Free Pictures of You by Juliette Caron

kicked her out? “Um, you can’t live here.”
                  She shrugged, made bored clicking noises with her tongue. “Sure I can.”
                  “No, you can’t,” I said firmly, hands on hips.
                  “You need rent money, don’t you?” She began digging through her purse.
                  “Yeah, I guess.”
                  “Okay, then.” More digging. She began tossing things onto the couch. Dark lipsticks. Tissues. A wallet covered in lace and metal studs. An old iPod. Scissors. Hair spray. A little Emily the Strange doll. How much crap did she keep in there? She was worse than Abby.
                  I opened my mouth to protest, but nothing came out. Rent money. I needed some pronto. I guessed it wouldn’t hurt to let Mary stay for a few days. “Do you have money? I’ll need some up front.”
                  She found what she was apparently looking for. A white envelope. She ripped it open, pulled out some cash. Counted the weathered bills and handed it all over. I wasn’t going to ask how she got it. “There’s more where that came from. Just give me a few days.”
                  “Fine,” I said, snatching the money.
                  “What’re you eating?” She grabbed my box of cold chow mein noodles and finished them off, making soft growling sounds. Noises of contentment.
                  Reluctantly I sat beside her on the couch, keeping plenty of space between us. I flipped on the TV. The nature channel filled the screen, specifically animal’s mating rituals. Mary laughed her loud obnoxious laugh when a male white rhino mounted the female.
                  Ten minutes into the show Mary looked over and said, “I miss her.”
                  It surprised me. Mary and I weren’t in the habit of swapping feelings. Actually, over the years we’d exchanged few words. Less than a teacup full. I sighed, shoved my hands under my thighs. “I do, too. I miss her a lot.”
                  “It, like, literally hurts here,” she said pointing to her chest.
                  “I know. For me, too.”
                  “You know she ultra loved you, September. She talked about you all the time.” She dangled the last noodle in the air and let it fall into her mouth.
                  “Really?” All sorts of emotions rushed through me like a waterfall, too many to name. Abby was great that way. She tossed these amazing compliments at you like candy at a parade. She recognized the good in others and was confident enough to say something. I’d kill to hear all the things she’d said about me. Knowing she spoke of me so much to her other best friend eased my longtime jealousy—just a little. Suddenly I didn’t hate Mary so much.
                  “Really. She went on about you so much, it made me puke,” she said, making a face.
                  What did she say? I wanted to ask, but stopped myself.
                  She said, “I still can’t believe she’s dead.”
                  “Me too,” I said. “Me too.”
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
    8
     
     
                  Three months after Abby died I found a job as a janitor at a stuffy office building in Manhattan. Judge if you must, but I’m not above cleaning toilets. A musician once sang, ‘It’s a dirty job but someone’s gotta do it.’ And anyway, a job is a job.
                  At the interview an enthusiastic man eating Red Vines said I would be cleaning two dozen restrooms each night. I couldn’t help but notice the huge wet marks under his arms and yellow beads dripping from his head. I did my best not to stare and politely laughed at all his jokes. He was skeptical of my job application.
                  “Cashier at Anderson