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YEAR OF DUNKIN HINES (CLASSIC YELLOW)
Spring was a weird time in Enfield. Winter always had this large, looming presence over most of Massachusetts from September to March, so Spring always seemed like an afterthought. The few week stretch between slushy snow and sticky mud. That little sliver of in-between before you go to one of the big-guy seasons. Plus there were allergies to worry about, which seemed like a cruel punchline to Joelle.
It’s the first day of April, and the high temperature is curling on the low end of 60. To Joelle, this means she can finally retire her winter uniform, which consisted of a big blue coat, black slacks and chunky leather boots. It felt like pure sunshine, being able to put on a top and allow her arms to be free. With all the months inside, wasting away in Ennett house, her freckles had almost faded, leaving stretches of pale, white skin. Maybe today she could barter some of them back, making some sort of trade with the sun.
Joelle finds Kate in the common room, reading a paperback book, a vision in earth tones and knits. Her back hair has grown so much in the last few months, leaving a few inch long root at her scalp. It looks so light against the black dye job. “Morning, beautiful,” says Joelle, standing at the bottom of the staircase. “Whatcha reading?”
“I feel so dumb when you call me that,” says Kate, placing her finger on her current page.
Joelle takes the book from her, dog earring it, then leaves it on the stained coffee table. It’s an old pulp book, wrinkled, creased beyond repair. The cover, which depicts a mermaid in a bikini, is sealed with packing tape. “Looks like a good one,” she says, ignoring Kate’s statement. “Is it?”
“If you like blonde mermaids,” Kate responds, leaning her head on the couch. She’s wearing white, shimmery eyeshadow.
Joelle smiles. “Does it count if the mermaid covers up the blonde with box dye?”
“You’re crazy,” says Kate, suddenly aware of her roots. She smooths it down with her hands, almost insecure.
“Lock me up then,” Joelle looks around. “Oh wait. They already have.” Her voice is quiet, not wanting to draw any attention from the other housemates. Kate looks like she just saw a ghost. “I jest.”
“That’s not funny,” says Kate, frowning.
Joelle sighs, understanding the nature of her new friend. “Sorry, I know I told you I’d be better about that stuff.”
“It just makes me sad to think about, that’s all,” Kate muses sadly, looking out the window. It feels like it’s been months since frost first settled on the glass. Now, it’s just a light condensation, a brag that the outside was warmer than the conservative temperature of the House.
“What time is Group today?” Joelle asks, standing up from the couch, then approaching the window. She peers out from her veil, wishing she could push it aside to really focus past the droplets. The grass in the parking lot was damp, but still green.
Kate checks her watch. It’s a dainty thing, gold and flexible. It had been her Grandmother’s. Maybe her aunt’s. Joelle doesn’t remember, but she knows it’s something sweet to Kate, so it’s something sweet to Joelle. “Not until four,” Kate says. “Gately said something about a newbie coming in around three, though. Said he was a kid, picked up off the streets of Allston.”
“A real kid?” Joelle asks. She thinks of a kindergartner, moving into Ennett House, carrying a small suitcase, and probably a backpack for good measure. Silly thought.
“Probably 19 or so,” Kate says. “I saw his mugshot when Gately was doing on-boarding last night. He’s a cutie, actually. Super blonde,”
Joelle smiles, then sitting next to Kate again, this time balanced on the plush arm of the sofa. “Don’t go leaving me for some convict teenager,” she says, poking Kate lightly in the chest. “Even if he is a ‘cutie,’”
“Maybe a love triangle is what we need around here,” Kate ponders sarcastically. “Might make things more interesting. I can’t stand being here much longer.”
“Well, with a new intake I bet Gately is gonna be a real hardass about curfew,” Joelle responds. “Whenever someone new comes he’s super neurotic about us leaving the house.” `
“So why don’t we go out today?” asks Kate, surprisingly Joelle with her sudden positivity. “It’s beautiful out today, why not enjoy it why we can? If tomorrow brings a new intake, we’ll probably be stuck here providing mommy duties like we do for every other kid that gets placed here.”
“Aw, it’s kinda sweet though, in a Oedipus-esque way,” says Joelle, smiling a little, knowing this will gross out Kate. “It’s my favorite past-time, to run baths for nineteen-year-olds going through Oxy withdrawal. They always have such nice things to say about my veil.”
