Jessica Sorensen - Saving Quinton

When the door creaks, he glances up, looking relieved, and as soon as I see what he has in front of him, our emotions match. “Thank God,” he says. “I thought I was going to lose my mind if I had to wait a second longer.”

“We have a huge problem,” I announce as I kick the door shut behind me. “Did you know Dylan has a gun?”

Tristan nods his head distractedly as he stares at the spoon. “Yeah, he made a point to show it to me yesterday when he threatened me and told me that I needed to patch things up with Trace and to pay him back the money we took.”

Anger flickers when he says “we,” but I quickly simmer down, remembering I owe Tristan more than I’ll ever be able to pay him back for killing his sister. “You should have said something. He completely blindsided me with it just now.”

He shrugs, glancing up at me. “Sorry, I forgot.”

I want to get mad at him, but at the same time I sort of understand how he could forget—how easily our spun minds can make things disappear. “So what are we going to do about it? I mean, he’s super pissed and I guess Trace gave him a shiner—kicked his ass like he did mine.”

“We’ll look for the gun when he’s asleep or something and get rid of it,” Tristan suggests, stretching his arms above his head as he blinks tiredly, probably ready for his next boost of adrenaline.

“Okay, but even if we do that, we still have to worry about Trace coming to kick your ass.”

“If he does then he does,” Tristan says indifferently, his hands flopping onto his lap.

I bend down and lower myself to the floor beside the mattress, moving slowly because my body still aches. “I think we need to take care of it.” Not for me, but for him.

He rolls his eyes. “Just because Trace threatens us doesn’t mean he’s actually going to do anything about it.”

I look down at my banged-up body. “You really think so?” I ask.

Tristan grunts unenthusiastically. “Fine, I’ll figure out a way to pay him back or something. Or better yet, we could just find where Dylan hides his dealing stash and give him that.”

“Yeah, I don’t think pissing Dylan off is going to help this situation at all.” I bring my knee up and rest my arm on it. “We just need to find a way to pay Trace back what you owe him.” I glance at the spoon and mirror on the floor and the bag of crystal. “And I’m guessing we need to find a way to pay Dylan back, too, since I’m assuming you already spent that money you stole from him.”

“I’ll figure something out,” he says, still looking like he doesn’t give a shit, like he doesn’t care what happens to him, and it makes me angry, not at him, but at myself. Because deep down, I have to wonder why he’s here in this shithole. That maybe part of the reason is because I killed his sister and he couldn’t handle the pain, just like I can’t. “I’ll go break into some houses and get some cash. I should be able to scrounge enough up over the next week or so.”

I’m not so sure, but it’s a start. “We should get started like tonight.”

Tristan nods and I rack my brain for a better way to get him out of this, one that I know for sure will work. What I want to do is call his parents and tell them to come get him. I’m not sure how well that’d go over, though, considering they hate me and Tristan probably would get really pissed and refuse to go with him. And what if they said no?

“Where’d you get that?” Tristan asks as he catches sight of the bag of food in my hand.

I blow out a stressed breath as I glance down at the bag and remember I have other problems, too, at the moment, like how determined Nova looked to spend time with me—be with me. “Nova made me take it.” I set the bag down beside my feet and lift my hips to take the piece of paper with her phone number on it out of my pocket.

Tristan scratches the back of his neck and then collects the spoon from the floor. “Yeah, she seems to care about you, doesn’t she?” He rotates the spoon in his hand as I grab my empty wallet and tuck the paper inside it, deciding to hold on to it for a while.

“She cares about everyone,” I mumble as the awkwardness between us rises.

“Yeah, but she really seems to care about you,” he says, watching my response with interest.

“Maybe.” I remember her words in the car, how she said she wants to help me. Me, the fucked-up druggie loser. I take the spoon away from him and toss it aside, then pick up the mirror and the plastic bag full of crystal. The crystal is calling to me, promising me that it’ll let me forget everything that happened today with a simple taste.

Tristan drops the spoon back onto the floor and steals the plastic bag from me, opening it up, then dipping his finger in the white powder. “So how did it go with Nova?” he asks distractedly. “I mean, what does she even want?”

