At seven Saturday morning I woke to Mom's voice, a raven screech ravaged from cheap alcohol and cigarettes.

"Babe! I made breakfast. Let's go shopping."

I pulled my pillow over my face and wondered if I had the discipline to suffocate myself.

"Get up, lazybones."

Curtain swish. Hellish sunlight ignited my bed, seeping all the way through the pillow. "Go away." I groaned. I'd been having this weird dream about being chased through a cornfield by a wild dog. I couldn't see it when I looked back, just the ripple through the stalks. But when it growled I felt its breath on my neck, hot and toxic.

So, when she said she had "made breakfast", she really meant she bought McDonald's. At least it wasn't her usual liquid meal. I scarfed down an egg sandwich and observed the woman that gave birth to me. Sunlight was not kind to her face. Her eye shadow looked greasy, not covering the dark circles so much as completing them. She was heavy-handed with her lipstick too, thick and tacky. No one wore magenta anymore, except ironically.

Once upon a time, this witchy skeletal creature was a teenage girl, like me. Her eyes were a clear peridot, her skin poreless alabaster. She was beautiful. Men and boys worshiped her.

I shuddered. I had the disturbing sense that I was looking into a mirror that showed the future.

"What do you need to shop for?" I said.

"For you, silly."

I eyed her suspiciously. "You never buy me things."

"It was a good week." Translation: I sold a lot of drugs to kids your age.

"And you're going to spend it on me." Not a question. A tentative statement.

"I can't stand looking at you in those ratty clothes. You need something nice."

Them ratty clothes were good enough for Mr. Donquixote, I thought. "You can give me the money, I'll buy them myself."

Please, Jesus, don't go with me.

Mom smiled. Her porcelain caps shone brilliantly. The majority of her teeth were fake, the real ones rotted out by meth. "If I got to pay to spend time with you, I will."

Zip, thunk. Arrow right in the heart. It sank deep, quivering. I knew this woman cared about me in some delusional way. I just preferred when we both ignored that fact.

She chained smoked in the van. I hung halfway out the window, texting Law. If there was ever a time you thought about killing me, please, do it now.

He text back: To what do I owe the pleasure?

Girls' day out with mother dearest.

Who is the girl? Good old Law.

~·~

We drove out to the eastern part of town where the lawns were lush with green grass and white picket fences. We stopped at the mall, ice-cold AC, that soda pop smell in the slightly carbonated air. Mom took me straight to Criminal. We passed a rack of pretorn, prefaded jean shorts, indistinguishable from what I was wearing except for the price tag. I raised a eyebrow. Translation: I told you so.

"Get what you like." Mom said. She held a black mesh tank against her boobs, turning left and right.

"I'll meet you at the register." I said, slipping away.

Alone on the hardwood floors under champagne-coloured lights, I'll admit-I felt slightly glamorous. I couldn't stop looking at myself in the mirrors. I knew I was pretty. I'd never been on of those angsty girls who needed constant reassurance. When your Mom's skeezy "business partners" hit on you when you're twelve, you learn fast. I'd been aware of male attention since before menarche. I knew I was desirable. I knew how to wield that as both a tool and a weapon.

I'd never really thought of myself as beautiful, though.

The girl in the mirror was beautiful.

Part of falling in love with someone is actually falling in love with yourself. Realizing that you're gorgeous, you're fearless and unpredictable, you're a firecracker spitting light, entrancing a hundred faces that stare up at you with starry eyes.

The girl in the mirror stared at me. She blinked slowly, knowingly. She seemed to be looking at something bright-chin raised, eyes distant, guarded. Button nose and full lips. Her mouth was open slightly, a sliver of white visible. She had the kind of effortlessly slender body older women hated her for. Her breasts were average, even on the small side, but she carried them in a way that made you aware. She carried her whole body that way. Spine straight, each limb flowing loosely, easily. She had bones only when she needed them. Rich chestnut hair spilled over her bare shoulders, an elegant mess.

I looked at her and thought, I don't know who you are.

A group of girls drifted past, laughing in brazen tones. They smelled like a walking Bath & Beyond Works ad. They were moisturized and shining and tan, but beneath that was pudginess, acne, bulimia, self-hatred. They were processed. I was natural, uncultured and untamed.