“I just wish it wasn’t our responsibility,” says Kate, checking the skin around her cuticles boredly. “I know you hate it just as much as I do.”
Joelle sighs, standing, and stretching at the window pane. There’s a tenseness in her neck that can only be attributed to the stiff nature of the Ennett House beds. “Get dressed, then,” she says, looking over at Kate. “We can go sit in Kitching Park before the ETA kids get out for the weekend. They crawl around there like rats when it hits 5PM on a Friday, so get up.”
Kate disappears up the winding staircase, leaving Joelle at the windowsill, leaned back, her feet against the left frame. She’ll be like this a while, waiting for Kate to apply her makeup. Joelle considers joining her at her little desk, but Gately enters the room before she can do so. “Hiya,” says Joelle, sitting up. “Heard we have a new housemate coming in today.”
Gately has a cup of coffee in his hands, but it looks lukewarm, a lack of steam rising out of the mug. “Who told you that?”
“I have my sources,” she replies coyly.
“Your source is named Kate Gompert. She helped me with onboarding last night.” He sips his coffee. “Wasn’t supposed to tell you anything.”
Kate gives Gately a look, fully knowing he can’t see it. “Who am I going to tell? Ken Erredy? Be serious here.”
“Policy,” he says, not wanting to offer up much more. “Gets me in trouble with HIPAA or something.”
“I promise you that no one here cares,” says Joelle. “Besides, Kate told me he’s a kid, which means you’re gonna have me mother-hen him for two weeks, aren’t you? I think it’s completely in my rights for you to at least disclose who I’ll be babysitting.”
Gately scratches his broad chin, knowing that Joelle is right, per usual. “Come with me,” he says, disappearing into the dark hallway where his office was located.
When Joelle makes it down the hallway, she finds Gately hunched over his desk, rifling through folders and paperwork. The computer, which was archaic, was powered off, its cords wrapped around the top of the monitor. This intake must be all by hand. “This is all I got,” he says, handing her a mugshot, printed to a 2.5 x 3.5 wallet dimension. She takes it.
The Kid, which was now his name in Joelle’s head, couldn’t be older than 19, with a youthful glow in his eyes, despite the gaunt and tellingly addicted nature to his face. He was almost bleach blonde, and had that Irish-German look to his features, all pointed, and sharp, somewhat elf-like. “He’s young,” she observes, not noticing the sad tone in her voice until it hangs in the air.
“Eighteen,” says Gately, sitting in the patched-up desk chair. “It feels like they’re getting younger and younger, doesn’t it? I started early too, sure, but it seems so normal now.” He sighs. “I don’t know.” He says, clarifying the vulnerability. “He was picked up in Allston about a month ago for dealing to some high school kids. Did a few weeks in the can. I don’t know what strings the kid pulled, because he definitely doesn’t have anything but a public defender, but he managed to get a few months of rehabilitation while awaiting his trial.”
“Heavy,” says Joelle softly. The Kid was just that. A Kid. The way his hair stood straight up reminded her of the boys she met during her time at school. He looked so familiar, but also beyond a stranger. The feeling dug at her. “What’s his name?”
“You know I can’t tell you that,” Gately says, looking at the file, pulled in close to his barreled chest. “He can tell you himself when you meet him.”
Joelle holds up the little photo. “I’m keeping this until he comes,” she says, turning on her heel, leaving the little office.
“No, you’re not,” Gately says down the hall, though unbothered enough to stand up. “I need that for his intake.”
She’s already back in the common room, where Kate is sitting, a vision in a peasant skirt and funny shoes. “Ready to go?” She asks. Kate nods.
☆☆☆
The walk to the park is a short one, but the two girls lengthen the time by walking slowly, enjoying the weather. When they get to Kitching, the sun is at the sky’s midpoint, beaming down directly on their heads. The warmth feels delicious, especially after the brutal winter they had.
Kate and Joelle find a bench, and sit, looking out on the massive Enfield park. Dozens of other people mill around the grounds, pushing strollers, walking dogs, tossing frisbees. “I have a present for you,” Joelle says to Kate.
“Did I forget something?” Kate’s eyes widen. “Was I supposed to get you something?”
Joelle shakes her head. “No, I just felt like causing problems earlier,” she digs in purse, eventually finding the wallet-sized photo of The Kid. “Stole this for you.”
Kate holds the little picture out, analyzing the boy in the photo. “God, he’s so young,” she says sadly. “What can go so wrong to have him arrested at this age?”
