Eighteen: 18

I make for the little path that leads to the alley next to the laundry room, but she catches me by the leather jacket and I spin around and shrug her off. “Don’t touch me.” I growl it.

She lets go. “Is everything OK?”

“Does everything fucking look OK?” I snarl it this time. But I don’t wait for an answer because my face is stinging from the hit I took and I’m pretty sure it’s red and getting ready to bruise. I take off down the alley, walking as fast as I can without running.

Eighteen had better improve fast. Because if this is what it’s gonna be like for the rest of my life, then what is the point?

Chapter Six

I don’t have many options. I could go to the arcade across the street from the high school. That’s only two blocks away and the guy who runs it, Mark, another friend of Jason’s, is cool. He always gets me high when I go there and it’s slow.

Why are all Jason’s friends so nice and he’s such a raging asshole?

But all the kids from school hang out at the arcade in the evenings and I don’t want to see anyone right now. So I go to Phil’s. It’s a dumb move because if Jason wants to go looking for me that will be the first stop.

But again, limited options.

So I trudge up the alley, my Chucks soaking wet as I splash through the leftover puddles, and cross West Street. Phil’s car isn’t in the driveway, so I know he’s not home. But I knock on the door anyway. Desperate times and all.

The locks disengage and I have half a second of excitement about being wrong, but then I look up into the face of Taking Back Sunday.

Jesus Christ. No breaks, huh?

“Hey,” he says. “Cage the Elephant. Nice jacket. Didn’t have that on this morning.” I hear lots of rowdy voices inside as I wonder if he saw who was wearing this jacket this morning.

“Is Phil here?”

Sunday shakes his head. “Mexico for a few days. I’m watching the dog.”

“Oh,” I say, surprised. “I’ve never seen you here before.”

“Ditto. He’s my cousin. Want to come in? We’re passing a joint.”

I sigh, look over my shoulder at the street, and then shrug. He moves aside and opens the door, and I slip past him, my jacket brushing against his arm.

Everyone stops talking for a moment as I log their faces. I recognize most of them. A group of kids from school who also hang out at the arcade. I realize now that I’ve seen Sunday before. But these are not my people, not that I even have people here, and I’ve never really talked to them.

“Shannon,” a tall girl standing in the kitchen says. She’s got short jet-black hair and her eyes are thick with black eyeliner. “Miss Bad Day, huh?”

I squint my eyes at her. “What?”

“Danny,” she says, nodding to Sunday, who is now standing next to me. “He told us about your epic tantrum in the office this morning. Way to go, bitch. I hear the fucks were flying and everyone was too afraid to stop you.”

“Who—”

“That’s Rocky,” Sunday says. “And that’s Greg, and Tim, and Matt.” Sunday points to the three guys passing the joint in the small living room.

“Wanna hit?” Greg asks. He’s got light, curly brown hair that ends at the top of his shoulders and a kind face.

I shake my head and look around, feeling more helpless than I have in a very long time. “Can I use your bathroom?” I ask Sunday.

“You know where—”

I do. So I just walk off and make my way down the hallway, taking a left at the end and slip inside, locking the door behind me.

I can hear them whisper so I turn on the faucet to drown out the hum of gossip and splash water on my face. When I look in the mirror there sure as shit is a red mark on my cheek. I touch it with my fingertips and will it to go away, but it doesn’t. It practically darkens as I watch, my hands propping me up on each side of the small, white, pedestal sink.

“Shannon?” Sunday’s soft voice is accompanied by a knock. “You OK?”

Silence from me. I feel a little paralyzed. I’m so not OK. “Yeah,” I say, clearing my throat. “Be right out.”

“You want a dry t-shirt? I have a clean one if you want it.”

“Um.”

“It’s outside the door.”

I turn the faucet off and listen to his retreating footsteps, and then open the door as quietly as I can and grab the shirt. It’s another black concert shirt, but this one says My Chemical Romance.

I take my shirt off and drape it over the towel rack to dry, and then slip the new one on. It’s way too big, but it feels nice. I stare at myself for another few minutes, desperate to find a way out of this day. But I’m not a coward and I’m done hiding in here, so I gather myself and walk back out to the living room.

It’s empty.

Except Sunday.

“Where’d everyone go?”

He smiles at me. “You look like…”

“Hell?”

That gets a small laugh out of him. But he shakes his head. “Nah, just tired. And like you’re not in the mood for company.”

“Yeah, I should go.”

“You don’t have to,” he says, pointing to the TV. “You can stay and watch a movie if you want.”

And because he seems nice and I have nowhere to go but home, I plop down on the couch and stare at the screen.

He doesn’t say another word. Not one question, not one comment, not one attempt at conversation.

And I am so fucking grateful for my invisibility, I fall asleep on the couch exhausted at the end of a very bad day that I will never be able to forget.

Because it’s a milestone.

The first day of my adult life was filled with disappointments, admonishments, and a hit to the face.

But also an opportunity and this guy, Sunday, who does not even know me, but who knew just what to do to make it better.

Just call me an optimist. Always looking for that silver lining.

Chapter Seven

The next morning I’m so disoriented, it takes me whole minutes to come to terms with the realization that I’m not in my own bed, that Rocky girl is talking to me, and Sunday is cooking something that smells delicious.

“What?” I say, looking up at Rocky.

“Your bruise,” she says, pointing to my face.

I touch it and wince. “What about it?”

“Do you want me to cover it?” She holds up a clear bag of makeup. “It’s not too bad.”

“Done this before, huh?”

She smiles with a shrug.

“Sure.”

I use the bathroom, smile back at Sunday when he smiles at me, and then plop down at the small kitchen table and look longingly at the food in front of me as Rocky makes me pretty.

Sunday watches. I can’t figure out if I like that he’s watching or if I don’t.

“Are you going to school today?” he asks.

I check my face with a compact mirror and then hand it back to Rocky with a thank you. “I think I have to.”

“Graduation and shit, right?” He has a great smile, I realize. Friendly. His hair is very dark, but he’s not Hispanic. Ditto for Rocky. They both have very dark eyes and when I look directly into Sunday’s, he’s staring at me.