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  The story has almost sobered up Anne with shock. "How'd he get caught?"

  "Tommy turned himself in," I say with a strange mix of sadness and pride. "He figured it would be better for Mitchell that way, and it was. No doubt Aunt Dee talked him into it as well. Aunt Dee is big on doing the right thing. And if you do wrong, then you pray for forgiveness."

  "But Tommy's so sweet and gentle to me," Anne says, almost in tears.

  "I know. He'd never been in trouble, did well in school, and then this," I say softly, but it quickly turns into a loud shout. "He's a good kid, not a convict. He just fought back."

  "What's wrong?" Anne asks, unaccustomed to my showing anger or any raw emotion.

  "He's not like Ryan or Robert," I say, although mentioning Ryan's name starts to kill the buzz. My mouth is running too much but I don't seem to be able to shut it down.

  "What did Robert do?" Anne says, trying at last to unlock all of my long-held secrets.

  "Cops said he killed a guy, gang stuff," I say, letting her into another off-limits area. I blame the drugs prescribed and the ones that I script myself.

  "And he's serving life in prison?" she asks, even though she knows.

  "How weird is that?" I say, and Anne looks at me strangely, not that I blame her.

  "What's so weird about it?" she asks.

  "Something Robert told me," I say, remembering one visit. "He said 'You can't kill a person who is already dead.'" Those words burn a groove in my brain deeper than the one in my lip.

  "Do you visit him much?" Anne asks.

  "No, he doesn't really want to see us, except on Breezy's birthday, and sometimes around Christmas. He's still angry about what happened to him," I say, thinking how much I hate hearing those thick steel-barred doors swing shut. "Robert just made a really bad choice."

  "Joining a gang," Anne says, shaking her head slowly again and showing her contempt.

  "No, killing a guy out in Grand Blanc," I tell her, as I fire up our last joint.

  "What do you mean?" She's all wide-eyed and innocent. Hard times toughen you; I think that's what her dad is teaching her. Somehow they think sacrificing her nights to serve drunk rich folks will make her a better person than hanging out with the likes of me or Tommy.

  "Flint cops only care when rich folks get killed," I tell her, Robert's voice in my mouth. "How many people get killed in Flint a year? The only murders that get solved are ones when somebody rich get killed. If it happens in my hood or the north end, no arrests will ever be made."

  "No, you're wrong," Anne says, not that she could know or understand.

  "Cops figure let's just let white trashers and black gang bangers kill each other off," I say, as the potent weed's paranoid stream swims through my bloodstream.

  "What's gotten into you tonight?" Anne says, shocked at my rare emotional outburst.

  "Sorry," I say, then open my palms to her. "You owe me a secret."

  "Promise you won't tell anyone," she says.

  "Promise," I say.

  Anne pauses, then whispers, for some unknown reason, "Tommy and I are running away together after I graduate."

  23

  february 15, senior year

  "Come on, Christy, let's see a smile."

  The smile comes unnaturally, as Terrell aims the camera at me. "I'm trying!"

  "This is your senior picture, so let's see some personality," he says, showing me his best smile and leading by example. He clicks off a few more pictures as I wait for the verdict. When he didn't ask me out for Valentine's Day or invite me to his birthday party, I accepted his rejection. But he still reminded me of what I'd said when we talked on my birthday: that I would let him take my senior picture. Since then, we've talked at work, gone to lunch a few more times, and even spoken on the phone, but I've resisted every time he's tried to get closer, until this morning. So today, I shined up my studs and covered up my healed wrists.

  He shakes his head, so I'll try again to present my best face, but it won't be easy, since I'm cold, scared, and uncomfortable. It's ten a.m. on a Sunday, and we're standing outside, so there's no place to hide to cut the breeze. Deeply confused by Terrell's mixed intentions and feeling cold deep in my bones, I'm wishing I would have taken up Mitchell's normal Sunday church invite. I'm bundled up, until it comes time to take the picture, when I reluctantly shed my hat, gloves, and heavy coat. We've been walking all around the area called the Cultural Center as Terrell tries to find the right backdrop for my senior picture. We've taken shots in front of the library, the Art Institute, and now I'm posing in front of Longway Planetarium. Inside this building, decades of Flint students have learned about the stars. Later, they'll learn that life on Earth isn't as spectacular a show, even if, like this morning, there are people in the world who make it pretty special.