“Gately says he was dealing to high schoolers down in Allston,” Joelle says.
Kate hums. “That’ll do it,” she says. “Allston, too huh? There’s never cops down there. My high school girlfriend lived in the projects down that way, and she was always complaining how no one was ever there to do anything if some shit went down. They must have staked this kid out for a while.”
Looking down at the picture, Joelle wonders how someone could look so youthful but so aged at the same time. It had to be a mix of his half-smirk, furrowed brow and the dark circles under his eyes. A little boy who had stumbled again and again. “He’s either going to be a nightmare or a sweetheart.”
Kate brings the picture close to her face, squinting. “Nightmare,” she decides. “Want to make a bet?”
“I always lose bets against pretty girls,” Joelle says, grinning. “I never know how to make a decision in front of them.”
“I can’t look at it anymore,” says Kate, tucking the photo in her shirt pocket. “ It’s too sad, and it’ll only get worse tonight.”
“Don’t jinx it,” Joelle responds with a sigh.
The girls sit in Kitching for a while, then strolling around in the sunny outer circle, enjoying the warmth and the shared closeness. Eventually it hits 3:30, and they make it back to Ennett for Group. It goes as usual, with neither Joelle or Kate saying much, instead resorting to tapping each other's shoes underneath the secrecy of the folding table. It’s horribly romantic, playing a half game of footsie while listening to adult men bemoan about black tar.
The Kid isn’t scheduled to come around until six, and Joelle waits in the common area, hands interlaced on her lap. Kate has decided to hole away in their room, not wanting to face something that she claims is the “saddest thing in the world.” Joelle will come get her when she needs to, if she needs to.
Gately enters the commons around 6:45, landline phone pressed to his chest. “He’s not coming until later,” he says quietly, not wanting to alert whoever was on the line. “Aggression at the Probation Office.”
“Oh, God,” says Joelle. “How much later?” Maybe Kate’s bet would be right. Hell on wheels. A nightmare in sneakers.
Gately raises the phone back to his head, nodding to the conversation. “Uh huh. Yeah. Jesus Christ.” He sighs, checking his large wristwatch, the one with the thick plastic strap. “Well, just let me know when he’s coming. His bed is all ready, just need to do his intake. Right.”
He puts the phone back to his check, waving at Joelle. “Just go up to your room, I guess. We’ll clear out the bottom floor in case this kid ends up being dangerous in any way.”
“Are you still expecting me to babysit?” Joelle asks. If The Kid ends up being aggressive, she wants nothing to do with it. She knows how these things go, and she doesn’t want to be in his path of destruction.
Gately shrugs. He’s back on the phone. “Yeah, we still want him. Bring him by when he’s mellowed out.” Joelle eyes him suspiciously, then leaves the commons, heading up the stairs and into her shared room.
She finds Kate in her little twin bed, dressed in pajamas, with her long black hair tied into two braids. She’s reading the same pulp book, the one with the sexy mermaid on the decayed cover. “Hey, you,” Joelle says, sitting at the edge of the mattress.
“Where’s our new best friend?” Kate asks, tucking her finger between the current pages.
Joelle puts her hands out, a slight shrug. “I owe you some money,” she says, unlacing her boots, then sliding them off. “The Kid sounds like a menace. Was showing aggression at the Probation Office, whatever that means, so now they’re keeping him there until he calms down.”
“He’s lucky they didn’t arrest him all over again,” Kate says. “That stuff is no joke. But I guess assault against a parole officer is a few rungs down than a real cop.”
“Maybe we’ll get lucky and won’t hit a girl,” Joelle says, then taps Kate’s thigh. “Scoot over. I wanna try and sleep before shit hits the fan and Gately expects me to solve it.”
“It’s not your job to pick up what he fails to do, you know,” Kate moves her body, making a small spot for Joelle on the mattress. It’s cramped, but they’ve been making it work for the past few months. Technically no cohabiting is allowed, but no one has stopped them yet. “He should be able to deal with this on his own. You don’t need that on your plate.”
Joelle puts her head against the metal bed frame, allowing Kate to put her head on her chest. “I don’t know. I kinda like it,” she says. “In a selfish way, it makes me feel good to help someone who needs it.”
“They aren’t puppies though, these are adult men with adult addictions,” Kate responds with a sigh, then looking up. “Don’t tell me I’m included in this thought-process though.”
