Free Uses for Boys by Erica Lorraine Scheidt Page B

the bar. We eat cheap takeout.
     Or we make macaroni and cheese from a box. I hang the dresses that Toy and I bought
     at thrift stores—the blue velvet one, the black one with the rhinestones, the solid
     ones and the ones with stripes. They make the prettiest spot in the apartment. I rest
     my eyes there. Toy never comes to visit.
    I call from the pay phone after work. Her mom answers. She never answers. She slurs
     a word that sounds like hello and then she laughs. She makes another noise, like a
     protest, and then Toy comes on the line. It sounds like her mom is crying in the background.
    “Toy? Are you OK?” I say.
    “Anna,” she says, her voice changing, and then she’s quiet. When she talks again,
     she sounds dreamy. “I met a boy,” she says. “He has the most beautiful green eyes
     you ever saw.”
    “You said you’d come visit,” I say, but she goes on about the boy. He’s seventeen,
     a senior in her high school.
    “You could both come,” I say. But he’s busy, planning a trip. He’s going to hostel
     through Europe and he’s invited her along, she says. They’ll start in Berlin and then
     travel north to Sweden, he has family in Stockholm, and then back south to lie on
     the beach. Italy, Spain, Portugal. They’ll leave next summer when school is out. She
     has no idea what she’ll wear.
    “That’s a long time from now,” I say, but she ignores me. He’s the most romantic boy
     I could ever imagine, she says. And so thoughtful. In the middle of the night he comes
     over and sneaks into her bedroom. They kiss for hours, she says. He brings her things,
     jewelry, and lingerie. He buys her dresses.
    “You should see the dress he bought me,” she says.
    “Come show me,” I say, but she can’t. “Then I’ll come over to you,” I say.
    “No,” she says. She’s busy.
    I’m wearing heavy boots and a pale blue dress with a thick gray sweater and my heavy
     coat. I leave the pay phone. I storm through the streets, up to Fourteenth, across
     to Pettygrove, down to Third and Kearney. I’m not like Josh. I do want more. I pace
     up and down the alphabet. Even when it’s not raining, the trees drip water. I end
     up at Paranoia Park where I smoke dope under the bushes with some people I know there
     and we look out at the businessmen crossing stiffly through the park. We smoke each
     other’s pot. It’s Thursday and I’m supposed to have dinner with my mom. I’m late.
    “Have you been smoking pot?” she asks, narrowing her eyes and looking into mine. I
     tell her that I like her coat, that it looks pretty on her. The hostess shows us to
     a table. I’m wearing my military coat and I know that she doesn’t think much of it,
     but I like the way it buttons tightly around my chest and it’s long, longer than my
     dress and it flaps between my legs when I walk.
    We sit down and she orders a glass of wine. “Have you had enough?” she asks, before
     I know what she’s talking about. Then, “Are you ready to come home?”
    I look at the menu. “No,” I say.

 
    the apartment
    Josh isn’t home when I get back and the apartment’s cold. So cold I can see my breath.
     I feel around in the dark because we haven’t replaced the overhead bulb and I make
     my way over to the old ceramic lamp sitting on the floor. It doesn’t light the room,
     just a bright circle at its base, so I sit next to it and empty out my tips like I
     do every night: count the change, save the quarters for laundry, face the bills the
     same way. I have forty-six dollars.
    I put sixteen dollars in the pocket of my coat and tuck thirty in an envelope that
     I keep in the bottom drawer of Josh’s dresser. I put the envelope away and close the
     drawer. Then I open it again. I pull out the envelope and count the money. Four hundred
     and twenty-eight dollars in bills, all facing the same way. I put it back in the envelope,
     back in the drawer, and go out to look for him.
    There’s a fresh wind outside and I