  "Come on, I know you can do this," Terrell says in his usual encouraging voice.

  "I'll try to do better," I say softly.

  He takes a step toward me. "Hell, you're better than most, no trying involved."

  Whenever I slip into my old negativity, Terrell corrects me. His words make my face flush with heat. Terrell and I went out to lunch together at work a few mores times, but these seem nothing like a date, just our normal sorting-room conversation reshelved in a different location.

  "How was your monster birthday party?" I ask, hiding the hurt of not being invited.

  "Didn't go there, after all," he says as he fumbles with the camera lenses. "No big deal."

  I think about asking, yet I know why I'd never have a party: I couldn't face the rejection of all the people who didn't show up. I try to force out a bright smile over these dark thoughts.

  "Maybe this posed stuff isn't working because you're a natural," Terrell says, taking time to blow on his hands, then taking a sip of coffee. He offers it to me, and this time I take it, not because I like the taste, but because I want his taste on my lips. If not now, then when?

  "I'm sorry, Terrell, that—"

  "Don't you be sorry," he says, then puts his hand on my shoulder, and, for once, I don't want to knock it away.

  He's wearing his biker jacket, part of his cool-dude pose, but I'm learning that like the girls in the bathroom at school, there's the Terrell that he wants people to see, and the person he really is. Just like me.

  "You don't need to do this," I remind him, falling deeper into debt to him,.

  "I want to do this, but I just don't have it yet. Gimme a minute," he says, then starts fiddling with the various lenses on the camera. I'm jogging in place to keep warm, but notice despite the morning cold, I'm starting to sweat. I wonder if it's because I'm exercising a new part of my body. My heart. Glen was always about dreaming, but Terrell's about planning.

  "Can I see your senior picture?" I ask.

  "I was wondering when you were going to ask," he says as he starts to dig into his overflowing backpack. "Which one do you want: mom-approved or the underground version?"

  "What do you mean?" I ask him as I move closer.

  "This is the mom-approved one for all the relatives," he says, handing me a full-color yet bland Hicks Studio standard-issue senior picture. He's wearing a white sweater, not his biker jacket. His arms and ears are jewelry free. His long curly hair is pulled back behind his head like it needs to be hidden. He looks like everybody and I feel like I'm looking at a stranger.

  "And here's the underground version," he says, handing me a small black-and-white hand-cut photo of his long-haired self. This is the Terrell I know. But instead of one of his endless band T-shirts, in the picture he's got on a homemade-looking white T-shirt I've never seen.

  "What's with the shirt?" I ask, moving closer.

  "That's a RIP shirt," he says. "I'm not allowed to wear it to school or to work."

  In the center of shirt, is a grainy school photo of a black kid about Mitchell's age. Over the picture are the words "Reggie Harrison, RIP." "Who was Reggie?" I ask.

  "Just a guy I knew from the north end," Terrell says
, his voice heavier than normal. He takes another sip of coffee, almost as if he needs the energy boost. "I went to school with him. We were friends, not best friends or anything. But after we moved and my mom decided to send me to Summit, I kind of lost touch with Reggie. I called him every now and then, but he got new friends. New habits. Bad habits. You know the rest of the story from the shirt."

  I don't say anything. I know all about bad habits. I knew something was wrong with Robert, but Mama just kept saying he just had some bad habits. I didn't know Reggie Harrison, but that RIP tells me the bad habits were probably the deadly combination of drugs and gangs.

  "So, my mom was working in the emergency room, and she told me," he says.

  "They ever find who—" I say, but I know the answer.

  "No, drive-by," Terrell says, and then there's silence. Flint was once known as the city that produced cars and trucks, but it mostly produces coffins and tears these days. A grief assembly line.

  "I'm sorry," I say, edging closer yet, almost touching him. Almost.

  "No, I'm sorry, Christy," he says, then takes a step away from me. "It's not about that."

  "Okay," I say, trying to figure out what this is about, because I'm not sure anymore.

