Free Blues for Zoey by Robert Paul Weston

… like the end of the world.
    I woke up on Toph’s front lawn. Calen and—here’s a surprise—Devon Whitney were standing over me. They picked me up and, sagging between them like a damp laundry line, my shirt spattered with B-L-O-O-D (I was careful not to look down), I let them march-slash-drag me out to the car. Halfway there, my stomach voiced its sincere opposition to being moved. A searing mash of beer, bile, and barbecue potato chips spewed out of me.
    Devon nearly dropped me. “ Disgusting! ”
    Calen, however, saw the wisdom of my vomit. “Yep, get it all out now . One drop in my car and you’re walking home.”
    I heard voices behind me. It was Alana and—another surprise—Christina Muñoz. They were tagging along half a block behind us. I could hear Christina gushing about “the best reality show they’ve ever made. ” She was talking about Big Daddy .
    When they heard the cough and splatter of my puke, they came running up to us.
    â€œAre you okay?” Alana asked me.
    â€œNo, but my stomach feels better.”
    Christina winced at my shirt, which now had a tasty new layer of abstract painting on it, courtesy of my gag reflex. “Sorry I got mad at you before,” she said. “You have to admit, though, t hat wasn’t the best music. Like, not for a party. Maybe not for anything.” She giggled loudly. “Anyway, Topher is such an asshole. But seriously , are you okay?”
    I wondered if she always jumped around like that from sentence to sentence. “I’ll be fine,” I told her. “I just need to get home and take a shower.”
    â€œYour girlfriend is crazy, by the way,” said Devon.
    â€œMy who? She’s not my—wait, where is she?”
    â€œNo one knows,” said Calen. “After y ou passed out, she wanted to stick around, but Topher wasn’t having it.”
    Devon laughed. “I t took, like, five guys just to get her out of the house.” He shook his head, recalling what I’d missed. “And I thought my girl was fierce.”
    Calen explained h ow supremely pissed Topher had been, how he said he was going to call the police, although he never did. H e only wanted to scare off Zoey, who was screaming and kicking up a riot.
    â€œYeah,” Devon repeated himself. “Your girl was fierce .”
    â€œShe’s not my girl.”
    â€œShe is kind of hot,” said Calen. “You got her number, right?”
    â€œOh, no! I didn’t. I don’t know anything about her.”
    â€œNot even her name?”
    â€œZoey,” I said. “Zoey Zamani.”
    Alana smiled at me. “Cool name.”

25
    I t Run s i n t h e F amily
    I didn ’t sleep well that night. When you’re lying alone in the dark, it’s hard to ignore the lingering throb of a smashed face. But that wasn’t the real reason. In tr uth, I couldn’t stop thinking about Zoey.
    In the morning, bleary-eyed, I did a Yellow Pages search for people named Zamani. There we re forty-one listings, with addresses all across the city. I knew it would be stupid to dial at random. I recalled Calen’s advice from the night before: Girls hate needy . Anyway, do people who play music in the st reet get their names listed in the phone book?
    So I just sat there with a face like a junkyard, scanning up and down the addresses. I was still reading the list when a taxi rolled up out front. Through the window, I saw Mom ease herself out of the back seat.
    After an attack, she prefers silence at home. For a day or so, she’s kind of out of it, almost like she’s still asleep. She hates it when Nomi bounces to the door, leaping up, hugging her, yapping like a puppy.
    M om’s feet dragged up the stairs. The entranceway door opened and closed. I heard a shuffling as she took off her shoes and pulled on her slippers.
    â€œKaz?”
    â€œI’m here,” I said through the