Free White Lines by Jennifer Banash Page B

fall sunlight. “His girlfriend tried to kill herself last year by taking an overdose of Xanax, and she left behind some kind of note blaming him.”
    I nod slowly, taking it in.
    “I mean, she was probably screwed up to begin with, but still, he is
so
not
boyfriend material.”
    “I never said I
wanted
him to be.” I can hear the defensive tone in my voice, and suddenly I feel like I could sleep for a million years. “I don’t want to deal with anyone right now anyway,” I tell her, the words sounding hollow and empty. It’s true—the idea of having a boyfriend scares me silly, and even though I can’t imagine being in any kind of relationship, I’d be lying to myself if I didn’t admit that I wanted to get to know Julian in some way, that I’d felt a kind of connection between us yesterday rising up over the table, some invisible thread pulling us closer. A car screeches down the street blasting the new Duran Duran song, bass kicking, and Sara briefly nods to the beat. Sara is a sucker for pretty boys with highlighted floppy hair and early eighties New Wave wardrobes, and Duran Duran more than fits the bill as far as she’s concerned.
    “Well, that’s good, because he would be a seriously questionable choice, and I don’t want to see you get hurt. He’s the last thing you need right now, Cat.”
    My stomach turns over at her words, and I wonder if for just once in her life, Sara is completely and totally wrong.
    “Don’t worry. Like I said before, he totally ignored me today.”
    “Good,” Sara says with a snort. “Let’s keep it that way.”
    The trouble is, I’m not sure I want to. I stare out into the street, my eyes blurring and losing focus as I think of his face, that grin as he stared at me across the table, and my heart flops useless in my chest, trying to find its way out. But now that Julian’s ignored me, the ball has been firmly tossed into his court. If he wants to talk to me, he’ll have to make the first move. There’s no way I’m risking the total humiliation of walking up to him between classes and having him act like I have some kind of bizarre flesh-eating disease that will instantly infect him if he so much as breathes one word in my direction. Maybe I scared him away with that whole stupid speech about being a social pariah, but what else could I do? He would have found out the truth eventually. Everyone always does.
    I watch as a pigeon pecks at loose crumbs around the trash, its dirty feathers touching the ground as it bobs its delicate head toward the sidewalk. I wonder if it knows something I don’t, that maybe I should learn to be satisfied and stop expecting a banquet instead of a life full of stale, dry crumbs. The leaves above shake in the wind, and I look up at the sky for some clue about what happens next, some kind of answer. Instead, there are only clouds rolling across the horizon.

NINE
     
    I’M WEDGED BEHIND the velvet ropes that lead to the Tunnel basement, and although I’m supposed to be sitting on top of a high stool, lording my power over the crowd and looking as bored as humanly possible, I’m antsy. The music is making me want to dance, even though the black, knee-high boots I’m wearing are cutting into my toes and making me cranky. So when Sammy, one of the club’s biggest dealers, pushes to the front of the line, I’m almost relieved. He raises a pale eyebrow at the rope hanging between us, and I open it with a click, letting him in. He leans in for a double-cheek kiss, resting his hands lightly on my upper arms. Like most of the serious dealers, he’s wearing a black suit with a T-shirt underneath, and shiny shoes. Nondescript and boring. Sammy’s got to be in at least his late twenties but seems younger with his buttery blond hair and smooth, unlined face.
    “How are you, Cat? You’re looking fabulous as usual,” he marvels, his eyes sweeping the length of my body, taking in the black leotard, black-and-white patterned tights and high