  "So I went to the funeral, and I got this shirt, and I wore it in this picture, so people would know, know what's happening here, so we can somehow stop it," Terrell says, once again fidgeting with the lenses. "Man, I'm sorry to be such a downer. Let's take some pictures!"

  "It's okay, Terrell, you don't need to do this."

  "I want to, Christy, I really want to," he says, and we both seem to know he's saying a great deal in the words buried in his throat. Here's a science problem for chemistry wiz Anne to solve: how do two shy people ever kiss? Terrell has never mentioned a girlfriend, so at least he's not like Glen and making one up out of thin air. I think it's just that he's too much like me.

  "Never mind," I tell him finally, filling in the silence gap with a white flag of defeat.

  "It's me. I just can't find a way to capture that inner beauty. Let's try some action shots," Terrell says, as if the coffee or his confidence is finally kicking in.

  My ears, head, and heart still can't understand the word beauty. For so long, the words ugly bitch have been hurled at me by Ryan. But before I can solve the problem, Terrell tosses a snowball at me. When I don't respond, he quickly makes two more and hurls them my way. I put my hands on my hips in a mock act of defiance, my mouth open but not speaking.

  "Fight back!" he yells at me. Another snowball bounces off me.

  I pack the snow together, turn, and fire. A perfect throw nailing him right in the stomach.

  "Good thing you're not doing javelin in track. You'd kill somebody," he jokes, but then quickly fires back with glancing snowball shots to my legs. I'd told Terrell about Ms. Chapman wanting me to run track, and he's encouraging me to listen to her. He's encouraging me: three more words also out of place next to each other in my life up to this point.

  "How about long jump?" I say, then leap toward him, snowballs in each hand.

  He falls back, snapping photos and laughing all the time. He's lying in the snow, kicking his legs out, while his arms hold the camera steady. He clicks off shot after shot, each click a drumbeat of our laugh. The camera isn't stealing my soul: I'm releasing part of it.

  "That's it! That's the Christy I was looking for," he says, then puts his arm out in front of him. I reach out to Terrell, and help pull him off the icy ground. He accidentally on purpose presses right up against me. We both laugh, then lock eyes: his eyes are so alive with promise and with passion. He leans into me and I allow my ugly rough lips to push against his perfect tender mouth. As we kiss, I know that the schoolchildren visiting the planetarium today are not the only ones seeing stars.

  24

  march 4, senior year

  "Just shut up, Ryan, just shut up!"

  I want to scream, but the words won't leave my throat. Mitchell, Ryan, and I are in the same room together, like dry wood waiting for a spark. We've been talking about gifts for Mama's fortieth birthday, which is next week. Birthdays, like other holidays, don't mean much at our house. I try to treat them like any other day; it lessens the disappointment, at least a little.

  Mitchell sinks into the sofa, the pace of school and work killing him. "We're gonna buy her something nice, for once."

  "I ain't got no money," Ryan shouts his lies at top volume, even though he's sitting in Mama's big brown chair just feet away from Mitchell. I'm sitting next to Mitchell, my arms resting on my knees, my face in my hands.

  Mitchell snorts, I laugh, and Ryan kills us both with that vacant black stare.

  "Screw you, Chill," Ryan shouts, then lights up a cigarette.

  "Mitchell, I don't have a lot of money either," I confess. The library has cut my hours, and I've lost my Ryan-supplied supplemental income. Tommy's on his way over to pick me up to go get some pizza with him and Anne, and I don't even have money to pay for that. What little money I have is going to me, not Mama.

  "Whose fault is that, little girl?" Ryan hisses like the snake in the grass he is.

  "What does that mean?" Mitchell says angrily to Ryan, but he's looking at me.

  "None of your business, Mr. K Fucking C," Ryan says, laughing at Mitchell.

  "I asked you a question, Christy," Mitchell says.

  "Loser, you ain't the boss of her," Ryan says with a sneer.

  "Neither are you, Ryan," Tommy shouts as he opens the front door.

  "This ain't none of your business," Ryan shouts across the room at Tommy.

  "Christy, you ready?" Tommy says as he steps into the house.

