Free The Nakeds by Lisa Glatt

sleep in his own bed, instead of sitting in his dad’s recliner, listening to his sister chatter on, but he didn’t want to be alone. Alone—even stoned alone or drunk alone—meant alone with his thoughts and his thoughts inevitably turned to the girl.
    Sandy sat on the couch with her bare feet up on the coffee table, painting her nails. Even her fingers were skinny. She was focused, deliberate, and slow, as if those skinny fingers were the most important things in the world. It was four o’clock on a Friday afternoon, game day, and his sister was still in her stupid black and gold skirt and sweater, her pompoms on the coffee table next to her feet and an open, uneaten bag of pretzels, and what looked like a Slurpee. “You know the girl who was hit by a car?” she said.
    “I don’t know her,” he said, startled.
    “You know what I mean.” Sandy rolled her eyes.
    “What about her?”
    “Billy Judson says that she’ll never walk again. And that her leg is all deformed.”
    “Don’t believe everything you hear. Billy Judson’s not a doctor.”
    “I’d rather die than be deformed,” she said.
    Martin decided that secretly drinking was almost like drinking alone, especially in front of his idiot sister. He sat with a folded map of the United States in his lap, sipping his vodka and orange juice and trying to ignore her. She was oblivious, so self-involved, he thought, he could take out a needle and shoot some heroin and she probably wouldn’t even notice.
    “The kids at school say the girl’s going to be crippled. If she lives,” she said.
    Martin was glad his parents were working late and was looking forward to Sandy leaving soon for the game. He’d have the house to himself. He could drink, beat off, and sleep as much as he wanted to. He unfolded the map and smoothed it out.
    “Billy says that she’s crippled. I’d rather be dead than crippled,” Sandy said.
    Martin said nothing. He lifted his cup and took a big swallow. He set the cup down hard, smacking the glass table next to him, startling Sandy so that she slipped, the little brush she’d been aiming at her fingernail going off course.
    “Damn it,” she said. “Look what you made me do, Marty.” She held the finger up to him, a red line going from knuckle to nail.
    “Fuck you too,” he said.
    “Why don’t you go up to your own apartment and leave me alone? I don’t know why you moved up there. You’re always here.” She dipped the brush back into the polish and didn’t look at him.
    He hated the way nail polish smelled and wondered how girls could stand it.
    He hoped Sandy’s team lost tonight and that Billy dropped the fucking football.
    Perhaps she’d twist her ankle while doing a cheer.
    He wished his parents could see through her.
    He hoped they couldn’t see through him and that they believed he’d registered for classes.
    He wished he had registered.
    He wanted to talk to Penny again.
    He was sorry he was drinking his parents’ most expensive vodka and he wasn’t sorry he was drinking it.
    He thought it was strange that he could feel two opposing things at once. Maybe he was crazy—the injured girl always on his mind.
    He dreamt about her almost every night.
    In last night’s dream she was older than she was or he was younger than he was—and she was in love with him. She had an arm for a leg in the dream, but he didn’t care, he was in love with her too. It was just a dream, but it freaked him out when he thought about it—and he thought about it a lot. He didn’t know the girl and he certainly didn’t love her. He felt terrible that he hit her, sure, but he wasn’t in love with her. It was gross to even think about. She was a little kid and he was a grown guy. Thinking about the dream made him feel like a pervert, made him want to take another shower, and worse, much worse, gave him a boner. He adjusted himself, pushed his boner down, which he was able to do discreetly because of the map across his