Blackbird Read Free Page A

be something you deserved.
    “I don’t know what you’re thinking,” Ben says, “but it’s not that bad. I have a prescription pot card. I just do it for extra cash.”
    “I wasn’t thinking about that,” you say.
    “I don’t even smoke it,” Ben goes on. “I quit a while ago.”
    “Seriously . . .” you say, looking out the window as block after block flies past. “I’m not going to tell anyone. Don’t worry.”
    Ben makes a left turn on Broadway, nearly sideswiping a Fiat parked at the corner. “My history teacher says it’s senioritis. That none of us care. We’re all just waiting to graduate, so we’re doing stupid things. He wasn’t talking about drugs; it was more . . . everything. I’m only in class seventy percent of the time.”
    “Where are you the other thirty?”
    “Hanging out at home.”
    “Don’t your parents care?”
    “My mom’s not around much.”
    “Why?”
    “She’s been sick.” Ben slows the car. He scans the few blocks up ahead, close to where you told him you were going. In that pause he says everything: Leave it alone, no more questions, just something I told you and I’m hoping you’ll ignore.
    “Come on, you have to at least tell me where I’m taking you.”
    “I’m going here.” You point to the curb half a block up. You tried to keep the conversation neutral during the twenty-minute ride, making fun of the Red Bull cans strewn about the car floor, listening to Ben describe Marshall High School, the public school he’s been going to for the last few years, since he got kicked out of a private. But every now and then Ben asked about your arm or what happened this morning, why your jeans were ripped and dirty. You only pulled the map out once and you tried not to let him see, but he kept glancing over, his eyes narrowing at the star scribbled in pen.
    Ben pulls up next to a metal fence. Across an empty lot, two men sit under a lean-to, sharing a cigarette. There are gang tags on the brick wall. “You want me to drop you off here?”
    “This is perfect.”
    “Perfect?” When Ben says it, his voice rises, the word giving way to laughter. The building on the map is five blocks away, but you won’t risk having him bring you there.
    The Jeep has just pulled to a stop when you open the door, stepping down onto the sidewalk. Ben rifles through his glove compartment, scavenges the center console and floor. When he finds a pen he scribbles on the back of a crumpled receipt, then hands it to you. It’s a phone number.
    “In case of emergency?” you ask.
    “In case it’s not perfect. Or if you need anything. Whatever.”
    You fold the receipt into a square and tuck it in the front pocket of your jeans. “Thanks for the ride.”
    The door is closed. The engine is still running, both his hands on the steering wheel as he looks at the buildings across the street, trying to figure out where it is you’re headed. Two breaths. He gives you a half smile, then finally shifts the car into drive.
    When he’s gone you start past the empty lot, past a building labeled CLUB STARLIGHT , its awning faded to gray. The streets are practically deserted. You pass the Orpheum Theatre, the banner advertising some band you’ve never heard of. Then, within a few more steps, you see the curved entranceway jutting out over the sidewalk.
    The lobby is empty. The doorman’s post is abandoned, not even a guest book or pen left on top of the podium. You look into the far corner of the room, where a security camera is perched like a bird. You turn your head away, bringing your hand to your temple to block your profile, hoping the angle wasn’t right, that it didn’t catch you straight on.
    A plastic directory on the wall lists the companies, but all of the names are unfamiliar. You scan through the numbers instead. Past finance companies and therapist offices you find GARNER CONSULTING, SUITE 909, 818-555-1748 . It’s the same number from your notebook.
    You take the elevator to