My phone vibrated.

Perona, the pretty gothic girl from history class, asking about our project. After I'd responded and put it away, I still felt it. His number was right there, snug against my ass. Any moment, I could reach out to him, connect. For now it was comforting just knowing it was there. But I knew this kind of comfort wouldn't last. I'd need more.

~·~

Mom didn't bat an eyelash at the armful of clothes I dumped on the counter. I watched the register tick up, growing increasingly nervous as we hit $100, $150, $200. No way would she go for this. She'd stop the cashier. Oh god, she wasn't stopping the cashier. There was going to be A Scene.

Total: $242.18

Mom pulled out a wad of twenties. I tried not to gawk. One of the laughing bulimic girls watched us leave, her eyes glinting jealousy.

I was too stunned to say thank you. I followed Mom to the food court, feeling like a delivery person, about to give this to some kid who really deserved it.

She bought a huge plate of orange chicken and picked at it, eating like a bird. My body tensed, expecting a blowup. IT couldn't go this long without turning ugly.

"Want to see a movie?"

My mouth dropped. We hadn't done that since I was little. I cleared my throat, blinked. Something weird was happening in my chest. It was an actual feeling for this woman.

"I'm kind of tired." I said. Her eyes widened. She looked like a sad raccoon. Her mascara made spider legs out of her eyelashes.

"Maybe a short one?" I conceded.

I couldn't believe myself. I knew she was manipulating me. I didn't know why yet, but I knew better than to buy into her shit. Remember what she's done to you, I thought. Remember those nights she left you alone on the couch with a man who kept saying how pretty you were, who touched you, so she could squeeze more money out of him. Remember her going to jail for possession and sticking you in a group home for three months. Remember she's the reason you're so screwed up.

I didn't remember anything.

I sat with her in the refrigerated theater, smelling her cigarette breath and way-too-young perfume, watching a terrible movie, laughing.

~·~

That night I sprawled on my bed with my ancient laptop, ostensibly researching my history report but actually googling Mr. Donquixote. Not much Internet presence. Some placeholder profiles on social networking sites. Some blurry JPEGs. Even those tiny, pixelated images made my heart spin like a top. I saved the best one to my desktop, glancing at him while reading about...what was I reading?

Not good. I was becoming obsessed.

New search: Age of consent laws.

We were legal.

That night at the carnival was legal, obviously, and even if it happened now, as teacher and student, when he was in a "position of trust or authority" over me, it would still be legal because the cutoff was sixteen. As a seventeen (very soon to be eighteen) year old, I could legally fuck my teacher.

Of course, if anyone found out, they'd fire him in a heartbeat. He'd probably never teach again.

Something heavy thudded downstairs.

I put in my earbuds and lay back, eyes closed. The Constellations, "Right Where I Belong." Mellow and bluesy and bittersweet. Just how I felt.

A tepid breeze ghosted through the room, smelling of grass and dying summer. The cicadas were so loud I heard them through the music, the rattle of a million rainsticks. What are you doing right now? I wondered. What if I called?

Something heavy fell again. My bed vibrated.

I sat up, yanking out my earbuds.

Thump, thump, thump.

I stormed downstairs, calling for Mom. A man stood in our living room, rangy, gray beard, jeans so oily they looked like leather.

"Your mom had too much to drink." He said.

Mom was on the floor. He was trying to help her to the sofa.

"Jesus," I said, kneeling. Her skin was cool to the touch. "She wasn't drinking. She's cold. What did she take?"

The man gave me an unreadable look.

"Mom?" I shook her. She was breathing, but shallowly. "Mom, what did you take?" I thumbed an eye open. Her pupil contracted in the light. She moaned, rolled away from me.

Thank fucking God.

I turned to the man. "Who are you?"

"Paul."

"Paul," I said curtly, "Carry my mom to bed."

He carried her, and I held her head up. I pulled the cover over her. Turned on the lamp. Found her cell and pressed it into Paul's hand.

"You're going to stay with her until she comes down." I said. "Check her pulse every five minutes. If it slows, or she gets colder, or stops breathing, call a fucking ambulance. I can't do this again."

Paul had trouble paying attention to my mouth. He stared at my legs like they were talking.

"Hey," I snapped my fingers. He looked up.

