“I’m so happy you’re okay,
You can tell me what happened later.
We’ve been up all night praying.
Let me get you some ice,
And talk to the nurse.
We’ll get you in to see a doctor right away.”
“Colt, Darling,”
Her voice still drifts across the lawn.
The concern of a mother,
The ghost of her laughter,
The specter of her love,
Haunts us like the smell of smoke
When the wind is right.
ten
Harper Apple
“How do you deal with it?” I ask Colt. We’ve emerged from under the bleachers and are sitting in the stands, sharing a bag of potato chips. I feel comfortable with him, like I’ve known him for years, though in truth I didn’t know his name until a few minutes ago, and I don’t know anything about him. Still, he’s the one familiar face I’ve seen all week. I didn’t know how much I needed that, didn’t realize I actually miss Faulkner High, until I saw his sleeve tats and lazy grin.
“Deal with what?” Colt asks, shaking the open end of the bag at me until I take a small handful.
“The Dolces, the Waltons, all the other rich, entitled pricks around here…”
Colt cracks a small, humorless smile and flexes his left hand. The skin is so tight his fingers don’t extend the last fraction of an inch. “You get used to it,” he says. “Eventually, you stop fighting it and accept that it is what it is. You know it could be worse, and that really you’re lucky, and you can’t change it. So you just live with it.”
I’m not sure if he’s talking about his hand or Willow Heights, but it makes perfect sense to me—probably because I’ve heard that same shit from my mother since I was old enough to talk.
“I don’t buy it,” I say, reaching for a chip.
Colt holds the bag away. “Then no chips for you.”
I laugh and hold up my fists. “Do you really want to mess with the mighty Appleteeny?”
Colt laughs and hands over the chips. For the first time, his smile reaches his eyes. Just a little, but it makes me feel better somehow, as if I’ve paid for the joint we shared or the half sandwich he insisted I take.
“Seriously, though, I’ll pay you back for this,” I say, taking a few chips and handing back the bag.
“Don’t worry about it,” he says. “They’re just chips.”
“Yeah, but food costs money,” I say. “So does weed.”
“I make money off your ass every Friday night,” he points out, munching on a chip.
“You make it sound like you’re my pimp.”
“I could be your pimp.”