Page 40 of The Delivery

“Fuck,” Tommy shouts, fanning the air with his glossy magazine.

“Isn’t it just… I don’t know—nicer in San Diego. Don’t they have beaches and lots of beautiful places to go? I shout, still shading my eyes and aiming my voice across the pool.

Rocco stops swimming and floats onto his back. Tommy uses his magazine as a visor to see me through the blinding glare that bounces with zeal off of the pool’s aqua blue surface.

“Drugs,” they say in unison like one of those couples that has been together so long they’re like separated twins. One twin feels an itch and the other twin scratches it.

I kick off my tennis shoes and sit on the ledge submerging my overheated feet into the cool, shimmering water.

“They have drugs in San Diego. Come on, you guys. I think what’s really got you is all of the seediness. Like coming down here gives you a free pass to be bad.”

“Very insightful, little Miss Muffet. We also like the tacos. Now how was your day off?” Rocco asks, swimming over to me and pulling on my legs.

“I found him.”

“Do tell,” Rocco says as he muscles his compact little body out of the pool to plop down beside me and drip cool water on my cut-off exposed thighs.

“Well, I didn’t actually find him. But I have evidence he’s here. How come Claudia got a sex change if she still wants to dress as a woman?”

“Everybody is different,” Tommy says as he saunters over to hear the gossip.

I drag my messenger bag over that I’ve discarded beside me and fish out my phone, handing it over to Tommy. He scrolls through the photos, whistling like he’s impressed.

“Check these out, Rocco. Lana’s got herself a real artist. No wonder she’s a goner.”

Rocco grabs the phone and examines the pictures I’ve taken of Mozey’s creation. “Holy shite, Cher. These are really stunning. You’re such an ingénue to fall in love with his talent and his ideals. How very optimistic.”

“But that’s just it,” I say, replacing the phone. “I’m seven, almost eight years older than him. And more importantly, I was his social worker. I made out with him when I was his social worker. I’m a mandated reporter. Had I seen anyone else in my capacity doing what I did, I would have been obligated to call in a report.”

Rocco puts his arm around my shoulders and pulls me in for a wet, side-hug. “But it also feels right or else you wouldn’t be here searching for him.”

“I was paid by the government to try to help him, not fuck him. I never even discouraged the thing that got him into trouble. If anything, I admired his tenacity. I’m terrible at my job and I’m a terrible person.”

Tommy opens his magazine and pulls out a blister pack of little yellow pills. He presses a few into his hand and then knocks them back with some maraschino cherry colored cocktail.

“What are those? You chew them?”

“Skittles,” he says as he presses two into my palm. “These’ll make you feel better.”

“I’ve had Skittles before. These are no Skittles,” I say as I chew the tablets up into chalky dust that dissolves on my tongue. I lie back on the cement and close my eyes to the sun.

“Doesn’t this guy carry a cell phone? What is he, a monk?”

I sit up fast and catch a head rush. For a second I think I’ll fall face-first into the pool.

“He used to Skype with my brother! But that was ages ago,” I add.

“Nobody ever changes their Skype address. You should at least try it.”

“I’ve changed mine many times,” Tommy says, getting up and sauntering back to his umbrella.

Two hours later, I’m seated in front of the vanity mirror in my next-door neighbors room while Tommy teases my hair into some ill-fitting Bridgette Bardot glamour. I’m buzzing like crazy off the pink drinks and Skittles, and Rocco’s gone out to secure God knows what illegal substance for them to ingest. These two stay high all weekend. I’m trying my best to keep up with their enthusiasm.

I’ve tried Mozey’s old Skype address maybe forty times from my phone. I try it again in my lap and pray to the blank screen, the empty-face icon with no avatar. Tommy snatches the phone out of my lap and tosses it behind him onto the bed.

“I don’t care if he’s Michelangelo. Your moody blue is killing my buzz. I’m trying to make you glamorous, but your grumpy mug is ruining all of my hard work.”

“I thought you said we were going to a foam club. Won’t we get wet and ruin it all anyway?’

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