place, he and his mom kind of adopted Knight—in part because they felt bad about how shitty his home life was, but also, I suspected, because Knight had a car.
Then, per his usual, Colton up and boarded a Greyhound back to Las Vegas just two months into our sophomore year, leaving Peggy all alone again. Since she needed a son and Knight needed a new mom, he just kept going over there every day after school, as if Colton had never left. He’d let Peggy’s geriatric German shepherd out and patch up all the rotten, mildewed concave places on the house while she was off working one of her forty-seven part-time jobs. And in order to do all that, Knight needed a key to the house.
It was badass—not the house, obviously. The house was a dilapidated piece of shit. But Knight had the place all to himself and would actually let us hang out there after school. Peg would keep the fridge stocked with Pabst Blue Ribbon, we could smoke inside, and she had cable. It was a teenage utopia.
Every afternoon, we—being the entire punk-rock lunch table crew—would head over to Peggy’s, cram ourselves into her itchy shapeless 1970s couches (me vying for a spot next to Lance), crack open some beers, and scream at the top of our lungs at whatever legless transsexual or little-person biker gang or kung fu hillbilly pimp happened to be on Jerry Springer that afternoon. All the while flicking Camel butts at the already overflowing ashtrays.
Knight usually spent the first hour or so letting the dog out and patching the place up, which gave me just enough time to get a good buzz on and work up a nice little flirt with the owner of the lap I was sitting on—not that it mattered. As soon as Knight finished his rounds, he’d flop into Peggy’s tobacco-colored steel-wool upholstered recliner with a PBR in hand and pin whichever poor fucker I was talking to with a glare so murderous that he’d be out the door before my bony ass even hit the ground.
This routine continued for weeks until, one day, I realized that it was just Knight and me. I knew the crowd had been dwindling, but I hadn’t realized just how much. I always rode with Knight to Peggy’s house because (A) I was fifteen and had no car, and (B) whenever anyone else had offered me a ride, Knight would immediately twist their arm behind their back and smash their face into the hood of the nearest car, T.J. Hooker–style, until they took it back.
I couldn’t even ride the bus home because I technically didn’t live in that school district.
By November of my sophomore year, Knight had single-handedly made himself my only means of after-school transportation without me even knowing it.
Every day after the final bell, whether I liked it or not, I would be sucked into the crowd of eager teenagers fleeing the building, twirled and tossed along like a spindly leaf in a stream, and deposited onto the front lawn, right at Knight’s feet. Leaning against the flagpole with his arms crossed, he looked like something out of the skinhead version of The Outsiders—tight white T-shirt, classic Levi’s 501s held up with a pair of thin red braces (skinny suspenders), black steel-toed combat boots, and a felonious gleam in his eye. The only things missing were a pack of cigarettes rolled up in his sleeve and hair.
Even though there was something unmistakably sexy about his iconic style, potent self-confidence, and potential for violence, I still wasn’t attracted to Knight—mostly due to my subconscious awareness that he might possibly kill me—but I had to admit, I liked the attention. Knowing that the entire school saw this modern-day Brando waiting for me, day in and day out, made me feel like I was a little bit of a badass, too.
I had always just been this quirky, perky artsy chick who had crazy hair and dressed like Gwen Stefani. I was somebody that everyone knew—because I stuck out like a sore thumb with my bright red or orange or purple waves, glittery eye shadow, and leopard-print velour stretch pants tucked into white Dr. Martens—but nobody of any real consequence.
But now…now I was untouchable.
I was also slowly becoming Knight’s precious. His attention to me was so focused that I felt like an ant sizzling under a magnifying glass whenever he looked at me. It was as if he were memorizing the exact size, shape, and