Punk and Zen (9 page)

“Let me take care of you. You will never feel lonely,
or hurt, or sad again,” she insisted. “Just come to me. Give yourself over to
me, make me your world, and I swear you will be mine.” The arm beneath my
shoulder pulled me closer, and the warmth, the feeling of genuine affection
that poured from her was wonderful. “I will love you and protect you.” She
punctuated each promise with a soft kiss and a caress. “You will never, ever,
need anything again. I promise you, Nina,” she swore, and kissed my cheek
gently.

The warmth, the words, the emotions were tempting, and
I wanted to believe them, all of them. I wanted to believe her. I almost gave
in because in that moment she felt so like her, so like Samantha. I was going
to snuggle deeper into her, throw my arms around Trace and nuzzle against her
neck as I’d never done before, but as I shifted my legs, the bruise at their
apex throbbed, and instead of turning inward, toward her, I twisted further away,
almost onto my stomach, the blanket clutched firmly around me. Samantha would
have meant it, would have never hurt me first, would have said those things to
me face-to-face, not waited until I was bruised and ABC sleeping.

“No,” I whispered, still only half awake, and safely
tucked away, I fell back into a deep sleep.

Trace was gone when I finally woke up, on my stomach
and half off the sofa. I blinked a few times and rolled onto my back. Ouch. Bad
idea. I’d forgotten about that bruise there and the other one that nestled up
in my crotch. Both reminded me of their reality, and I remembered how I’d
gotten them.

Geez. What the fuck was I going to do? No way would I
tell Jackie or Cap about it. I mean, Jackie and Cap were both friends with
Trace first. I wasn’t sure they’d believe me, and even if they did, somehow, I
was sort of sure that it was my fault, anyway, which meant that I’d been dumb.

Besides, what was I going to say? It was no secret
that I felt strongly for Trace; Cap would probably tell me I was an idiot for
not going for it, and Jackie? She’d never, ever, believe it. She’d tell me I
misunderstood, that I didn’t understand Trace, that I was just too young, too
immature.

I could just imagine Cap—his cocoa face, high and
tight military-style buzz cut, and wide, bright grin. “Two, in one night? And
one of them Trace? Not bad, kid, not bad,” and he’d slap my shoulder and laugh.

And I could see Jackie’s face as well, auburn hair and
porcelain skin broken only by the firm line of her mouth. She probably wouldn’t
say a word. Hell, she probably wouldn’t talk to me for a few days, then, at the
end of that time, walk in one night after work and start yelling about the
spoon in the sink or something. We’d have a big talk, or rather, she would
talk, and I would listen, while she told me how and why exactly I was wrong.

I sat up and swung my legs off the sofa, the blanket
half covering me, and bracing my hands on my knees, I stared at the floor. It
was starting to occur to me that maybe, just maybe, I didn’t have the best
friends in the world—at least, not to live with.

I stood up and stretched, letting the blanket fall to
the floor. Everything was a little sore, but that was no big deal. Glancing
down, I realized I’d slept in my bathrobe and I had terry-cloth textured skin.
I tied the ends of the belt together and crept to the shared bedroom.

Opening the door slowly, I stuck my head in. Jackie
was out like a light, and I was surprised to see she had her arm thrown over
Trace, who was asleep on top of the blankets in a T-shirt, facing the wall.

I didn’t want to wake either of them, so I slipped
very quietly to the closet where our clothes were and grabbed a T-shirt, a pair
of shorts, some pants, socks, underwear—you know, the usual. It didn’t matter
what it looked like; most of it was black, anyway.

As I sneaked back to the door, Trace shifted.

“Nina,” she called quietly. I froze in place. I
certainly wasn’t ready to talk with her. Trace moved again and resettled on her
side. Good. She was just sleeping. A part of me hoped she had nightmares, then
quickly felt guilty. I knew better than most that she did.

Back in the living room, I dumped my stuff on the sofa
and neatly folded the blanket.