I took a picture with my phone. "Now I've got you on file. Don't fucking leave her until she comes down."

Paul's beard twitched.

I shut the bedroom door and leaned my head against the wall in the darkness. My throat twisted shut.

Selfish bitch. She had never, ever let me be a kid.

A wedge of amber light fell across me. Paul stepped out of the bedroom. For a pathetic second I considered hugging this stranger. I needed to be hugged, by anyone.

Paul put a hand on my back. My shoulders knit. The hand slid down to the top of my ass.

I slammed my elbow into his gut. He gave a small, stifled gasp.

"Touch me again," I said. "And I'll fucking kill you."

I walked fast out of the hall, but once I turned the corner I ran for the front door. Slammed it behind me. Dropped onto the top step, breathing wildly.

God, my life was a fucking joke.

I pulled my phone out, intending to call Law, to beg him to meet me somewhere, but before I could a new text popped up.

From Mr. Donquixote.

Just a photo, no words. A ribbon of fireflies zigzagging through the night. The fiery spokes of a Ferris wheel. The merry-go-round like a giant music box. Deathsnake, a sinuous line of lights rising into the sky, dropping off into oblivion. It looked like a small galaxy, a fog of coloured light hanging around it like a nebula. He'd taken it from his house.

The lights he saw every night.

My heart calmed. I stared at the screen, forgetting the life behind me. Wish I was there, I replied.

A moment later, his response: Me too.

Somewhere in the universe, two hearts reached out and connected.

Then a figure stepped out into the light streaming from the house, a shadow falling over me. I leapt up and ran for my bike in the garage, pedaled furiously down the street to the highway. I headed for the water tower, racing as fast as I could, even when I was alone with the arctic starlight and the wind keening in my ears.

At the reservoir I jumped off my bike, letting it fall. Used my momentum to run up the hill. Breathless, sweaty. My blood sand in my veins at supersonic speed. I climbed to the crow's nest, feeling savage. I could kill someone with my bare hands right now.

Law sat on the driftwood boards.

"Remy?"

I collapsed beside him, rolling to my back and staring up at the fat-bellied tank. I drank in the cool night air, soothing the burn in my lungs.

"What happened to you?"

I waited until I had my breath back. "My mom overdosed."

"Is she going to live?"

"Unfortunately, yes." I sat up. "Maybe. I really don't give a fuck."

I felt him looking at me, watching me. I slid to the edge of the platform, dangling my legs off. Thirty-foot drop to grass and dirt.

"It won't be fatal." Law said, observing me. I laughed breathlessly.

"What is your greatest fear?" I asked him. Law exhaled.

"Being alone for the rest of my life." I looked at him wide-eyed. As text book as that confession was, he sounded...genuine.

"That's a good one." My fingers flexed. "Mine is being my mom."

I kicked myself off the platform.

I heard an indistinguishable sound bubble to Law's lips before the whoosh of air flooded my ears. My arms held; I swung out over space, light as air. It seemed I could let go and just float to the ground like ash.

I pulled myself back up onto the platform, meeting an unimpressed-looking Law.

"You're not going to make this a murder-suicide are you?" I joked.

"I'm not like you," He said, annoyed tone evident in his voice. "I don't want to self-destruct."

"What?" I said in a soft voice.

"If you want to kill yourself, be my guest. But don't do it in front of me." Law stood silently, slipping his black hoodie over his head as he casually headed toward the ladder. I watched, speechless, as he strode off through the tall grass.

Then I stood alone. I felt empty, a sort of diffuse hunger, a gnawing sensation in my belly and lungs and throat.

The world shivered brightly.

Don't cry. Don't fucking cry.

I took my phone out. Lost myself in those lights, the stupid pixels that formed words that meant everything.

From up here I had a view of the carnival, too. I snapped a picture. Mine was farther out, a sprinkle of rainbow glitter. I sent it without a message. His reply, almost instantaneous, was what I'd expected, and I smiled.

Wish I was there, he said.

Me too, I answered.

I pressed the phone to my chest, a warm rectangle of light irradiating my bones. I wasn't sitting there alone. I wasn't alone anymore.

Something made me check the screen again. I'd read it fast, teary-eyed. It was different when I read it the second time. What he'd actually written was, Wish you were here.