“You’re closer to a puppy than you think,” Joelle hums, putting her head against Kate’s. “Wake me up when The Kid gets here.”
☆☆☆
Joelle doesn’t stir until the middle of the night, with the room completely dark, with her other three roommates sleeping in their bunks. Kate is fast asleep, still nestled on Joelle’s chest. Her little gold watch reads 3 AM. So much for waking up earlier.
As gently as she can, Joelle moves Kate on the mattress, then standing up on the hardwood floor. The house is completely silent, filled with only the sounds of the women sleeping around her. Surely The Kid had arrived already. If hadn’t, he was definitely headed back to the Can, ready to wait around for yet another trial. What a dreadful thought, although she isn’t sure that Ennett is much better. She puts on an old sweatshirt, then quietly pads out of the room.
The stairwell is dark, which isn’t a good sign, but the common room is lit by one lamp, filling the downstairs with a dim, orange light. And sure enough, The Kid is there, sitting on the couch, hands folded primly in his lap. Gately sits across the room in an armchair, arms crossed, looking exhausted.
“Hi,” says Joelle gently, standing still at the bottom of the stairs.
Both of them look at her, wearing opposite expressions, with Gately looking drained, and The Kid looking electrified. His white hair sits up straight, looking sorely contrary to the bruise that's forming underneath his left eye socket. She can’t help but realize how shockingly blue they are. “Go back upstairs, Joelle,” says Gately, rubbing his face. “It’s fine.”
Joelle steps off the stairs, approaching the sitting area. The Kid looked so familiar, but she couldn’t put her finger on why. There was so recognizable to the look in his eyes, even shrouded by the growing redness on his cheek. In just a few days, he’ll be a sight of dark blue and sickly green. “I just came down for a glass of water.”
Gately eyes her, although she keeps her sight trained on the boy on the couch. “Go get your water, then,” he says.
“Do either of you want anything?” she asks, watching as the edges of The Kid’s mouth turn up. “Coffee, Gately?” The Kid stays still, but Gately waves her off. “Fine,” says Joelle, heading into the kitchen. The instant coffee maker is already going, quietly sputtering on the dirty counter, a sign of the long night that Gately is expecting.
Joelle puts on the kettle, then waits around in the kitchen for its telling squeal. After finding three mugs, she fills them with the hot water, and two tea bags each. Carefully, she returns to the common room, finding both men in the same position.
She places the tea in front Gately, purposely giving the mug decorated with a yellow smiley face reminding him to “Don’t Worry, Be Happy!” The advice would fall on deaf ears, but Joelle thought it was worth a mediocre shot. “I already have coffee going,” says Gately tiredly.
“This is decaf, though. Apple cinnamon,” says Joelle. “It’ll help you get some rest.” She turns to hand the mug to The Kid. As she goes to give it to him, though, she realizes he’s handcuffed. She looks back at Gately. “Is this really necessary?”
Gately shrugs, staring down into the mug. “State regulation.”
Joelle sets down the remaining two mugs on the scratched-up coffee table, then puts her hands on her hips. “You’re that much trouble, huh?”
“He hit a cop, Joelle,” Gately says.
“I wasn’t asking you, I was asking him,” she says, sitting next to The Kid. He’s sheepishly grinning, wearing the same tired expression as everyone else in the room. “I don’t believe that you hit a cop. Look at you. You look like a Boy Scout.”
“Am I allowed to speak?” The Kid asks, looking around. “Or are you wanting to keep up this vow of silence?” His accent is dripping with Allston, the “are” in his sentence being rounded out to a Boston-y “aw.”
Gately sighs, exhausted. “I don’t care anymore, just don’t hit her too.”
“I don’t hit girls, I’ll have you know,” The Kid says, stretching, bringing his handcuffed wrists above his head. “Just cops.” There’s a softness to his face, a reminder of his age. This is a face that should be in prom photos, yearbooks. Team photos, beaming in a bright uniform.
Joelle observes him, then turns to Gately. “Give me the key.”
Although Gately knows the rules he’s been given, he also knows when he can trust someone, especially Joelle. She had this uncanny superpower of reading people, some sixth sense of other’s behavior. He puts the mug on the end table, then fishes the key out of his pocket. Joelle meets his hand halfway, taking the little charm from his palm.
