Michael shuffles home from the bus stop. A heat wave bakes the city and the sweat that dribbles down his cheeks tickles and infuriates him. His jeans are heavy with humidity and rub against his knee caps. He looks down at the road beneath his sneakers to avoid being blinded by the sun. There is nothing to see in his neighborhood except stacks of corroded buildings, pollution sticking to them in big, black blooms of filth.
He kicks a soda can out of his path and almost trips. He curses. Someone had written “white trash” on his locker. He can’t handle one more bad thing happening to him today. He just wants to get home into the air conditioning, grab a bowl of sugary cereal, and escape into his new video game.
Then he hears the hum of a motor behind him. He glances out of the corner of his eye, praying it’s not one of the bullies from school. A glistening sedan pulls up beside him and keeps pace with his stride. He glances over, never expecting to see the elegant young man inside a spotless luxury car. He feels a tumult beneath his diaphragm. The soothing smell of the leather and conditioned air pours out as the driver lowers the window.
“It’s terribly hot, isn’t it?” The driver sounds British. He looks older than Michael, but not by that much. His crystal eyes, his fine clothing, his immaculate grooming make him seem too perfect. Like he’s fake. A movie star, Michael thinks.
“Why don’t I give you a ride?”
The locks open with an ominous clunk. Public service announcements drilled in elementary school autoplay in Michael’s head. Don’t get into the car with a stranger. He’s been seeing the faces of missing teenagers on the local news lately. He wipes sweat from his forehead, shields his eyes from the sun, and peers at the driver from under his palm.
The young man has a charming smile. A very polite smile. The eyes, strangely large and expressive, are covered with a heavy fringe of ashen lashes that keep them in shadow. They gleam with an eerie colorlessness, like jewels in moonlight. Stranger danger. The man is totally out of place, unlike anyone Michael’s ever seen before. But he isn’t the middle-aged, paunchy pedophile type. He’s too young, isn’t he? The British accent makes Michael feel safer for some reason.
“You’re going to melt out there.”
A small crease cleaves the skin between thick and dark brows, giving the impression he’s prone to bouts of pouting or heavy thought. In contrast to his dark brows, the hair that loosely frames his face is so fair that it’s almost white. He’s just too good-looking to be a creep.
“Come on. Get in.”
Michael obeys before he makes the conscious decision to take the risk. It’s like he’s hypnotized. He walks to the car, its champagne gleam blinding him, and clumsily fondles the handle. It’s so well polished that his fingers slip off, and he has to try again to open the door. Then Michael throws his backpack onto the floor, noticing how grimy it is in contrast to the creamy upholstery. White trash. Kids hissed those words whenever they walked by him.
The windows slide up around them, muffling the caustic smells and sounds of the city, sealing them in the silken air. “Pleasure to meet you.” The man extends his arm. Long fingers close around Michael’s hand. The skin is soft, but Michael senses the great strength in his grip. “My name is Sebastian. Call me Seb. What’s your name?”
“Michael.”
“Where were you off to?”
“Home.”
“Is it close?”
“I live on the next block over.” Michael points to what used to be Mrs. Pagliani’s brownstone. They ripped it down. Now there is just a bald, stubby patch with rebar sticking out, like a chunk of hair that has been ripped from a scalp. “I cut through the empty lot here. My building is that one behind it.”
“You don’t drive?”
“No.” Michael feels foolish that he’s walking home from the bus stop. He’s seventeen and still doesn’t have his license. His mom told him to get a job and buy a car, but he tried to work at the supermarket and found himself literally unable to get out of bed, weighed down by a vague lethargy. Every morning he considered killing himself rather than go to work, and one day he even almost did it. Almost.
“So that’s your building.” Seb points to the massive structure of grubby government-subsidized concrete that occupies the next block. It isn’t tall enough to kill Michael if he were to jump off of it, so he had tried slitting his wrists. Big fail. He wasn’t strong enough to go all the way down to the vein. Or maybe he was just too chicken.
“You live with your parents?”
“Just Mom.”
“What happened to Dad?”
“Took off when I was five.”
“And what does Mom do?”
“Pretty much stays at home.”
“I see.” Seb pulls the vehicle away from the curb and looks thoughtfully at the street before him.
Michael doesn’t want to tell this man about his mom. She hasn’t worked in years. She doesn’t move most days. Her bulk occupies the whole couch while she watches soaps and talk shows. She never recovered from Michael’s father leaving her. It’s like she is waiting for his dad to come back and walk in on her suffering. Look what you did to me. Sometimes she makes Michael a bologna sandwich, sighing and groaning as if she’s using the last of her strength. The slightest effort and she expects to be canonized. That is his mother. “She has a chronic illness,” Michael says.
“Hmm. Right.” His voice is like velvet. Each consonant is perfectly and mindfully sounded out. Michael has never heard anyone pronounce the t at the end of right before. “What do you think of that?” Again, he hears the t.
Michael shrugs. “It sucks.” He doesn’t want to say it out loud, that sometimes he thinks she makes it all up. It’s embarrassing, and he wants to talk about something else. “This is a nice car,” he says. His speech sounds hoarse and clumsy in contrast to Seb’s. He is aware of the gaping difference between them. White trash. It has never been clearer to Michael what the bullies mean.
“It’s extravagant for my taste. I don’t believe in spending resources on such things, but it was my father’s. I will tell you about my parents as we become friends. We will become friends, won’t we.”
This isn’t a question, and it strikes Michael as slightly weird. Boys, young men, just don’t go around talking like Let’s be friends, but he finds himself under a spell in the speeding cocoon of fine smells and fabrics. The cool air and the purr of the engine make him want to lie back and curl his toes.
“You don’t want to go home yet,” Sebastian tells him. “We’ll go for a drive.”
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