At last, we reach a wall of booths and he comes to a stop.
Turning to me, he says, “Wait here.”
“Wait here?” I snap, gazing around. “What am I waiting here for?”
“Jenn,” he answers.
When he moves as if to leave me, I hurriedly ask, “Hold on, are you just going to abandon me here?”
He shrugs, and I know that’s exactly what he planned on doing. “I ain’t your fucking babysitter.”
I begin to panic because he can’t just leave me. I’ll be like a sheep left to the slaughter in this place. “I have a question for you, Ghost,” I start, frustration and anger mixing with my fear in a toxic combination. “Are you Jenn’s bitch, or is she yours?”
That gets a reaction out of him. His brow furrows and his eyes flash with irritation.
“I don’t take orders from no skinny ass crackwhore or her bitch daughter,” he growls before he storms off.
Shit. Me and my big mouth. He’s gone, and now he probably won’t come back. How the hell am I supposed to get back to the school?
I figure I have no other choice but to wait and pray Jenn shows up like she’s supposed to. Moving to one of the booths, I slide onto the cracked vinyl seat and try to make myself invisible so that no one approaches me. I’m scared shitless and can’t stop thinking about how the hell I’m going to get back to Angelview if Jenn bails on me since there’s only fifty or sixty bucks in my bank account.
I’m fucked. Royally.
I sit in that booth and wait for what feels like ages. After nearly half an hour, I grow certain that Jenn is going to be a no-show, which shouldn’t surprise me. She’s bailed on me so many times in my life already, I should’ve expected it. Really, I’m the idiot for coming here at all because I know better than to trust her.
My anger banishes away enough of my fear that I manage to get out of the booth, determined to leave. I’ll find an Uber or a cab that’ll take me back to Angelview. It’ll cost me every penny in my account, but I don’t’ have much of a choice.
“Hey, baby girl,” a familiar, smoky voice suddenly says, startling me out of my thoughts.
I let out a cry and spin around to find Jenn standing behind me, a smirk on her gaunt, pale face.
12
“Momma,” I say on shuddering breath.
It’s been over a year since we’ve seen each other, and she looks different. Worse, would be the only way to put it. She’s thinner, her hair is still that awful, brassy shade of blond but with dark roots that look brittle, and her eyes seem sunken into her skull. She’s lost more weight, too. Jenn’s always been thin, but now, she’s just … scary. Her faded pink t-shirt hangs off her emaciated frame and her skinny jeans only pronounce her jutting hip bones.
She’s a far cry from the pretty, vibrant teenager perched between Saint’s dad and Jacoby in that photo. Growing up, I always wondered what drove her to this. To the drugs, and the dealing. What happened to her to make her life end up in such a miserable place?
Whatever it was, it’s never-ending.
We don’t hug, because we never really have before, but she invites me to sit back in the booth I just left. I slide back into my seat, and she occupies the bench across the table from me, smacking a crumbled packet of menthol cigarettes and a dirty lighter down on her side. We stare at each other a few moments longer, and I don’t know if we’re soaking each other in, or really just have no idea where to start with each other.
When the silence starts growing awkward, I decide to kick things off.
“How long have you been in California?” I ask, not bothering with preamble or small talk.
She scratches at her cheek and her eyes dart away from me to gaze out into the crowd. It seems like she’s looking for someone, but she might also just be in need of a fix.
Which of course makes me question what her poison is these days.
“I’m glad you decided to go back to Angelview,” she says, ignoring my question. “Education is important and all that shit.”
Is she high? Because if she is, this conversation will go nowhere real fast.
I slap my hand on the table to get her attention.
“Momma, listen to me. How long have you been here?”
She turns back to me but still doesn’t answer.
I grit my teeth and try another question. “Why haven’t you been in contact with Carley? She’s worried.”
Jenn shrugs. “I’ve been busy.”
“With what?” I snap.
She looks away from me again. “None of your damn business.”
I tighten my hands into fists so that I’m not tempted to strangle her.
“Don’t be a bitch.” I reel in the urge to remind her of all the drama we’ve both put Carley through—Jenn screwing her over countless times and stealing her identity and me with all this Angelview bullshit—and squeeze my eyes shut. “Mom … your best friend is worried about you.”
“Are you worried about me?” she husks out, and I open my eyes to catch her carefully examining my features. Her gaze seems sharper than it does when she’s high. Wait, could she actually be sober right now?
If that’s the case, then why’s she still acting like this?
“What do you mean am I worried? You know I am.”
“Liar.” She gives me that lip curl she used to do whenever she accused me of stealing money that she forgot she blew on drugs. I just hope her disbelief doesn’t affect whatever it is she brought me here to tell me.
Or her reaction to the photo burning a hole in my back pocket.
Releasing a heavy sigh, I move my head from side to side. “Believe what you want, Jenn. I know it doesn’t matter what I say in the end.”
“You think you’d be a little more concerned about me, since I gave everything up to protect you.” Her voice is a low hiss. An all too familiar tone that I grew used to over the years.
I knew she’d try to play the guilt card. She always does. No deed is too good for her to exploit, especially when the deed was her idea. A small part of me thinks I should’ve just taken the fall that day if for no other reason than to shut Jenn the fuck up about it.
I ignore her baiting, though, and forge ahead.
“Why’d you bring me here?” If she’s not going to give me an explanation as to why she’s here, I might as well cut straight to the point. “And how the hell do you know someone like Ghost?”
I mean, while he easily fits in Jenn’s world, he’s still a 180 from her usual meth-pocked crowd that can barely slur together a full sentence without picking at their own flesh.
She places her hands flat on the table, leans forward until her back makes a noise that leaves me wincing, then sits upright. “H-he’s helping me out with some things.”
My shoulders go stiff with tension. “What you mean is that he’s supplying you drugs?”
“No,” she bites out, but I don’t believe her. I also know there’s no point continuing to probe her about whether she’s using. She’ll deny it, I’ll get pissed and say something that’ll make her fly off the handle, and then she won’t cooperate.
And I need her to cooperate with me.