“Thanks,” I say. “But I’m good.”
She glances under the bleachers and back to me. “Okay,” she says. “See you around, Harper.”
As she walks away, I get the feeling I just fucked up any chance of being her friend. Part of me wants to fall into step with her, tell her that I could eat after all. But another part wants to know why she doesn’t want me to go meet the smokers.
I wait until she’s almost at the building before I step around the bleachers, out of the sun and into the dimness under the metal seats. I blink a few times, waiting for my eyes to adjust. The smoky scent of burning tobacco and weed under here makes me feel at home for the first time all week.
I don’t usually buy pot or cigarettes, but I’ve definitely had days where I headed for the bleachers, knowing that someone would be willing to share either for a couple crumpled bills. Zephyr, Maverick, Blue, Jolene and her fanboys, and some of the Slut Club girls were all good for a hit when I had a really rough day. A couple times when I didn’t do so well in a fight, Mav would even let me bum a whole joint for the pain.
When my eyes adjust, I find a blond guy standing against one of the supports for the bleachers, watching me. Something’s familiar about him, though for a second, I can’t place him. One hand is resting casually in the pocket of his jeans, and the other holds a joint to his lips. He takes a slow drag and watches me approach, his eyes narrowed so I can’t read them. A little shock goes through me when I get close enough to see the tattoos covering the backs of his hands, his forearms, disappearing under the sleeves of his dusky blue t-shirt and appearing again on his neck, extending all the way to his chin and jawline.
“Dynamo?” I blurt, gaping at him. He’s about the last person I’d ever expect to attend a preppy private school. Not only does he help coordinate the fighting rings, he’s all tatted up and hard looking. I never really wondered about his age. I’ve wondered how he lost a finger on his left hand, which is now hidden in his pocket, or what left the back of that hand and part of his forearms mottled with ugly scars he’s covered up with tattoos. I’ve wondered how much all that ink cost. If I’d thought about his age, I would have put him a few years out of high school. There’s something about him that makes him look older than your average high school kid.
“Appleteeny,” he says in his slow, southern drawl. I never paid much attention to it at the Slaughter Pen, when I’m busy getting my head in the right place. But now I notice that he doesn’t talk like me, like the other people at Faulkner High. He has a southern accent, but it’s more like something out of an old movie, like he’s auditioning for aGone with the Windremake.
“You go here?” I ask, still not quite believing my eyes. Maybe he’s just here to sell drugs under the bleachers to high school kids.
“Yeah,” he says, dispelling that theory. He gives a little smile that doesn’t reach his eyes and holds out the joint to me. “But I’m not Dynamo here. I’m just Colt.”
*
Colt Darling
“Colt, Darling,”
Her voice drifted in from next door,
Sweet and high as songbirds.
Her peels of laughter
Falling to the floor
Like magnolia petals.
“I’m so happy to see you.
Sit down and tell me all about
School, your friends—Do you have a girlfriend?—football…
Let me get you some pecan sandies,
And sweet tea,
And we’ll make an afternoon of it.”
“Colt, Darling,”
Her voice drifted across the hospital waiting room,
Hoarse and ragged with worry.
No peels of laughter
Falling to the sterile linoleum
Like ash.