“God, thank you,” The Kid says as Joelle wiggles the key into the cuffs. They free with a slight pop, and he twists his wrists to get some blood flowing. “What’s your name?”
Joelle leans forward, passing him the mug of tea. “Joelle,” she says, although she rarely trusts a man with the knowledge of her name. “What about you?”
“Mathew with one T,” he says after a second, then looking over at Gately. He extends his hand. “Nice to meet you, even if I don’t know what you look like.” He quickly bites his lip. “Oh God, was that insensitive?”
“I’ve heard worse.” Joelle takes his hand, shaking it lightly. “Welcome to Ennett House, Mathew with one T.”
“Real nice place you got here. I feel at home already,” Mathew says, wearing that same dumb smile. “And I’m from Allston, so you know I’m not lying.”
She leans forward, getting a closer look at his face. “Has anyone taken a look at that yet?”
Instinctively, he reaches up, touching his cheekbone gently. “What, my shiner? Or soon to be shiner, I guess.” It’s growing redder by the minute. In the morning, it’s sure to be real gnarly, a smattering of black and blue interrupting his Irish complexion. It seems like every part of him is freckled, even reaching into his ears. “They let me wash my face at the office, but other than that, no, I guess not.”
“You didn’t give him any ice?” She turns her head to Gately, who looks unbothered, not necessarily out of malice, but more along the lines of male thoughtlessness.
“No, I didn’t give the kid ice ,” Gately says. “This isn’t a daycare, Joelle.”
“Some counselor you are,” Joelle says with an eyeroll. “He’s just a baby, look at him.”
The Kid turns his head, then smiles, batting his long, blonde eyelashes. “You heard her.”
“You are far too comfortable for someone who has been here for two hours,” Gately says, thumbing through The Kid’s manilla folder. “Especially for someone who’s facing a second degree felony.”
“Not so fast, I was found to be mentally unfit for prison,” He points at the papers in Gately’s large hands. “Says so in my forms, just look at ‘em,”
Gately flips the sheet. “‘Subject shows signs of severe…,’ wait, not that.” He trails off. “Here we go, and I quote, ‘possible malingering from patient to avoid sentencing.’”
“No, boss, you don’t understand. I’m absolutely insane, believe me here.” The Kid extends his arms, bending forward his wrists. “Better lock me up so I don’t skin the veiled girl.”
“Color me convinced,” says Joelle, yawning. “Everyone knows that all serial killers wear Nike sweatsuits.”
“She gets it,” he says, leaning back into the couch. “I was too scary to keep in the Pen, so now I’m here. It’s a real honor.” The r at the end of the word tumbles into an ‘a’ sound, making it sound more like “hona.” This guy was Allston through and through. Probably born to a blue-collar daddy, who was born to a blue-collar grampy before that. He would be sentenced to the same life, years and years of car mechanics and electrical work. Or really, in The Kid’s case, an existence in and out of jail, peddling drugs to high schoolers. Maybe he’d have a few kids with a semi-pretty Allston girl, and they’ll start the cycle all over, breeding tawny-haired babies with chronic hyperactivity and a lack of respect for anyone around them.
“Hey Mathew,” Joelle says gently. “Let’s put some ice on that thing, what do you say?”
He instinctively touches the forming bruise on his face. “Is that allowed?” He says, looking over at Gately, who appears unworried by the proposition. He checks his watch and gives a long sigh.
“Sure,” Gately says tiredly. “But I’m going to bed. I guess if The Kid tries to butcher you, at least I had a good night's sleep.”
“Always so caring,” says Joelle, stretching. She looks at Mathew, who looks more like a rowdy puppy than a convict. He wouldn’t hurt a fly. A cop, maybe, but not a fly. “Stay here. I think we have some frozen peas.”
She walks into the kitchen, turning on all the lights in the hallway. If she was going to get killed, although very unlikely, she wouldn’t want to do it in the dark. Too cliche.
In the freezer, she finds several microwave meals, rock solid meat packets, and various mystery cartons. The only thing that’s close to a bag of peas is a half-full serving of strawberries, pinched off with a clip. Workable.
She returns to the common area, finding The Kid standing in the middle of the room. He’s tall, lithe, and somewhat wiry, more leg than anything. His sweats are pushed up around his ankles, revealing white socks and beat up Nikes. It reminds her of the outfits a long-ago boyfriend once wore, something both sporty and pajama-like. “No peas, but this is close enough.” She shakes the bag. “Want to join me in the bathroom? The girl's one is clean enough, and we’ll have more first-aid stuff there.”
