Blazed (12 page)

“I was listening to
Living 2009-Present
, like, two days ago,” I tell her, and take a drink. “They're so good. I love them.”

Kristen's smile, like, doubles as I hand her back the bottle, and she goes, “Yes. You. Just yes.”

“Excuse me?”

“You're fucking cool. I see the guitar out and the notebook. You jack a pricey bottle of wine and get drunk in the basement by yourself, then reference Tearist within five minutes of me meeting you. I'm stoked.” She takes a monster drink, then says, “Yasmine Kittles is prolly one of my top five favorite singers and performers easily. I love that bitch.”

“She's good.”

“I drove down to L.A. during spring break and saw them play with Chelsea Wolfe.”

“Rad,” I say. “Did you use Ivanka Trump's ID to get into the show?”

Kristen's face gets super happy-looking. “You're a little fucking hustler. A charmer.”

“Nah.”

“No,” she says. “You are. You're a little Justin Miles, just sweetening up the air in every room you walk into.”

“Screw you,” I rip, pushing myself off the couch. “Just screw you, Kristen.”

“Hey,” she goes.

I slide past her and pick up my tank top and notebook off the ground.

She grabs ahold of my arm. “What the hell was that all about?”

Ripping my arm free, I go, “You know nothing about me, okay? Nothing. Yet you've got the nerve to say I'm like that evil bastard. Fuck you. I'm nothing like that prick. You have no idea who I am. How dare you?”

“Jaime.”

“That's a cunt thing to do to a boy. Backstabbing girls with dirty mouths say shit like that.”

“Hey!” She grabs my arm again. “Don't blow up on me.”

“Piss off.”

She jams her other hand into my chest. “You don't get to intrude in my life and treat me this way. Now
that's
some real asshole-type shit right there. Just like
my
father. Only little bitch boys with annoying daddy complexes and filthy souls say shit like you did. Is that what you are, man? A little bitch boy?”

I pull my arm free. “Stop it,” I say.

“Answer the fucking question.”

“I don't have a filthy soul,” I snap.

“And I'm not a backstabbing bitch.”

“Great,” I say.

“It's the best.”

I throw my shirt back on and Kristen starts laughing. The tension crumbles straight off my shoulders now and I start laughing too.

It's nice. Laughing with a girl is nice sometimes.

“Drink,” she goes, pushing the bottle at my face. “Keep drinking, Jaime Miles.”

I take two big gulps. She finishes the bottle.

“What now?” I go.

“Lots of things,” she says.

She goes over to the fridge and opens it and comes back over with two bottles of Corona.

“This work for you?” she asks.

“Sure.”

“Great.”

She pops off both bottle caps with a pink lighter and hands me one.

“Cheers,” she says.

“Cheers.”

“To strippers paid for by my mother.”

“And Ivanka Trump look-alikes.”

“Word, dude.”

“Yeah, word.” We clank our bottles together. “Word, forever,” I finish.

ME AND KRISTEN, WE'RE ON
the back deck a few minutes later. She's sitting Indian-style with her back against the hot tub, smoking a cigarette, and I'm sitting on a short bench.

That Naked and Famous song “Young Blood” is playing from her phone.

“So, like, how are you holding up, man?” she asks. “Your head must be a blur right now.”

Shrugging, I go, “Sort of. But I don't think anything can faze me really. I've been dealing with crazy my whole life, and this is just another thing.”

“No way,” she goes. “You found your mother dying.”

“Blood and vomit don't scare me. Those were the only two things that were new this time.”

“Damn,” she says. “I'm so sorry for you. But I'm glad you're here.”

“I don't get that. How can anyone be happy that I'm here?”

“You're my stepbrother, man. We're family.”

“No, we're not, Kristen. My father would have to be family, and he's not. He never will be. Fuck him. I've been
alive for fourteen years and this is the first time I've seen my father and talked to him. He's never reached out.”

“That's not true, Jaime.”