If you sat on the couch, the bedroom was behind you,
TV in front, windows to the left, kitchen to the right, and the door to Cap’s
bedroom just a bit past. Since his door was firmly shut, which it hadn’t been
when I’d gotten in last night, he was home and sleeping too.

Good. I didn’t want to deal with anyone, anyway.

I dressed and began a set of floor stretches. The
thigh stretches were a little more painful than usual, but otherwise,
everything was in good working order. Warmed up, I was ready to go for a run. I
didn’t exercise all the time, but today seemed like a good day. Running is
similar to swimming in that your mind goes blank sort of, but not really.
Somehow, while you’re focusing on the very basic steps of breathing and moving
simultaneously, your brain figures all sorts of things out. Besides, exercise,
especially strenuous exercise, was and is good for breaking down all the stuff
your body creates when it’s stressed, and I was for sure feeling stressed.

The table was right by the door, and all of us roomies
put our shoes under it when we came in, to avoid tracking crap across the
floor, literally or figuratively, so I sat for a moment at that 1950s off-white
Formica and glitter-topped table, focusing very clearly on tying those knots
just right. I do “bunny ears.” I know, it’s supposed to be “rabbit in the
hole,” but hey, my laces never come loose. It’s my thing.

Sneakers on, I grabbed my keys, tucked them into a
shorts pocket, and was out the door. The sun was brilliant and still climbing;
it was going to be a warm day. I stretched again, then started running—down the
block to Bay Street, past the park, up the hill (yes, we have hills in Staten
Island), and back down Broad Street, the street I lived on, past the projects
and the firehouse, past my apartment, and did the circuit again.

I’d gotten into a nice rhythm by the second go-round,
and in the third set, I was deep in the flow. Cars, trees, cement, burnt lots,
and lost auto pieces, all part of the whole—step, breathe, step, breathe, the
air was a continuous flow in and through my body, the sun shining and warming
my skin. Bits of glass winked up at me from the asphalt as I glided past.

I didn’t know what exactly I was going to do when I
got back to the apartment, besides shower and dress, but I was certain on one
score: I needed to find something new, maybe completely different.

My feet kept hitting the ground, flying past the
scenery. I had enough money for the rent for at least another month tucked
away, and if I watched my expenses, I could pick up that guitar today. I had my
eye on a beautiful double-cut Ibanez Artist, and it had a sound so sweet, I
couldn’t wait until it was mine, all mine, to have and to hold, to play until
my fingers bled.

I was about two, maybe three blocks away from the
apartment, and coming up to the firehouse, when it hit me—not only had I worked
the night before, I’d supposedly gotten paid double-time for it. I hadn’t even
counted the money Rich had put into my hand, but I calculated that working from
about midnight, which would be a little after Darrel had left, to four a.m., I
should have a little over two hundred dollars.

Since I owed only another hundred on the guitar, I’d
be able to pay it off, put half away, and maybe have a little fun with the
other half. Hey, cool, I smiled to myself, in happy anticipation. I’d go get my
guitar today and let the rest work itself out somewhere in the back of my mind.
I frowned a little bit at that strategy. Hope it came up with something soon,
though. As clueless as I could be sometimes, I had the nagging feeling that I
might have been in more trouble than I knew.

∗ ∗ ∗ ∗

As I approached the firehouse, I managed a last burst
of speed for my end sprint, and I was cooking by the time I flew past the steps
that led up to the three-story brownstone I lived in. Someone was sitting on
the top of the steps, and as I finished my sprint, I recognized my brother,
Nicky, waiting for me. No, Nico, I mentally corrected. Everyone called him Nico
now, I reminded myself with an inward grin.

I stopped before I crossed the street and took a few
deep breaths, then jogged back to my door, waving to Nico.

With a genuine smile, he jumped down the steps as I
approached.

“Hey, Nina!” he greeted, and opened his arms for a
hug.

With the same smile on my own face, because I love him
so much and I was, then and now, always happy to see him, I moved into his arms
with a hug of my own. “Nico!” I called, drawing out the “oh” sound in a way I
knew he enjoyed hearing.

We gave each other a kiss on the cheek, but I didn’t
hug him as tightly as I normally would.

