Page 12 of Pick-Up
I saw them together all right. His tongue deep down her throat; their bodies pressed together against the quilted wall, illuminated intermittently by strobes. Her skimpy cropped top, miniskirt and clunky Doc Martens. His Champion sweatshirt pushed up above low-slung jeans, revealing the waistband of his boxers and her hand resting against the shadowy divots below his six pack.
The image was burned on my brain.
“Oh, right,” she said. “Crane Club. That’s a blast from the past.”
I could tell I was making her uncomfortable, but I couldn’t stop myself.
“You really don’t remember? Like, at all?”
“No, I think I do, kind of,” she said, pulling her hat down on her head to protect against the cold. The sun was going down, a final curtain call on warmth for the day. “I was pretty sad after Josh. There were some rebounds. Probably at Crane Club.” Sasha shivered. “I should go make sure Nettie is doing okay.”
“Right,” I said. I couldn’t bring myself to smile.
With a wave, she walked away in search of anyone and anywhere else. She did it again. Receded. Left us—me—wanting more.
That might have been our last substantial conversation.
And, standing there, alone, for a moment I returned to the body of a fourteen-year-old me, loitering at the edge of a circle surrounding her.
I returned to the body of a fifteen-year-old me, saying hi to Sasha under the nasty gaze of that Rebecca girl.
I returned to the body of a sixteen-year-old me. Mary J. Blige belting “Real Love” through the speakers with too much bass. Standingalone in a frenetic club, jostled by my drunk and drugged underage peers. Reeling from the gut punch of seeing the boy who just dumped me, the boy I believed I loved, making out with the girl who had also dumped me and who rarely gave me the time of day.
“Disaster!” I heard someone exclaim.
I looked up. Lisa was standing next to me in a Santa hat. Like me, she had dressed up on theme for the fair. “We’ve run out of chocolate elves!”
I was shot back into reality. I am an adult woman. In a schoolyard. At my daughter’s school. And we needed more chocolate elves.
I focused my attention back where it thrives: on my daughter.
“I know what to do,” I said. Lisa followed at my heels.
“There’s nothing I can do,” I hear Sasha saying now, as Nettie hangs her head, her shoulders slumping. “Drama is full. I’m sorry. I tried. But I’m looking into alternatives.”
This is getting good. I put my phone in my pocket.
I see Sasha see me, then pretend she doesn’t.
“Whatever.” Nettie turns and begins trudging in the direction of their apartment.
Bart looks up at his mother. “Nettie is walking without us.”
Sasha nods. “I see that.”
“Why is she doing that?”
“I think she’s angry.”
He pauses to watch. “I think she’s sad.”
Sasha closes her eyes tight for an almost imperceptible moment. I know that look. She is holding back tears.
Don’t cry, Sasha.
“Let’s catch up!” shouts Bart, running ahead. And the spell is broken.
10 | The RunawaysSASHA