“Yes, it is!” I snap. I take a swig of beer and go, “I bet you're an awesome person, but excuse me when I say, you don't know shit. That prick ruined my mother. He fucking hit her and stalked her after she left. Since I've been able to walk, I've been dealing with those demons and fighting those monsters. And him, he's been living this posh fucking life while me and my mother have been trapped in the world he fucking destroyed. So fuck that. My mother had a bad day, and that's the only reason I'm here. He's more excited about Savannah being here than me.”

Kristen nods and says, “Jaime, he's more excited about Savannah than anything in his life right now.”

“Whatever,” I go. “Point is, just cos you say you're happy I'm here doesn't mean you really are.”

“I am,” she goes. “So many times I've thought about reaching out to you on Facebook or Twitter.”

“But you didn't.”

She takes a drag. “No . . . I didn't. But would it have mattered if I had?”

I don't say anything.

“Would you have even responded to me if I had?”

“No.”

“Exactly.”

I finish my beer and say, “This is all so fucked.”

“Let's unfuck it then.”

I shrug. “We can't.”

Kristen pulls out a cocaine bullet, twists the cap off, and loads a bump.

Me, I only know what a cocaine bullet is because my mother has one.

Actually, she has four. And she has these personalized snooters made out of silver too.

“Love my life,” Kristen says, then drops the blast pony into her nose.

She holds the bullet out and offers me some.

“I'm good,” I tell her.

“Come on,” she goes. “Live a little.”

“I've got Oxys with me. That's my jam.”

“Really? How many?”

“Enough.”

“Which is?”

“A lot,” I say. “You want one?”

“Not right now. But yeah, sometime.”

I finish my beer and she goes, “I want you to play me the song you were working on.”

“All right.”

“And we'll drink cold beers all night and talk about everything.”

“Why?”

“Cos that's what you do when you're on cocaine. You talk about everything and you pretend you know every
band and every song in the world and you make certain it's known that you heard all of it first. It's a perfect kind of awesome just puking up words like they'll last.”

I stand up and stretch my arms.

“One more thing,” she says.

“What's that?”

“We really can unfuck whatever we want.”

I make a face.

“We're kids, Jaime. And we can do whatever we want. We will do whatever we want. If we wanna make something happen, we will. As long as we're passionate, dude. As long as we care. Anything in the world we want to be or do is in our grasp. We just have to care enough and show the fuck up.”

“You're so high right now,” I tell her.

“I'm so fucking right, too.” Then she winks at me as I grab her hands and pull her gently to her feet.

“JUST LOOK AT KANYE, FOR
instance. He's a certified motherfucking genius. And all those people hating on him or trying to figure the dude out are doing nothing but feeding the monster they say they despise. They're the ones making him bigger. It's all rooted in jealousy, too. The people sitting around judging Kanye, and talking shit, are just jealous of him and can't stand the fact that he's smarter than them. Kim Kardashian did it right. She did him right. What a rad life she has cos she said yes to
Yeezus
. I'm jealous that she gets to push those beautiful chocolate Kanye babies out. The man is brilliant and beautiful. There's nobody I'd rather fuck on this whole damn planet than him.”

Kristen snorts the huge line of cocaine lying across the cover of the Babyshambles record
Down in Albion
.

I'm sitting on the couch again, drinking a Corona. I pull my phone out. It's still shut off, so I turn it back on, as Kristen drinks from this bottle of chilled white wine.

“Tyler gets so fucking jealous when I talk about Kanye,” she says. “So now he hates Kanye's music, even though he used to love it more than me. Isn't that crazy? Jealousy made him hate something he used to adore. How
insecure is that? It's kind of psycho, ya know. Like, Tyler's a total babe. We've been together for over two years and I love him and I think he's really cool, but he'll never be Kanye. Tyler's a coke dealer from a wealthy family. He's got a decent-size dick and can be totally fashionable at times, but I find it really gross and psychotic that he's so bothered by my admiration of Kanye. It's bizarre and totally unhealthy. He's been dealing coke for six years. It's all he does, Jaime.”