  "Who invited you?" Ryan says, standing up and walking toward Tommy.

  Tommy's not moving. He's just standing there, looking fine, firm, and confident. "Christy did."

  "What, so you're her sugar daddy now," Ryan says, but the boast is gone. I smell fear.

  "Let's get going," Tommy says, but I'm not moving. Mitchell's moved toward the edge of the sofa, his eyes darting back and forth like atoms in a grade-school science book.

  "Tommy, why don't you get your loser ass out of here before I cap you," Ryan says, pumping himself up and reminding us all of the Glock he tells us that he keeps in his room.

  "Ryan, you're not going to do anything to me," Tommy says not as a threat, but as a fact.

  "Really? Loser, you're so fucking wrong," Ryan shouts, but I notice he's not moving. Instead, he's backing down.

  "And one more thing while I have your attention." Tommy's talking to Ryan, but he's staring at me. "I know about you trying to get Christy slinging shit at her school again, and—"

  "I never said anything," I tell Ryan, realizing I made the mistake of telling Anne that Ryan's been on me every day to sell for him again. It's not like he couldn't find anyone else to move his product, but Ryan's got to yank back on my chain, just to prove that he always can.

  "What do you have to say to him, Christy?" Tommy's staring me down, forcing my hand.

  "Ryan, I don't want—" I'm looking at the hard floor, rather than at Ryan or Tommy.

  "Bitch, who cares what you want!" Ryan says through a cloud of smoke.

  "Tell him!" Tommy shouts.

  I look at Tommy, my eyes begging him to do this for me, but he's avoiding my plea. I take a deep breath, look at Mitchell—who fears Ryan—and know that I can't chase tail lights any longer. I must become one for myself and for Mitchell. "Ryan, I'm not slinging for you ever again," I announce, and I feel the chain break.

  "You'll do what I say or else," Ryan takes a step toward me; Tommy does as well.

  "She said she's done," Tommy says, pointing his finger at Ryan. I notice the finger isn't shaking; he's not afraid. He then speaks to me. "Christy, you were made for better things."

  "Whatever you say, Tommy," I say, thankful to finally have someone watching my back.

  "Who the fuck do you think you are!" Ryan explodes.

  "Somebody th
at gives a shit about us, not like you, Ryan," Mitchell shouts.

  "You both are so fucking dead," Ryan says, but the bluster is gone. I get the feeling that I'm a kid sitting down at the library reading the book The Emperor's New Clothes.

  "You don't scare me," Mitchell says very calmly, like a man, not a boy. "This time, Tommy, I won't let you down. I got your back."

  I stood silent, soaking up the screaming conversation in front of me. Ryan is dangerous, we all know that, but living in fear of him is worse than death. If Mitchell and Tommy wake up alive in the morning, then I'll know for sure that Ryan's threats are as hollow and empty as his soul. As much as I hate Ryan, I hate myself more right now for not realizing his power was my fear.

  Tommy's laughing. "Ryan, Mitchell is already more of a man than you'll ever be."

  "You've made a big mistake, Tommy. A big fucking mistake," Ryan shouts.

  "No, I'm the one who made the mistake," Mitchell says rising from his chair.

  "What's that?" I ask as Tommy motions for me to join him by the open door.

  "Ever being afraid of you!" Mitchell shouts at Ryan, who says nothing at all.

  "Let's leave this sorry sack of shit behind," Tommy says, waving for Mitchell to join the two of us at the front door. Mitchell grabs his coat from the rack.

  Ryan doesn't even look at Mitchell, instead his black eyes burn holes in my skin. As I get ready to leave our house, I take one last look at Ryan before closing the door and heading out into a bright winter day without the gray shadow of Ryan hanging over me. But even as Tommy opens the car door for me, I know today's just a first step. It's like running cold water over a cut: it momentarily stops the pain, but it can't heal the deeper hurt.

  25

  march 11, senior year

  "Why don't you just tett people the truth?"

  I make sure to whisper my question to Glen, even though we're alone eating lunch outside of the theater. Anne spends most lunch hours now talking on her cell phone to Tommy from her car. Since she's in love with Tommy and he has been insisting, we're not getting high anymore.