overpasses littered with graffiti.

On the front stoop, Isaiah laughs with two Latino guys, then nods to my Jeep parked on the street behind his Mustang. They stop

laughing. I agree. I’m not seeing an ounce of humor in this scenario. “This place is no good.”

“They’re my friends,” Beth says. “Scott

ripped me away and I never got a chance to say goodbye. You can stay in the car. Just give me twenty minutes, thirty tops. And then we’ll go out. I swear.”

No way in hell is she going in there alone. I register the threat level of the neighborhood and the guys on the porch. “I can’t protect you here.”

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“I’m not asking you to. You said you’d

wait—”

I cut her off. “When you said you wanted to stop by and say goodbye to some friends. That guy is wearing gang colors.”

She hits the back of her head against the seat. “Ryan. I’m probably never going to see any of them again. Will you please just let me say goodbye?”

Those words, never going to see again and goodbye, are the only reasons I’m saying this.

“Then I’m going in with you.”

“Fine.” She hops out and I follow. She can live under whatever delusion she wants, but she’s no safer here than I am and I’ll go down swinging before anyone hurts her. We reach the front stoop and I see that Isaiah has

disappeared. Is it too much to hope that he’s called it a night? The inside of the house is smaller than I expected, and I expected

cramped.

The kitchen and living room are really one room put together and separated by the angle of furniture. Teenagers sit everywhere—on the furniture, on the floor. Others lean against walls. A haze of smoke lingers in the room.

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Cigarette smoke. Other types of smoke.

I draw the stares of most everyone, but they continue their conversations. The guys size me up. The girls’ eyes wander to my chest. Some outright gawk lower. Beth entwines her hand with mine, then caresses her soft fingers against my cheek, enticing me to drop my head to hers.

“Stay close to me,” she whispers. “Don’t

talk and don’t stare. Things will be better in the backyard.”

For days, I’ve dreamed of Beth being this close to me again, but right now I can only focus on the multiple sets of eyes watching our every movement. Beth turns, holds tighter to my fingers, and leads me through the living room and out the back door of the kitchen.

Several strings of Christmas lights hang

between three trees scattered in the narrow yard. A patch of grass grows in the far corner.

The rest of it is a mix of weeds and dirt. In the middle of a ring of worn lawn chairs, Isaiah talks to Noah, a redheaded girl tucked close to Noah, and one of the Latino guys from the stoop.

Noah breaks from the group when he sees

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Beth. She releases me and falls into his

waiting arms. They whisper to one another. I don’t like how he holds on to her and don’t like how long he’s holding. That doesn’t look like brotherly love to me. I stare at his girl. Why is she so damned happy to see her guy hugging someone else?

When he lets her go, Noah extends his hand to me. “S’up.”

I take his hand and squeeze extra tight.

“Nothing. You?”

The moment I squeeze, Noah grins and

squeezes back. “Chill, bro. Beth says you’re good, so that makes us good.”

Beth hugs the Latino guy and laughs as he playfully talks in Spanish. “That’s Rico,” says Noah. “Relax. We’ve got your back.”

“It’s Beth I’m worried about. She shouldn’t be here.”

Noah loses the easygoing front. “No, she

shouldn’t.”

Beth glances over her shoulder and flashes me that joyous smile—the one I’ve only seen a handful of times.

“Is she wearing a ribbon?” Noah asks in

clear disbelief.

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Feeling proud, I answer, “I gave it to

her.”

“Fucking wonderful,” Noah mumbles as he

eyes Isaiah. “Don’t stay long.”

Noah returns to the group and pulls his girl onto a hammock strung along two posts in the ground. The hammock swings gently back and forth as they lie together. Propped up on an elbow, Noah focuses on her. “Echo, that’s Ryan. Ryan, this is my girl.”

Message received. Screw with his girl and he’ll screw with me. “Nice to meet you.”

Echo sits up, but Noah snakes an arm around her waist and drags her back down.

“Beth brought a guy who has manners,”

Echo teases him. “See, it’s not so hard.”

Noah pushes her hair over her shoulder, then runs a finger along her arm. “I’ve got manners, baby.”

“No.” She swats at his hand and laughs.

“You don’t.”

Disgust weaves through me as I register

what I’m seeing. Scars cover Echo’s arms. I rub a hand over my face. What the hell

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addresses me is a menacing threat. “Stare any longer, Ryan, and I’ll kick your ass.”

“Noah,” Echo reprimands. “Don’t.”

Beth returns to me. “What did I say about staring?”

“I apologize,” I say directly to Echo.

Echo smiles. “See? Manners.”

“Come on,” says Beth. “Let’s get you a beer before you give them a good reason to kick your ass.”

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Beth

I MISS LAUGHING.

Most days I can find something amusing to make my lips flinch up. Sometimes it will be funny enough to make me chuckle. But I miss laughing. Really laughing. Laughing to the point that my insides hurt, my chest aches, my face is exhausted from holding the smile.

For effect, Rico stands in the middle of the circle of lawn chairs and in slow motion

reenacts how Isaiah and I kept him from being busted for underage drinking this summer by distracting a pair of cops with a very bad mime routine.

“I’m hiding in the bushes and if the police step back, they’d be on top of me. Beth’s just standing there,” Rico chokes out between

laughs. “Her arm stiff at the shoulder and her forearm dangling back and forth like a

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pendulum. The cop asked if she needed

medical help. He thought she was having a seizure.”

Everyone, including me, bursts into laugher.

Rico composes himself to spit out the rest.

“And she breaks her self-imposed silence and says, ‘I’m a mime, you moron. Why do you

think I’ve been doing all these retarded

moves?’”

Everyone laughs harder and as our group

gasps for air Rico glances at Ryan. “Incluso el nino blanco se esta riendo.”

I’m not fluent in Spanish, but I know enough to pick out the words white boy and laughter.

My heart shivers when I catch Ryan at the tail end of a chuckle. He’s always cute, but he’s breathtaking when he laughs.

Rico lifts his beer to his lips, then tosses it across the yard. “I’m out.”

Isaiah tips the cooler. “We’re all out, man.”

“Isaiah, help me snag some of Antonio’s

stash, then we’ll hit the mota.”

Mota. Weed. The layer between my skin and muscles itches. I want a hit. More like I crave a hit—the smell surrounding me, the smoke

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floating. Oh God, I want more than

anything to float.

Isaiah stands and Rico kicks my foot as he passes. “You’re in, right, Beth?”

It kills me to shake my head. “Curfew.”

I peek at Ryan. Does he know what mota is?

The smile falls from my lips as I flip through the stories we’ve told. Oh crap, I feel sick. The drinking. The drugs. The parties. He heard it all. My stomach sways. He knows what I am.

“Beth,” says Isaiah. He waits until I look at him. “The stuff is mild. You’ll be sober by curfew.”