“But you love him.”

“I do. Even though he can be a prick. I love that boy so much, dude.”

She takes a swig. “I love the free blow, too.”

Kristen falls onto the couch, next to me. She lies on her back and drapes her legs over my lap.

I can see her crotch. I can see the lace underwear she's wearing and the soft skin of her inner thighs.

“What about you, Jaime?”

“What about me?”

“Is there some lucky girl who gets to call you her boyfriend back in Joliet?”

“Nope.” I take a drink.

“Really?”

“It's the truth,” I say.

“How come?” she asks. “You're a babe.”

“I don't need to have someone in my life who's just going to make it more complicated. Girls want attention.
They don't want love. They don't want anything genuine. The girls I know are phonies to their core.”

“Ouch,” she goes.

“It's true. The only girl I know who's not a fake is my mother. She's as real as it gets. But she had to play the role of my father, too. And she never backed down from anyone. In sixth grade, football is mandatory at my school. Twice early in the season, she punched out some other kid's loser dad during practice for making fun of me. I've never seen anything like it. My mother defended me, and it was swift, precise, and cold. All the other fathers and their kids were speechless afterward. So were the coaches. My mother reacted like a wild animal that got cornered. It was so fierce, Kristen. My mother's eyes were black and thirsty. Both those guys got dropped to the grass. Their noses were bleeding. I got kicked off the team and both men filed restraining orders against my mother. When you actually think about that, I mean, it doesn't get any more real than that.”

Kristen scoots her bottom closer to me, and part of her right leg falls into my lap.

My face turns bright red.

“Well, hey there.”

I push her leg away and say, “Come on. That's fucked up.”

“I just moved my leg, Jaime.” She's smiling.

“Stop.”

“Stop what?” she asks, after taking another drink. “There's nothing to be embarrassed about. We're not blood related. It's a fucking boner.”

“Right,” I say, while running a hand down my face. “Anyway, I don't believe in needing a girlfriend. It's a waste of time. Even when you're giving them all the attention you can possibly give, it's never enough. You all just want more. I've watched dudes attempt to give the world to their girlfriends, only to have it not be enough. They get dismantled instead. And then they get crushed. Like, I have no problem if a girl isn't into it anymore and wants out. Just say something. But most of you don't ever do that. Instead, you torture that guy. It's so sick. While he's saving up money to buy you something nice or he's spending all his free time writing a song for you, you're fucking trashing him to all your evil friends and laughing behind his back. While he's opening himself up, you bitches are out talking to other dudes and flirting with them and exchanging fucking phone numbers, then playing it off like the guy just wants to be your friend. Bullshit.”

Kristen looks almost stunned. Appalled even.

And I go, “Trust me. Every guy you've met since you started middle school was only being nice to you because he wants you naked, and your legs spread. Regardless if that ever happens or not doesn't matter. All you sluts want is attention, and more attention. It's so gross. It lets you get close to this new guy and figure out if he's got more money
and a nicer car and more popular friends. None of you even care what you're doing to the boy you already have. The one you supposedly like so much. You're all whores, ya know.”

“Jesus Christ,” she says.

“It's a fact. And this is why I don't need a girlfriend. Just like I don't need a group of friends, just like I don't need anyone else to justify my tastes in music and books and movies. I watch these girls who go to my school, right. And they're so pathetic, some of them. It's like they need to have a boyfriend and when they break up with the guy they just wrecked, they jump right into another relationship. It's twisted. My happiness will never be defined by my inclusion of a girl in my life. A relationship will never make me feel more complete or whole. From what I've seen, they cause more misery than joy. I can't even fathom wasting the amount of time some people do talking about this other person and how much this other person sucks or doesn't make them happy. They spend hours doing it. They spend hours shitting on the person behind their back and saying the meanest things about them. All those hours spent doing something so meaningless and trivial while they could've been using that time to do something significant. Something the world might remember them by.”