Flying

After school, I am sitting in the front seat of Sullivan’s car, which is a dark blue-rust bucket-piece of junk, giving him directions.

My dealer’s name is Jason (or at least that’s the name he uses). From what I’ve gathered, he is in his sixth year at the local college, with no plans to graduate. He was a trust fund kid but he blew the majority of his money betting on sports games. So now he sells drugs. Pills are his specialty. Apparently a lifetime of hobnobbing with the upper echelon has given him a unique skill set that involves being able to weasel meds out of any psychiatrist he comes in contact with.

“Left up here,” I point.

Sullivan turns onto the Jason’s street. It’s a bad neighborhood. It’s where the hoodlums and criminals and troublemakers live. I can almost hear Sullivan’s thoughts. Just where this skank belongs.

“What are we doing here?” he croaks out instead.

“I told you, I have to see someone,” I say, like it’s obvious. “You can let me out here.”

Sullivan parks his car on the side of the road. “I think I better come with you.”

“It’d be better if you wait here.”

“No,” he insists, unbuckling his seatbelt and pursing his lips. “I’m coming with you.”



We have to climb six flights of stairs because the elevator in Jason’s apartment complex is perpetually broken. When we get to Jason’s door, I bang on it, hard, since he’s usually sleeping or high. I hear some rustling around inside and after a few minutes, the door flings open.

“Hey sweetheart,” he slurs.

If anyone is more of a mess than I am, it’s Jason. He looks like he hasn’t showered in weeks. He reeks of pot and liquor. His skin is a ghostly shade pale. His blonde hair is an overgrown, snarled bird’s nest.

“Don’t call me that,” I spit. Kenneth used to call me sweetheart.

“Hello, Zara,” Jason says, a little patronizing but suddenly coherent. “What do you want?”

I roll my eyes. “You know.”

Next to me Sullivan stiffens. Crazy bitch brought me to a drug dealer. I tried to warn him.

“What’s with the boy toy?” Jason surveys Sullivan and raises an eyebrow.

Sullivan, in his button down shirt with his shiny blue eyes and his skinny arms and piano fingers, doesn’t belong here. Jason can tell.

“He’s my tutor.”

“I hear you only go for old guys. What’s with the downgrade?” Jason smirks. He seems to be going for a menacing look, but his eyes look so glassy that I think he might just pass out right in front of us.

Sullivan, unexpectedly, grabs my arm just above the elbow in some kind of scared/protective gesture. Apparently he doesn’t recognize that Jason is incapable of doing any real harm.

I sigh, loud and forcefully, and shake off Sullivan’s hand. “Maybe I just go for men in positions of authority.”

“I got it,” Jason winks. “Daddy issues.”

“All kinds of issues.”

I take a peek at Sullivan, who looks like he wants to melt into the floor and disappear. I feel a sudden pang of sympathy, followed by regret. I should have insisted on coming alone.

Digging into my pocket, I retrieve a wad of bills and shove them into Jason’s hands.

“Hurry up,” I say, nodding toward Sullivan.

Jason takes the hint and retreats into his dank apartment for a few minutes. He returns with a plastic bag full of pills, which I snatch hastily. Then I seize Sullivan by the hand and pull him away from the door.



“What was that?” Sullivan asks, eyes wide, when we get back to his hunk of junk car.

“I told you that you wouldn’t want to come.”

“Jesus, that was messed up.”

“That was mild. You should have seen the guy I had before. Compared to that guy Jason’s is a kitten.” I think about my previously dealer, who once gave me a black eye for refusing his sexual advances.

“Why do you even do that stuff,” he gestures to the plastic bag that I still have in my hand.

“You wouldn’t understand,” I huff, shoving the bag in my pocket.

He looks at me for a while before relenting, “I suppose, I wouldn’t.”