Under the Bridge Read Free Page A

him: the three ill girls.
    He dropped them off at Nevada’s house, vowing that he would never invite them to another party.
    And then, only half an hour later, he heard the sound of a pebble chucked at his window. He ran down the stairs, eager to tell the girls to get lost and leave him alone.
    But there was only one girl.
    Josephine stood there, dressed as she had been dressed for the disastrous party. Barely dressed. A short black skirt, skinny legs, the rise of her black platform heels.
    â€œWe got kicked out of Nevada’s house,” she said, morosely.
    Good,
he thought,
finally.
He looked up the street and saw Kelly in her father’s arms, being carried into her father’s car.
    â€œI’ve got nowhere to go, Colin,” Josephine said.
    â€œWhy don’t you go home?”
    She looked intently at her blue fingernails. “I got in trouble at home, and my mom kicked me out and now I’m living at this group home and they lock the doors at 11:00. Can I just stay here?”
    From the light affixed above the number 14, he could see Josephine’s stomach, her belly button, and he knew she was a twisted little troublemaker and she’d want something from him eventually. If he did not give it to her, she would take it—steal a CD or weed or his iguana named Steve.
    For two seconds, she stood there silently. She did not swear or beg, but he knew she was waiting for him to take her in.
    He looked away, over her thin shoulder, above her blonde head, toward the suburb, the ranch houses and bungalows, now unlit and closed. He shook his head, but she just stood there, and he thought he might never get rid of Josephine. She might be there at his window or door for the rest of his life, like a constant reminder of the soft and lost part of himself.
    For some reason, he watched her, later, after he’d refused to let her in and gone back upstairs to his bedroom. She sat for a while on the curb in the cul-de-sac. He could not make out her expression, but he imagined it was hostile. Nevada was in bed, tucked under her down comforter, and Kelly was at her father’s home, with the hot tub in the backyard and her brother’s Monte Carlo all agleam. Josephine might muster herself forward by imagining she was possessed of the soul and bravery of John Gotti. Really, she was so wraithlike, dragging her feet as she began her slow walk away from Marton Place. He imagined she might look up and give him the finger.
Fuck you Colin Jones.
But she did not, and he put on his headphones and stared at the pulsing black net of his eight speakers, while Josephine walked away, into the darkness of the night, which was becoming darker and quieter still.

Warren G.

    M ANY PEOPLE on the paradise-like island of Victoria refer to View Royal as “the place near the hospital” or “the wrong side of the tracks,” but to Warren, View Royal was “heaven.” For as long as he could remember, he’d moved around, and the list of places would take up the length of his left arm: Medicine Hat, Regina, Nanaimo, South Wellington, Castlegar, Trail, Estevan, and back to Nanaimo. He thought the constant moves were the reason his father wanted to live in a trailer, for as far as he could tell, his dad made a lot of money and Warren would later say, “I didn’t want for anything.” After a life of moving, Warren grew used to packing up all his possessions in a duffel bag and not holding on to anything. Luckily, he made friends easily and could let go of them just as easily as his last address. Well, actually, letting go was harder. Letting go, starting again. Warren was getting pretty sick of it in the year of the murder, the year he would turn sixteen. In the fall of this year, around the same time neighborhood girls were pestering Colin Jones, Warren’s dad announced he was moving once more, this time to California.
    Warren’s father was moving to live with a rich widow he’d