ISSUE 16 | FALL 2013
“Have you seen her today? I’m supposed to give her a ride.”
The little girl raised her arm like she had the answer to a question at school. She was as straight as a flagpole, popping in and out of the water. The boy pushed her under. “She left a long time ago,” he said.
“Oh,” I said, pulling a piece of dead skin from around my index finger. Blood poured over my nail bed. “Thanks.” Then I added, “And, really, that water is gross. I heard a baby got gangrene from the hot tub. You shouldn’t swim here.” The little boy puffed out his chest. The girl jumped up like she was on a pogo stick. “Nah-un,” she said, splashing toward my car. “There’s nothing wrong with our pool, weirdo.”
At The Spot, Rita was sitting at a long foldout table with a sign-up sheet. She wore a velvety purple dress and her sunglasses seemed extra shiny. Without looking up, she said, “You’re late, Dallas. Why is that?” I blinked a few times, rubbing my elbow. “Car trouble.”
Shuffling around some papers, she said, “I’m not going to make a fuss about it, but only because I have good news. You have about eight hours left. Work four today and then four tomorrow night at the show. I’ll even let you bartend. Good job, kid.” She leaned over the table, jabbing her cane slightly in my direction.
I hardly looked down. Instead, I was searching the center for Alicita. She wasn’t near the stage or lying out on the red couch in the back. The bathroom doors were open. I could see the guy with the pentagram tattoo scrubbing a urinal. He was bent down, a long chain swaying from his wallet. The entire warehouse felt like a small black box that was somehow smaller without Alicita. “Come on,” Rita said, “act a little more excited. You should be proud of yourself.”
“It’s awesome news.” I dropped my face to the floor. “Have you seen Alicita?”
“Not since Tuesday. If you see her, tell her she can bartend with you tomorrow night. She’d like those hours, I’m sure.” 81