Free Trinkets by Kirsten Smith Page A

going from Pioneer Place
    to the Pearl,
    a district of swishy shops built on the bones
    of abandoned warehouses.
    I wish we had a more dignified mode of transport.
    Too bad we don’t know how to steal cars
, Moe says.
    She’s right.
    Hot-wiring is probably far superior
    to the plastic seats of the MAX
    and the old guy in the beret
    who looks more weirded out by us
    than we do by him.
    Screech crackle pop.
    I snap a shot
    of Moe as she turns and looks over her shoulder
    flipping me the so-called bird.
    I point the camera at Tabitha,
    who smiles like a beautiful girl on autopilot.
    No smile needed,
I say
    and she looks confused
    so I click the shutter.
    Better.
    We’re almost there,
Moe says.
    I lean over to Old Beret Guy
    and ask,
Can you take a picture of us?
    He takes the camera
    and snaps us.
    Screech crackle pop.
    This photo will never be in a yearbook—
    because who knows what the three of us
    even look like together
    and it wouldn’t make any sense to anyone—
    but at least there’s proof
    this moment existed.
    This is us,
Moe says
    when we stop at SW Tenth.
    I guess she’s right:
    This is us,
    whoever we are.
    We scatter off
    like birds flying free,
    screech crackle pop
    all in a flock.

LOSING FEATHERS
    At Moe’s house, the first thing I notice is the orange-and-blue parrot in the kitchen. The poor thing is missing so many feathers, it’s downright bald in places.
    “Does that parrot have alopecia or something?” I ask.
    “My aunt says it’s because Marc got him high once and he starting picking out his feathers. But I think he was just born with ADD or OCD or something,” Moe explains.
    “Maybe it’s a relief mechanism,” Elodie says.
    “Thanks, Shawn. Your insight is super profound,” Moe says as she heads upstairs, gesturing for us to follow.
    Moe’s room is surprisingly nice: a queen-size bed with a purple bedspread, and starry wallpaper, and a few framed photos on the dresser. One of them must be of her parents, who have big smiles on their faces as they stand with twolittle kids in front of a house. When Elodie asks her, she says, “They died when I was seven.”
    “My mom’s dead,” Elodie says.
    “Really?” Moe looks at her, surprised.
    “Two years ago. It sucks. My dad got remarried.”
    “Is she cool?” Moe asks.
    “My stepmom, you mean?” Elodie says.
    Moe nods and Elodie shrugs. “She’s okay. She’s really into being healthy. It’s kind of annoying.”
    “What, did you want your dad marrying someone who’s
un
healthy?” I say. “That seems weird.”
    “It’s like she wants to rub it in my face that my mom had cancer. Like she’s saying, ‘I’ll never have cancer because I’m the poster girl for health.’ ”
    “I think you might be overthinking it,” I say.
    “Or,” Moe adds, “maybe your stepmom’s trying to take care of herself so her dad won’t lose another wife.”
    “She’s twenty-nine,” Elodie says. “It’s not like she’s going to suddenly die of leukemia.”
    “Just sayin’,” Moe says with a shrug. “Cut the bitch a break.”
    Elodie rolls her eyes. “I just have no idea why my dad would go from her to
that
.”
    “Well, maybe he didn’t want an exact replica,” Moe says. “And that would be fucked up if he did, right?”
    Elodie looks away, conceding.
    “Besides,” Moe adds, “you didn’t want the guy to be alone forever, did you?”
    I’m impressed at Moe’s powers of intuition. I pick upthe photo to look at Moe’s parents, and as I reach for it, Elodie points at my triceps.
    “What happened to your arm?”
    “Yikes. Nasty,” Moe says.
    They stare at the dark blue bruise on my arm. For a second I consider lying about it. Then I realize I’m enrolled in a rehab program, where telling the truth will help you curb your bad habits.
    “I got into a thing with Brady.”
    They stare at me for a minute before Elodie realizes. “He did that to you?”
    “It was just a pinch. An accident.”
    “I knew that guy was a