My hands start to quiver with my need to feel the taste of it—to forget everything that’s happened today. Nova. Dylan. Trace. Lexi. Ryder. Everything and everyone. “To help me.”

His concentration is diverted to me. “What?”

“She says she wants to help me.” My eyes are glued on the bag in his hand, not on his words, not on Nova anymore. Everything is slipping away, which is why I love it—need it to survive.

He studies me, skimming the tattoos on my arm. “Why?” He says it like he can’t understand and neither can I. I’m worthless. He knows it. I know it. Everyone knows it except for Nova.

“I have no idea.” I pick up the spoon and fiddle with it to keep myself busy, bending the handle back and forth. Focus. “And I don’t want to talk about it anymore.”

He arches his brow as he glances at the spoon in my hand. “Do you want to try that? Because I’m telling you, it’s so much better than what you’re used to. In fact, we could do a speedball.”

“I’ve already told you I’m not going to do that…I hate needles and mixing drugs,” I say, chucking the spoon on the floor. “I just want to get spun.”

He scoots off the mattress and onto the floor in front of me, putting the mirror between us. “Then let’s get spun.”

So we do and for a moment I forget my past, my future, how Nova made me feel something today. I forget about the heavy cloud hanging over us. How much bad shit could go down at any moment.

I forget about everything.

May 19, day four of summer break

Nova

It’s been a long three days, filled with visits to Quinton that seem to be leading nowhere. We have the same conversations and he won’t open up to me at all and I’m not sure how to bring up to him that I know about the accident, so I just keep dodging around it, lying to him. But bringing up memories like that is complicated and painful. I know because every time someone would even mention Landon’s name after his death, it’d feel like a part of me died inside.

When I’m not over there with Quinton, I spend my time hanging out with Lea. We haven’t gone to the Strip yet, but we chatted about going out this weekend when it’s late and all the lights are on, just as long as her uncle doesn’t mind that we come home late. He actually just got home from his business trip last night and chatted with Lea and me for a little bit. He seems nice and even cooked us dinner while he asked us about our plans while we are here. Lea was vague about the details, telling him that we were here to see a friend.

It’s late morning and I’m sitting in the guest room at Lea’s uncle’s house with the computer screen aimed at me so I can see myself as I get ready to record before I head over to Quinton’s for my daily visit. I have the curtain pulled shut to avoid any glare. My brown hair is wavy and runs down to my shoulders and the blue studs in my ears match my tank top. I have shorts on and no shoes. “It’s been three days of going over to see Quinton and the time I spend with him feels so short and the time in between feels so long because I’m always worried about what he’s doing when I’m gone.” I lean forward in the chair, getting closer to the screen. “I still hate going over there, though, because it’s so terrifying…his place. I’m not even sure why. If it’s because there’s so many rough people walking around doing things that are bad and illegal or if it’s the fact that if I didn’t change paths, I could have ended up there.” I pause, considering my next words carefully. “What’s really hard is that sometimes I can see myself there, sitting beside Quinton on the shitty mattress in his room. I can picture myself there getting high beside him, connecting with him, and life is so different. Less stressful.” I make a guilty face. “Maybe that’s not the right word, because it is stressful in a different way, but it’s like you’re so wrapped up in drugs that you can’t register the stress until it’s too late and everything’s falling apart. I don’t want to get sucked into it again, but it’s so easy and even though I won’t tell Lea this”—I lower my voice and lean closer to the screen—“there’s been a few fleeting seconds where I think why not? Why not just join him again? What’s stopping you? Which makes me wonder if maybe I’m not the right person to save Quinton.” I raise my arm in front of the screen and get a shot of my scar and tattoo. “But then I look down at this and I remember that place, where I was so lost, drifting, drifting, drifting. I could have died and it wouldn’t have mattered,” I say. “But right now it does matter because I want to live.”

I sigh, knowing I’m rambling at this point. “Honestly, I don’t know what exactly I’m trying to say with this recording, other than to get my thoughts out.” I faintly smile. “Sort of like a diary.” I click the camera off and shut down the computer. I slip my sandals on and grab my bag, ready to head out, hoping that I can continually remember, never forget just how bad things can get, because it’s what keeps me going.