The White City

The late night air hangs heavy as it nears 10:30. It feels like any minute the sky will open up and rain, but it probably won’t. I stand in the growing line outside Spanish Moon, a drive bar just north of the university, as sweat beads down my back. My tank top clings to my ribs. No amount of luscious oaks, decadent food or lively culture can excuse the fact that Louisiana is Hell’s waiting room. It’s hot and it’s that simple.

So why am I here?

Quite honestly, I don’t know.

One moment I’m standing in Chicago under light falling snow, the next I’m beside the USS Kidd in Baton Rouge, staring at the mighty Mississippi. However it happened, I used up all the money I scavenged and begged for to get here. The first few weeks I spent the days searching for jobs and my nights huddled in an alley, trying my best to sleep on an empty stomach. It brought back sweet memories of those days (seemingly) long ago.

A job position finally opened up at a gas station in LSU’s campus town and I was able to rent a space in a house close by with four college students. It’s a decent place; crowded, but better than concrete. My roommates give me side longed glances whenever that rare moment occurred where I shuffled out of my room to get a drink of water. But they keep their opinions to themselves as long as I pay my rent. I have no desire for friends, let alone simple conversation. They probably rejoice when I leave for work during the week and celebrate when I head over to the Spanish Moon every few weeks for ‘80s night.

Flicking sweat away from my eyes, I hand $5 and my ID to the guy at the door. He stamps my hand with little keys indicating I’m under 21 and opens the door. My skin crawls as a rush of cool air and cigarette smoke bombards me. Sweet, sweet heavenly goodness; I’m able to breathe. The Moon is dimly lit and smells like wet wood.

Guns n Roses’ "Welcome to the Jungle" comes on the speakers and a bolt of electricity shoots through the crowd. People begin singing and ambling up onto the small stage next to the front door. There are a few people that wear normal clothes, but most people adorns outfits many of their parents wore, except for the guy getting his grooves on in the bedazzled leotard. He’s probably reliving the good ol’ days. Teased hair and leather shine under the flashing lights.

I hurry up the stairs to a small area overlooking the dance floor and squeeze around two guys shooting pool. The smaller of the two mumbles incoherent words under his breath then something about a rematch. I take a seat at the bar and wait Sarah, the bartender. Sarah stands at the other end of the bar, hands on her hips, trying to calmly deny a girl more alcohol. The girl wobbles on her purple-sparkle heels and clings to the bar for dear life yet reassures, loudly, that she isn’t drunk.

“No,” Sarah replies wide-eyed before turning on her heels and walking toward me. “Hey, Dahlia!” Her small face quickly brightens. She fills a plastic cup with Dr. Pepper and sets it in front of me. “A guy was asking about you earlier…someone from home, I’m guessing.”

“What? Who?” I snap. My hand clenches around the cup so hard some of the pop spills out.

Sarah draws back slightly, strands of chestnut hair fall into her face. Shaking her head, she answers slowly, “How the hell is am I supposed to know?”

“Sorry,” I mumble, burying my face in my hands. “It’s just…I don’t…” It’s not my home, never was. I don’t talk to anyone from Chicago anymore. No one knows where I am and I want it that way. Not that they care anyway. They’d just cause more pain and misery.

Sarah places her elbows on the bar. “I assumed y’all were from the same place, he asked for a ‘pop’. And he called you ‘flake’ or ‘fluke’ or some other before saying your name.”

My blood runs cold; my heart turns to stone. I choke out, “Did he say his name?”

“No.” She cranes her head and pointed to the corner, “but that’s him, babe.”

I follow her finger. A young man sits in the corner booth, thumbing what looks like a Polaroid. I cock my head to the side, studying him. He’s too old. The guys I hung around back then couldn’t grow facial hair if their lives depended on it. Aaron and Skeet participated in No Shave November. The feat saved us money we really didn’t have to blow on razors, but the end result was rather pathetic. Skeet couldn’t grow more than stubble along his jawline (which served as a tool to piss me off; he’d grab my head and rub that scraggly thing along my cheek) and Aaron…the boy looked like he lost a fight with a pair of scissors.

