Page 97 of Pretty Black

I slung my messenger bag over my shoulder. I walked right past my ma, refusing to look at her, and ran down the stairs, getting into Cas’ Jeep. I tossed my shit in the back and exhaled before looking over at him.

“What happened?”

“What gave me away?” I asked.

“Your eyes.” He always fucking knew.

“I need a drink.”

“We can see what’s in my dad’s liquor cabinet. He’s out of town this weekend.”

I was thankful. Trying to get someone to buy us 40s was hit or miss and would cost an arm and a leg. Much better to drink Cas’ dad’s expensive scotch for free.

“You let me pick you up here…”

“My mom can’t make rent, and if she gets evicted, she’s going to my grandmothers’.”

“You’re moving.”

I laughed without humor. “No. My mom is moving out. She said I have to find the money or I’m homeless.”

“Fuck.” Cas knew enough about my family at this point to get enough. I hadn’t told him the particulars of how bad my stepfather was, but he knew most everything else. “You’re not eighteen.”

“She doesn’t care.”

“But…” I could see the look on his face. It was the look anyone who hadn’t grown up like I had would have. They would never understand.

It wasn’t something to be understood. It wasn’t normal. This wasn’t something the middle class would comprehend. People like me were destined to be stuck in our cycle. Too many kids in my neighborhood were already fulfilling the promise by becoming teen parents, bringing more lives into poverty.

“It is what it is…but I don’t think I’m going to get the guitar anytime soon.” And we couldn’t record with the acoustic I had. It was okay but would never reproduce the sound we were going for. Acoustic was just fundamentally different than electric.

Cas pressed his lips into a line. I knew he wasn’t mad at me, but I could feel the disappointment leaking out of him.

We drove in silence for about ten minutes. I had nothing to say, and I guessed he was about the same. I knew what this meant for our dream. We were never going to be able to book gigs without a demo. We would never be able to build a fan base without songs to stream. We had to get stuff recorded.

“What if I buy—“

I held up a hand, cutting him off. “No. I can’t let you do that.” I knew it was a little thing, since he’d bought the recording stuff and had the money to spare, but my pride wouldn’t allow it.

“Iris.” He was looking at me, but I refused to turn towards him. I couldn’t bear it.

I hated being a disappointment and the one ruining our dreams. As much as I knew making it in the music business was a rarity, an impossibility even, I couldn’t help but hope to escape the life I was born into and get to do what I loved.

“I can’t.”

“Okay.”

Silence.

It stretched.

And stretched.

And stretched.

Until I wondered if I’d killed our friendship.

Maybe he’d hate me for this. I couldn’t blame him. I hated myself enough; I was never surprised when other people did. It always felt likefinally, you see what I try to hide.

---