The Kid rubs his eyes, knowing he doesn't have much of any option. “Is that allowed?”
“Everything is allowed past 2AM, isn’t that how the saying goes?” Joelle says. She reaches out her hand, stretching her long fingers with their short, painted nails. “Come on, Kid. It’s gonna be okay.”
☆☆☆
Luckily, no one is in the bathroom for a late-night shower, or whatever else would call someone to the bathroom at this hour. It’s just Joelle and The Kid, who’s sitting on the counter between the two sinks. He cranes his neck, looking at the injury in the mirror. “Got me good, didn’t he, Joelle?”
She nods, leaning his head back with the palm of her hand. Instinctially, he closes his eyes. “Who’s ‘he?’”
“My parole officer. I swung and he swung back.” She peers down his nose, which is caked with dried blood, a dark red crust over his lip.“It’s not fair, though. He gets paid to kick the shit out of people.”
“Did a good job too from the looks of it,” she says, running a washcloth under the faucet. The water is warm, a special occasion in Ennett house. “You’re lucky he didn’t break your nose.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time, if you could believe that.” He turns his head, showing off his profile. His nose is strong, appearing untouched from any blows to the face. “Straight as an arrow, don’t you know.”
“You get in fights a lot?” Joelle asks, pressing the washcloth under his nose, collecting the blood that had dried there. He flinches for a second, but then drops his shoulders, relaxing.
“Not really,” he says evenly. The Kid takes the washcloth, allowing Joelle to check the medicine cabinet. “This is relatively a new thing for me.”
“What were you up to before?” She looks over what’s left on the shelves, which isn’t much. A few bottles of Midol, various cough drops. Nothing strong. Consider the location.
“You know,” he says. He’s staring at the floor, watching his dangling feet. “School. This and that.”
“You have your diploma?” Joelle asks, taking a bottle of baby aspirin off the shelf. This stuff wouldn’t budge a headache on a toddler, let alone a young man with a growing black eye. She checks the dosage, planning on tripling it anyway.
He sighs, although smiling. His eyes are low. “Working on it. My time was cut short against my will. I know everyone says that, but it’s true.”
“It’s okay to take your own time. It’s good that you’re getting it anyway.” She shakes out a few pills, then places them into his cupped hand. “Here,” she says, handing the kid the tea, which was still curling with heat.
“Can I have a couple more?” He asks, after swallowing the pills with a single gulp. “The pain is starting to catch up to me now.”
Joelle sighs, knowing what she should answer. “How do I know that you’re not here for aspirin addiction?”
“Because no one is addicted to aspirin,” he says, putting his palm out, and Joelle carefully gives him another dose.
For a few seconds, they sit there in silence, with Joelle washing his face, and The Kid keeping his eyes closed. He looks like he’s trying to disappear. She’s seen the expression enough times to know.
“I like your sweatshirt,” he says after a while, opening his eyes as the cold packet is placed on his eye. Joelle looks down. It’s an old thing, almost tattered, and emblazoned with NIKE TENNIS in bold, black letters.
“That’s funny,” she says, smiling a little, lightly pressing the bag of strawberries down. “It’s my ex-boyfriend’s. More like ex-ex-ex-boyfriend. Been a real long time.”
“That’s okay,” he says, closing his eyes again. “These sneakers are my ex’s too.” They’re also Nikes, probably once white, but are now reduced to a pallid gray. Grass stains lick at the soles. “Good tennis shoes are good tennis shoes.”
“Did you used to play?” Joelle asks. With one hand, she cools the bruise, and the other pads at his hairline, which is lined with a light formation of dirt. She imagines The Kid being pushed to the ground, kicked in the soil. Grief creeps in her chest.
The Kid hums, thinking. “It’s been a while, but yeah.” He opens his eyes, bright blue. His eyelashes are long, just as light as his hair. “Wasn’t very good though.”
She eyes him up and down, wondering if his familiarity is linked to her past. There’s no way. The Kid has this lack of vulnerability only found in places where everyone wears a grimace, even while asleep. ETA was nothing like that. Those kids were basically born into Polo shirts. “You know we’re next door to a tennis academy.”
