Non-Stop
The black hair around my ankles is getting thicker, strange. I wonder what’s up with ankles. Why do they get hairy first? I put my foot up on the toilet. If I look only at my foot, I look like a man. Or a hobbit. I look in the mirror. I have a new zit—a big one that fills up the crevice on the outside of my left nostril. Gross. I have elephantitis of the zit. I poke at it, prodding it to go away. I push it harder. I go at it with my mom’s tweezers. It hurts like I’m getting punched in the face, or at least how I imagine getting punched in the face would feel. Then it starts to bleed. “Shiiiiiiit!” I shout.
“Boy, you’re going to wake up your brother. You know he’s still sleeping! And get down here for breakfast you’re running late. You have three minutes, Mr. Lazy Ass,” my mom yells from the kitchen.
“You’re going to wake him up yourself! Stop yelling!” I holler.
She slams the fridge door as a response. I dab a piece of toilet paper on my oozing, bleeding zit and go to the bedroom to get dressed.
It’s dark. Jim is still sleeping. “Lucky son of a bitch,” I whisper. His high school starts an hour later than the junior high. I tug on a dangling, worn-out, red string of wrapping-paper ribbon to turn on the light in the closet. It doesn’t turn on. I pull again. It clicks but no light. I pull. I pull. I pull again. No light. “Shit times two,” I grumble as I grab what’s probably my plaid button-up shirt. The jeans from yesterday are crumpled on my side of the bed. They’re baggy; they’ve got cool silver stitching; they’ll be fine. I pull them on, cinch a belt around my waist and hustle to the kitchen.
“You better take this with you out the door,” my mom says.
She hands me a just-out-of-the-toaster Pop-Tart. I juggle the burning ember of a breakfast from hand to hand as I grab my backpack and head out the door.
I get to the subway platform freaking 15 seconds late. The subway car doors nearly close on my nose. “Next one had better come fast,” I threaten to no one on the empty platform.
Then I hear it, Bentley’s voice echoes down from the top of the stairs. He’s the only dude in New York who publicly tries to sing Alicia Key’s part of Empire State of Mind. “In New York, concrete jungle where dreams are made. There’s nothing you can’t do. Now you’re in New York. These streets will make you feel brand new. Bright lights will inspire you. Let’s hear it for New York.” But no one giggles when his voice wobbles and cracks like a retard. His crew just beat-boxes along with him. He’s getting closer. He’s getting louder. There’s no place for me to hide.
To keep my nervous knees still, I go sit on the bench. I choose a middle seat hoping to get cushioned by strangers.
“Hey bitch!” he yells.
I pretend like he isn’t talking to me.
“I’m talking to you lame-ass,” he says.
I steal at glance to assess the situation. A few commuters have joined us by the tracks. But Bentley’s not talking to them. They know it. I know it. Everyone is waiting for me to respond.
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