Page 5 of Pretty Dogs

Islam the accelerator, and my head bangs against something as the car slams up onto the curb and back off.Someoneroars in fury behind us, followed by a familiarpop.PascalandAlexhit the deck, whileIduck as low asIcan without taking my eyes off the road.Acouple more gunshots ring out, but no glass shatters, thank fuck.Idon’t want to get penalized for doing a messy job.

Idon’t see the speed bump untilIhit it at almost forty miles an hour, andIswear all four tires leave the road at once.Alexcurses,Pascalyelps happily, andItilt my aching head back with a wolf howl of pure adrenaline.We’llbe long gone before the rival boss finds someone to chase us, andI’llkeep my reputation as the guy you call when you need a car lifted fast and clean.

Whenwe pull into an alley to switch the plates,Icheck my phone and do a double take–4:45.Fuck. “‘Lex,Ineed to go.”

Heshoots me a weird look. “Youdon’t want to deliver this yourself?”

OfcourseIfucking do.Butthe sick, creeping guilt in my gut wins out. “Ihave to be somewhere.TellthemIdid everything while you stood around bitching, or elseI’llcut off your nuts, chop them into a bowl of lettuce, and make you eat ‘em with fucking ranch dressing.Yeah?”

Grinning, he steals my place in the driver’s seat. “Mynuts taste amazing.”

Pascalslaps my ass on his way around the car. “Goodone, kiddo.Drivingthis around is gonna put the boss in a good mood for at least a month.”Salutingthem,Iwait until the ugly, pimped-out car blasting heavy metal disappears onto the main road.ThenIturn and sprint down the street.

Bythe timeIreach the community center eight blocks down,I’mstaggering and dripping with sweat in the eighty-five-degree heat.Ihave about thirty seconds to wipe my face on my white tank top and catch my breath.Myskin looks flushed and blotchy in the reflection of the nearest window, but it’s too late.Overmy shoulder, the most recognizableCivicinFortHoldenpulls up to the curb.Rustis eating away every part it can reach, and the four of us have scratched a million profanities and doodles all over the paint job.Mydad would roll over in his grave to see what we’ve done to his precious car, and that thought makes me happy every single day.

Scoutwas supposed to be picking me up alone, butIseeRoman’schin-length mop of hair in the passenger seat.Hesticks his arm out the open window for a fist bump, and “I’mJustAGirl” comes pouring out.We’resupposed to take turnsDJing, but somehow we always end up withScout’smusic.

Tryingnot to gasp for air,Isplay out in the back seat and wait for the air conditioning to wash over me.I’mfilthy, my stomach is empty, and the sight of the community center makes me sick.Ijust want to shower and eat as much food asI’mallowed to without bankrupting us.Tubbsthe dog shoves his head over the seat and tries to lick sweat off my neck, butIlean away. “Notnow, dude.”

“Hi.”Istartle at the perky voice coming from right next to me.Dallasflashes his flawless, shy smile, his excited eyes searching my face. “Howwas the meeting?”

Ilet my eyes flicker over his body, from the see-through shirt to the chaotic hairdo.Hemust be having a carefree, flighty kind of day.Theydon’t come often, butIlike them.Mybest friend thinks so hard all the time that he deserves a few minutes free from worrying.

“Wasit good?” he prompts, tilting his chin toward the white concrete building behind me–the oneIwas supposed to be inside all afternoon.

“Yeah.”Clippingmy seatbelt,Islide down until my knees hit the back ofRoman’schair. “Itwas cool and shit.”

Dallasrolls his eyes. “Right.”I’vesaidcool and shitevery time they pick me up from one of these intervention meetings, which are put on by a local task force of retired cops and ex-gang members.

“Itwas fine.”Ireach over and squeeze the back of his neck.Heshoots me the look that tells me everything he’s not saying.Allthe things he wants to ask.Havethey fixed me yet?Isthis the day?They’vewaited years for me to get out and become a law-abiding citizen.

WhenDaldropped me off at the first meeting,Iwanted to try.Theair-conditioned room smelled likeLysoland whatever cookies the leaders brought and left on a table in the back.Itwas like some freaky mixture of a lecture and anAAmeeting.Iwatched through the doorway as everyone sat in a circle and talked about support systems, life skills, personal growth.Likemaking birdhouses is gonna rewrite a story that started the day my mom never woke up.Aftera few minutes of eavesdroppingIbolted into the back alley, whereIcould breathe without hyperventilating, and smoked untilDallaspicked me up.Everyweek,Iwave them off and then meet up withAlexandPascalto work.Todaywas the first timeIalmost didn’t make it back by five o’ clock.

Ittakes me a couple of minutes to realize we’re not driving north, toward home. “What’sgoing on?”Thesooner we get back, the soonerDallaswill go to bed andIcan fall asleep on him.

Dalbounces adorably in his seat, his smile widening. “You’llsee.”

Idon’t do patient.Leaningforward,IsqueezeRoman’sshoulders. “Buddy.Tellme what’s up.”

Thebig guy must not be talking today, because he launches into our messy, cobbled-together sign language that’s halfASLwe learned from the internet and half shit we made up.Rome’svoice abandons him sometimes, but we make sure he always has a way to communicate.

SirsaysIcan’t tell you,he signs emphatically.BetweencallingScoutsirand the leather collarIcan feel around his neck under his hoodie,Irealize he’s in sub-mode.HeandScouthave a whole bondage porn channel, whereRomegets off on being bossed around and tied up.DalandIdon’t see the appeal, but it doesn’t bother us.

“Goodpuppy,”Scoutpraises, takingRoman’shand.I’mglad someone’s having a good time, becauseI’mnot.

“Dickholes.”Islump back and prop my head against the seat, studyingDallasagain.Henarrows his eyes, finally taking in my flushed skin and sweat-stained shirt.

“Whatthe hell were you doing in there?”

“Igot in a pushup competition.”It’sthe most random excuse ever, but no one even questions my madness.

“Youstink, dude.”Hereaches across and tries to fix my damp hair, wrinkling his nose. “Didyou win at least?”

Iflex my left bicep, the one tattooed with my mom’s favorite animal–an elephant. “Whatdo you think?”

Hedrinks me in like a parent picking up their kid from camp and hearing about all their favorite activities. “I’mglad you’re making friends.That’shealthy, right?”

Gruntingnoncommittally,Ifrown out the window to try and figure out where we’re going.We’veleft town in the wrong direction, cruising arrow-straight through half-grown fields and cow lots.WhenScouttakes a turn by a collapsing white barn,Irealize what’s up. “Thehell?Ithought we couldn’t afford a movie.”

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