This guy has a full blown five o’clock shadow. And those muscles…we were scrawny street kids. Then again, I’ve filled out over these past eight months. Slowly, the guy looks up and his blue puppy dog eyes peak out from under thick eyebrows and lock onto me. The scruff fades away. The defined muscles disappear. He’s an awkward teenager, too thin for his height.

No.

I turn back to Sarah, white faced, fighting to breathe. They say running away is the coward's approach to life. I say it's pretty brave - dropping everything you know to start fresh where no one knows you, where no one knows what you've done. What’s to stop me from doing it again? I could say I don’t know him; there could be several other Dahlias from the north. I could go back to the house and never come out again, avoiding everyone, avoiding Sarah in case she ever brings up this night.

“He’s been here for an hour,” Sarah muses. “Even if he just pulled a random name out of his ass, you should still say hi. The boy ain’t hard on the eyes.” A wide smile spreads across her face.

It’s pretty brave until the past grabs ahold of you from behind. Then there's no escape and the only thing left to do is endure the pain. I slide off my chair and shuffle over to the corner.

“Skeet.” I cross my arms loosely and stare at him. His dark hair pokes out from under a red bandana, reaching for his eyes. It’s longer than I remember, but then again, I usually cut it for him.

“Hi.” I turn my eyes down to the floor, waiting, waiting…waiting. After several strenuous seconds of silence he utters, “You know I don’t know what to say in these types of –“

“Why don’t you start with what you’re doing here?” I lash out.

But he doesn’t. There are many things I don’t understand about Skeet, this being one of them. It seems like he purposely does the opposite of anything you say for the sheer thrill, but he never shows any self-satisfaction. He fiddles with the Polaroid and glances down at the dance floor. The lights change to an enchanting blue as some slow song I don’t recognized begins.

My blood boils. I rip the photograph out of his hands. “Who…” I trail off, first not recognizing the kids in the photo.

A girl with blonde hair bordering too long smiles like a bumbling idiot at the camera, her arm locked around a guy’s waist. In turn, his arm is lays limp over her shoulders. They share the same diamond-shaped face and pale wide eyes. It’s the last picture taken of my brother, Devon, and me. Despite the photo being taken inside, Devon sports a gray beanie pulled close to his bloodshot eyes and an unlit cigarette hangs from his lips. His dirty green hair sticks out in the back. That night was the first time he let me tag along to a party. A lump forms in my through; my knees wobble. I fall back into the railing, not wanting to sit near Skeet.

“You look much prettier with that hair,” he points to the photo. “The black makes you look dead.”

“W-why the fuck do you have this?” I try to yell, but all I muster is a hoarse whisper.

“I’m trying to wrap my head around why you left.”

“And I don’t understand why you left either! Aaron nearly died and Jinx was so wrapped up in it, I was alone. You-you weren’t there. I thought we were like family.”

“You talk about family like you value it,” he barks. Suddenly Skeet stands a nose length in front of me. I recoil slightly, fully taking him in. His khaki shorts are riddled with tears and streaks of dirt. He hasn’t been in Baton Rouge for long. The cool fall air back in Chicago has made his lips crack; he even smells like autumn leaves.

Dark bags hang under his eyes. “Yes, I freaked, but I made up for it while you ran half way across the country!”

“I wouldn’t have if you didn’t!”

He presses his lips and takes two steps backwards. “You can’t blame all of this on me,” he whispers, shaking his head. “You were messed up before we met. Who the hell knows exactly what the problem is; you won’t talk. Maybe it’s you.” He huffs and walks away.

“No! It’s not my fault,” I shout after him, whipping the tears away.

It’s not my fault. No. No. No.

I spent years trying to wash away the memories, but now they just come flooding back.

It’s Skeet’s fault. He disappeared. It’s Jinx’s fault. She toyed with the idea of starting new elsewhere, causing Aaron to break down. It’s Devon’s fault. He abandoned me. It’s Allie’s fault. She stabbed me in the back. It’s Nax’s fault for arresting Devon, and Mom and Dad’s fault for not believing him.

They made me this way.