“Hey, I want a real hug,” he protested, squeezing me.

“I don’t want to get you wet,” I explained, a little
breathless still from the run.

“Wet, shmet, I don’t care,” Nico replied, increasing
the pressure, and I hugged him tighter, resting my head on his shoulder. “It’s
just a little water and salt.” He leaned back, picking my feet up off the
floor, bouncing me a little.

Though he was my younger brother, he had finally beat
me in the height department. Oh, we were still shorter than most people our
ages; we had (and have) that slower metabolism thing going (which our baby
sister, Nanny, didn’t—she was bigger than both of us), so we’d both still grow
over the next ABC few years, but he had an inch or so on me. Since I’d
been bigger for so many years, say approximately our whole lives up until then,
he loved to tease me about my height. By picking me up and bouncing me.

I held on to him as if I’d fall off the planet if I
didn’t, and not just because of the bouncing. Despite the natural endorphin
goodness of the run, I’d been feeling pretty darn alone, and now, I wasn’t. I
had Nico, and I’d be fine or, at least, better.

A few more moments of Nico’s testing the strength of
my rib cage, then he put me down, but I continued to hold on.

“Nina, are you crying?” he asked, and I could hear and
feel his concern.

I guess, maybe, a little
, I realized,
raising my head and noting the little wet spot I’d left on his shoulder. “Naw,
Nico.” I grinned at him lightly, because I just didn’t want to go there yet.
“It’s just a little water and salt.”

His eyes, the same shade of blue-gray as mine, except
that his had a thin butter gold ring in the center that you could only see when
he was really mellow, searched my face.

“You’ll tell me later?” he asked, brow furrowed and
not put off or fooled by my joke.

I glanced up at the door to the building, then back at
him. “Yeah,” I promised quietly, “I’ll tell you later.” I meant it. I would
talk with him, but for now, the sun was shining, the birds were singing, well,
somewhere anyway, and it was a beautiful summer day.

“Come on up,” I invited him with a bright smile, and
started up the stairs. “Hang out while I shower, then let’s blow this pop
stand.” I pulled my keys out and opened the door. “You eat breakfast yet?” I
asked him, staring pointedly at his stomach. One thing for sure, neither of us
ate often, but when we did, watch out, especially if we were together. Whole
gallons of milk, entire loaves of bread, and full cartons of eggs were known to
be transformed into French toast and disappear around us.

“Yeah, I grabbed something, but,” he grinned at me,
“I’m not fully fueled yet.”

I was pretty hungry too. Usually, I made myself
something, and if Nico and I were together, we’d cook together, splitting up
prep work and cleanup, a tradition we’d started years ago when our parents
would work overtime on Saturdays and we were home alone with Nanny, but I
wasn’t sure what was in the refrigerator upstairs, and I really didn’t want to
hang out in the apartment longer than I had to. For some reason, the thought
made me queasy.

“I worked last night and got paid,” I told him as we
rounded the first landing. “You want to go to Jerry’s? My treat.” Jerry’s
Pancake House, on Bay Street, looks like a dive from the outside. Oh, hell, the
whole neighborhood was divey, but Jerry—there really was a Jerry—made the best
pancakes around, with all sorts of variations of ABC fruit, chocolate,
ice cream, whatever; and he served huge portions, enough to make even me and
Nico happy, for a very reasonable price.

“Oh, cool, yeah,” Nico enthused as we reached the top
landing, “I’m getting strawberries and bananas, then.” I smiled to myself. Nico
ate so many bananas, he was living proof that humans are related to apes, and
in fact, our dad used to call us monkeys (in a nice way) when we were small and
being silly. Of course, we were monsters if we were bad, but that’s another
thing altogether.

Once inside, Nico dropped casually into a chair by the
table, and I walked back to the sofa, to gather my real clothes for the day.

Cap’s door popped open and he stood in the doorway,
yawning and stretching.

“Hey, Nina,” he greeted me through a yawn, scratching
his chest, his eyes still half closed with sleep. I should probably mention he
was stark naked.