“No kidding,” he says. He takes the iced fruit off his eye and looks back in the mirror. His face is clean, almost pink, but is still patterned with small cuts, and of course, the premature bruise. The eye is already swollen, but only a shadow of what’ll end up being in a few days. “God, this is going to be so disgusting.”
“Won’t be the first black eye that’s made it to the House, and definitely won’t be the last.” The purple washcloth, which was definitely Kate’s, was now thoroughly stained with blood, brown and crusted. Knowing it’s a lost cause, Joelle tosses it into the trash, and promises to buy her another one when she gets a chance. “You’re good as new, kid. At least until that eye starts turning.”
“Thank you,” he says. There’s a weight to his voice. “I’m serious. No one has been this nice to me in a really, really long time.”
“Well, I’ll always be right down the hall. My friend Kate too.” She offers a smile although she knows he can’t see it. Instead, she takes his cold hand and gives it a light squeeze. “Things are gonna be just fine, Mathew with one T.”
The Kid looks down at her from the counter, half of his face obscured by the ice pack. He takes a moment, his eyes squinting, as if he’s deciding in his head. He speaks quietly after a second. “You can call me Mikey, Joelle.” He says it like it’s an insinuation, and quickly, she understands exactly what he’s trying to tell her.
This is the little Mikey she shared Christmas dinner with almost seven years ago, just a few blocks away, up the curve of the hill. He was older now, obviously, but still held the same features, the same unruly blonde hair, wispy against his head, and the sharp, Fenian characteristics that were so common in this area. Staring at him, it’s easy to recount the thirteen year old that she met in passing all though years ago.
Mikey, who would play outside with her ex-boyfriend’s brothers, sitting in the garden, sharing tangerines in the dirt. Mikey, who would have to be reminded to “use his inside voice” during dinners. Mikey, sweet, and young, and full of all the promise in the world. If she remembers correctly, he was at ETA on scholarship, plucked out of the Irish projects and thrown into the popped-collar world of pro-tennis.
Looking at the boy sitting on the counter, she understands why she didn’t make the connection. He was still a kid, sure, but this was not the same boy. He carried this distinct weight in his shoulders, a special kind of sadness that was only found in someone with a fierce depression. Maybe it was in his eyes, which glinted back and forth from mischievous to pure dejection.
“Hi, Mikey,” Joelle says. She can’t think of anything else to say. Wordlessly, she can tell that he’s not interested in discussing the timeline of the last few years. All The Kid needs right now is the same gentleness she’s been feeding him for the last hour. This, she knows, she can provide.
“Hey,” he says quietly. “I like your veil.”
“Thank you,” she says, unsure if he knows the full story, but still touching it’s hem instintually. “Want to see where you’ll be sleeping?”
He nods, jumping off the counter, landing soundlessly in the sneakers. “Boy do I,” Mikey grins, the reflection in his eyes gleaming back to playfulness. “Feels like summer camp, just for, like, crazy people.”
“If you’re lucky, you’ll get the top bunk,” Joelle replies, taking his hand, and leading him down the hallway.
☆☆☆
When Joelle returns back to the bedroom, it’s close to daybreak, and Kate, who is a light sleeper, stirs with Joelle’s steps. She looks over at her girlfriend, heavy eyed. “I’m just a dream, just go back to sleep,” Joelle says, slipping out of her pants, and crawling into bed next to Kate.
“How was he?” Kate asks sleepily, starting to sit up, but Joelle gently lowers her back down. “Did I officially win the bet?”
Joelle settles against the pillow, her body arranging against Kate’s fuzzy pajamas. “Nope,” she says. “You’re going to love him.”
“Not a menace?” Kate flips over, her face inches away from Joelle’s veil. “What’d you say before… nightmare in sneakers?”
“Not at all. A real sweet boy.” Joelle hums, brushing the black hair off of Kate’s face. “I’ll tell you more tomorrow, okay?”
Kate closes her eyes, placing her hand on Joelle’s parallel hip. “You’re so nice,” she mumbles. Their feet are touching, just slightly. “We are so lucky to have you.” For a second, Joelle wonders what her girlfriend means, but Kate falls back asleep before she can explain, her eyes closed gently against dawn.
“Sweet dreams,” Joelle responds, although she knows Kate is far away by now.
And as the Ennett House bedroom starts to slowly grow with morning, she thinks about Mikey, who is hopefully sleeping well in the room down the hall. Joelle allows herself to believe Kate’s words. Maybe they were lucky.