Ember Boys - Gregory Ashe Page 0,6
rubberized button: three channels up, one-two-three, before she could even see what Bugs was doing, or check out the jewelry they were selling, or watch the CSI guys and gals analyze a hair follicle.
“What’s your name?” I asked.
Another rapid one-two-three: guys playing pool; High School Musical; a cartoon I didn’t recognize.
“Hey,” I said.
“Fuck off,” she said, cocking her arm like she meant to pitch the remote at me.
“If you throw it, throw it at the screen. That way, maybe we get a new TV.”
One-two-three: Wolf Blitzer, then a guy who looked really fucking Republican, and then a weather lady with cumulonimbus breasts.
“Fuck off,” she said again.
I dragged a chair over to the sofa; the new girl hadn’t flipped past the weather. Maybe she really loved hearing about rain. Maybe she really wanted to know the high in Missoula.
“I’m Emmett.”
“Oh my God. I heard about you.”
“Oh yeah?”
“No. Now fuck off.”
She was watching the weather lady like those big old weather balloons out in front might take off all of a sudden.
“Let me guess,” I said, spreading my knees, hands behind my head, biting the corner of my mouth. “Combat boots, big ones. Leather jacket with BITCH or CUNT in metal studs across the back. Motorcycle? You look like you own a motorcycle.”
Her eyes flicked toward me. The way she looked was confirmation. It wasn’t a short look; she took her time, which said something about her. Not a lot of people could look at my face, at the scars, that long. But it was also the way she looked at me.
Then she turned back to the TV.
“You got a girlfriend?” I asked.
“Do you?”
“Not anymore. She tried to cut my throat.”
She looked again. “That one of your scars?”
“No, these are from something else.”
“Too bad.”
“Yeah.”
“So you’re crazy, huh?” she asked.
I didn’t bother holding the pose; no matter what I did, this girl wasn’t going to be interested. I relaxed in the chair and kicked my feet up onto the sofa.
“Not crazy.”
“Nobody is, sounds like.”
“I mean, I’m screwed up, but I’m not crazy.” I held up my hand, showing her the burn. “Proof.”
She just nodded. “How long are you in here for?”
“Until I’m better. Whatever that means.”
“You can’t get out?”
“Like, leave?” I shrugged. “I don’t think anybody here can. It’s all what we politely call ‘involuntary treatment.’” I frowned. “That’s not the case with you?”
“Oh,” she said, a little too slowly. “Yeah, I mean, I guess so.”
I waited, but she didn’t add anything. I finally said, “In rehab, I could leave whenever I wanted. I had to get permission first, but they always let me go. Then I got sent here.”
“You’re a minor?”
“Not since June.”
“They can’t hold you here unless you’re a minor.”
“They can,” I said. I pointed to my face, the whirling mass of scars. “They think I did this to myself.”
“Sick,” she said, sounding impressed in spite of herself.
“They’ve got a six-month order keeping me here.”
“What do the doctors think?”
“I want to kill my dad and sleep with my mom.”
“Same,” she said, squirming into a more comfortable position on the sofa.
“You?” I said.
“Oh, I’m crazy.”
“Yeah?”
“Psycho.”
“Ok.”
“I killed this whole family. Chopped them up. Made smoothies out of them.”
“Sounds like a lot of work. You can just go to Jamba Juice, you know.”
“Yeah, but I hate the corporate bullshit.”
“Right.”
I watched her for a little bit, trying to figure out what I wanted. To make her angry? To make her my friend? First one, then the other?
“What’s up, buttercup?” she asked before I could decide.
“Nothing.”
“Then don’t stare.”
“You’re staring at that lady.”
“She’s got nice tits.”
“Yeah, but you shouldn’t stare.”
“It’s not like she knows. She’s not even here.”
“Principle of the thing. It’s objectifying.”
“Bruh,” she said, looking me up and down. “You’re a puss-wipe. You know that, right?”
“Huh,” I said.
“Just so you know.”
“I did not know.”
The program cut to a middle-aged anchorman at a desk, and the girl let out a disgusted breath. Sitting up, she stretched, glanced around, and looked at me.
“I’m Chloe.”
“Oh my God. I heard about you.”
Grinning, she looked past me. Then her smile faded.
The voices coming towards us were familiar.
“I’m sorry,” Jonas said, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I know I’m not supposed to, but I needed to. You don’t understand, I needed to.”
“This is very disappointing,” Mary Lourdes said, although she sounded anything but disappointed. “I think you need some quiet time.”
“No, I didn’t mean to. It was an accident. It just happened.”
Don’t look, I told myself.
I looked. Mary Lourdes clutched Jonas’s arm and was steering him down the hall. Blood showed where Jonas