygnus.
The wind was picking up. He’d been dialing Jasmine’s cell nonstop, but it went straight to voice mail every time. After what had happened last week, they’d made a deaclass="underline" she had to check in every few hours and let him know where she was and what she was doing. And she couldn’t be out past nine.
But it was already ten, and it had been at least four hours since he’d heard from her. What if she OD’d again, only this time, no one was there to save her?
He caught a bus back to Richmond, pushing through the crowds of commuters and tourists. Standing at the back of the bus, he couldn’t help automatically scanning the faces, hoping for a glimpse of that small, stubborn chin and the long, familiar dark hair. But there was no sign of her. Luc held on to the overhead straps as the bus sped across the city.
It wasn’t long before the bus emptied out, until only an old man in a crusty-looking leather jacket remained. Luc sat down and turned, forehead pressed against the cool glass in front of him. The rocking of the bus, minute after minute, began to tug him toward sleep. Darkness broken by streaks of light—like multicolored shooting stars—raced in and out of view, hypnotizing and rhythmic.
They past a block under construction, half-finished, littered with keep out signs and wooden barricades. Luc saw rebar protruding from cement, the spokes of unhung metal signs, chunks of concrete.
Steam hissed out from a grate just behind a section on the street. Luc stared at it, watching the steam twist and curl, as though trying to condense into a solid shape.
Then it did—condense, take shape, change.
The bus seemed to slow to a crawl and everything went silent. He watched a woman step into the steam, her long black hair billowing around her head. The mist undulated around her body like a serpent. He blinked. In an instant, she had faded away into nothingness, as if she had disintegrated into the fog itself.
Sound and motion returned, bringing Luc straight up in his seat. His forehead banged against the glass when he pushed forward, trying to look back at the site, toward the vanishing woman.
Nothing.
What the hell?
He turned toward the old man in the leather jacket, seeking some kind of confirmation that he wasn’t crazy, but the man’s eyes were closed and his body rocked in time with the motion of the bus. Luc pressed the heels of his hands over his eyes. People didn’t just disappear into thin air like that.
He dropped his hands and returned his gaze to the window, half dreading another vision, but the city sped by, same as always: looming dark buildings, pinpoints of light. He must have imagined it, or fallen asleep for a few seconds.
At his stop, he jumped out and half jogged the six blocks to their apartment, sucking the cool night air deep into his lungs until it burned.
The breeze coming off the ocean carried a familiar fish smell, mixed with the unmistakable aroma of clove smoke. Above him, on the second-floor fire escape, a figure was sitting cross-legged. Against the muted light of the open window behind her, he could make out her familiar silhouette, her long dark hair, the flash of her ring as she brought the cigarette to her mouth.
His sister had been home all along. He didn’t know whether to feel relieved or angry. For the past week, every time he saw her, he saw the other her, too: pale, unconscious, her dark hair scattered across the hospital pillow, her nails blood-red against the white sheet, still wearing some awful glittery shirt cut practically to her belly button. A little bit of puke at the corners of her mouth.