Free Time to Steal by John Gilstrap

I laugh?”
    â€œYou know, back then. Back in the old days, when you lived next door and I was drooling over you. When I pretended to be so worldly, talking about things I thought would impress you, you never laughed. You could have. I was always afraid that you would, but it would have destroyed me.”
    â€œThis is a high-price reward for showing a little restraint.”
    Nicki was getting to the difficult part. “That’s just part of it. You were the boy of my dreams.”
    Brad grew uncomfortable, shifting in his seat.
    She went on, “I used to do those crazy things, like writing my name as Nicolette Ward, and I used to hate myself for it, because I knew that nobody as gorgeous as you would ever think twice about me.”
    He groaned, “Oh, God.”
    â€œI know. It was puppy love. But even after you left, I used to dream that we’d get married and we’d go on long drives, just the two of us.”
    He shifted uncomfortably again.
    â€œThis is the dream,” she said. “Silly, huh?”
    Brad didn’t know what to say.
    â€œToo much information?” Nicki ventured.
    He answered, “No! I guess maybe I’m just not all that comfortable with the idea of being ‘gorgeous.’ ”
    They shared a laugh. “Your turn,” Nicki said. “What happened to your parents?” The question seemed to startle him, so she added, “I know your mother’s in jail, but I don’t know anything else.”
    He quipped, “I guess that jail thing is the family business.”
    â€œWhat did she do?”
    â€œShe sold drugs to the wrong guy. Sold a lot of them in fact, got hit on a federal beef and sent up for like, forever.”
    â€œOh, that’s awful.”
    â€œLast time I saw her, I was eight. I never did know who my dad was. I don’t think my mother did, either. At least she couldn’t narrow it down to one paying customer.”
    Nicki gasped. “You mean she was a pros . . .” She couldn’t bring herself to say the word.
    â€œProstitute? No, she was a whore. A crack whore at that. I don’t remember a single day when I could look in her face and not see her stoned. She decided to keep me around for the welfare money. She got a check every month to take care of me.” He scoffed. “Now, there was money well spent.”
    â€œShe spent it on drugs instead?”
    â€œI don’t know what the hell she spent it on.” As he mined deeper into the memories, Brad’s tone hardened, and the muscles in his jaw flexed. “But it wasn’t on dinners and birthday cakes, I can tell you that. Neighbors were the only reason I didn’t starve to death. They fed me and the other stray cats. All of us alive because nobody got around to putting us in a sack and drowning us in the river.”
    It was an image that hit Nicki hard. No wonder Brad had learned how to hot-wire cars. No wonder he could compartmentalize his thoughts so well.
    â€œWhen they first arrested her, I was scared to death,” Brad continued. “I didn’t know what would become of me. I didn’t know where I would live, or how I was going to do anything. I mean, my mom wasn’t good for anything useful, but at least she was there, you know? At least there was another heartbeat in the room at night. But then this nice social worker—her name was Alice—took me away from our apartment, and put me in this group home, just for one night. She actually stayed in the room with me.
    â€œAlice settled me down by telling me how they’d get help for Mom, and how they’d get all the drugs out of her system so she could be healthy again. And in the meantime, I would be sent to live with some other really nice people. You know? Like, I was going to be taken in by the Brady Bunch or something. I had these images in my head—I mean, really, this is how I thought—I had these images in my head of me tossing