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When Fez came back to sixth grade with a pale scar cutting across his skull, he had trouble remembering words. Car became cart. Saturn became Saturday. Fine became fuck. Mrs. Jenkins had kicked him out of homeroom after the last one and, while he was shuffling towards the door, Armando Bastille muttered: “Retard.”

You sent a closed fist into Bastille’s jaw and heard something click—a wet sound. Next thing, he was on the floor, gargling and groaning.

After you came back from suspension, Fez followed you around the halls. He never said anything. Not out loud, at least. His eyes were always saying something, though.

“Why you followin’ me?”

“…”

“I know you can speak.”

“…”

“You scared or somethin’?”

His blue eyes blazed.

“Huh...”

You didn’t try to make him speak after that first interaction. Seemed a cruel thing to do. Whenever teachers tried prodding him into talking, you’d butt in: Actually, Miss, the answer is—They thought he was stupid. Simple.

He was anything but.

You nearly fell off of your bike when, three weeks into your burgeoning friendship, he spoke to you for the first time.

“How come… How come…” He gave a few false starts. “How come… you did that?”

You pumped the brakes and rolled to a stop on the shoulder of the road. You and Fez lived three blocks from one another. Five minutes, if you pedaled fast. “What?”

He balled his hand into a fist and mimed punching himself.

“’Cause you’re not what he said.”

Fezco didn’t say nothing.

“You’re not,” you repeated. “You’re real smart. I can tell.”

His eyes asked: How?

Your eyes said: I just know.

And you were right. Fezco was smarter than every other boy you’d ever met. Smart enough to realize you weren’t wearing long sleeves in May because you were “cold.” Smart enough to realize you didn’t skip lunch because you “forgot your money at home.” Smart enough not to ask questions, too.

That is, until him and his grandma showed up at your house on a Sunday afternoon. It was the beginning of summer. You hadn’t seen him for about five days and something felt off—like your skin could break out in hives at any moment. You would’ve ridden your bike to visit him, but your mama wouldn’t let you out of the house.

“Don’t mind him.” A raspy voice came around the corner, from the living room. You stood in the hallway, waiting. “That’s my business partner.”

You peeked around the corner and there was a blonde woman in a bright turquoise suede pantsuit and gold hoop earrings. She was flicking through a stack of bills, distracted. Fez stood sentinel at her side, his wary eyes locked on your mother. Until they spotted you, that is.

As soon as he noticed you, so did Mama.

“Now, I done told you not to come out here when I got company! Get back in dat room. Go on! Don’t make me get my belt.”

You ducked back into the hallway, heart racing.

Fez was selling your mother heroin.

/*\

You saw him once more that summer, at the corner store. Mama sent you to pick up a pack of Marlboros and an iced tea. Fez was sat behind the register, the sole proprietor at only eleven years old. He jumped off of the counter as soon as you walked in.

“Hey.” His voice sounded stretched, like pulled taffy.

“Don’t talk to me.”

It was the worst thing you could’ve said—that’s why you said it. He checked you out without another word.

You entered seventh grade friendless. He still followed you around, keeping his careful distance this time. When he raised his hand in Pre-Algebra to offer the definition of an integer—the first time he’d spoken to a teacher in who knows how long—you had to work hard to suppress your pride. A stubborn smile tugged at your lips. You bit down on nothing to keep from giving up the ghost of your anger.

Mama’s “condition” deteriorated. When she fell asleep with a lit cigarette and you awoke to half the living room on fire, things began to change. You came to school with your clothes smelling of smoke and, instead of keeping his distance, Fez walked right up to you.

“My grandma said you can live at my house. You just gotta help out at the store and stuff.”

You shook your head.

“How come?”

You shrugged.

Fezco was looking at you, real intent. Come on. Trust me.

You weren’t sure what your eyes were saying.

/*\

She put a cigarette out on your arm. No biggie.

Sara Perez saw the livid-red mark while you were changing for gym and by the end of the day, most of the 7b class thought you had a case of infectious boils.

You didn’t see Fezco until that night, when he appeared outside of your bedroom window like a phantom. Nearly pissed yourself.

“’ey. Open up.”

Crusted paint made opening the window hard. You stopped three-fourths of the way to avoid making too much noise. “What d’you want?”

“Grab your stuff.”

“I ain’t going.”

“How come?” He asked just the same way as he had the last time.

This time, you had an answer. “She’s my mama.”

“My mama left when I was two miles old.” He paused. “Months.”

“And?”

“You don’t owe that woman nothin’.”

You had to say: “You’re the reason she’s like this.” Even though you knew it wasn’t true.

Fez blinked. Ran an open palm over his shaved scalp. “Sorry, son.”

“… I’ll get my stuff.”

/*\

That was about the strangest period of your life—the time after you went to live with Fez and before his grandma suffered her stroke.

For a while, you thought Mama would show up on his doorstep looking for you. She’d grab you by the arm and yank you down the street. She’d beat you for making her worry, but only because she cared.

She never did come looking.

You shared a room with Ash, who still wore Pull-Ups and slept inside a Pack & Play. When you awoke for school each morning, you’d jiggle his pale tummy until his eyelids flickered open, then pick him up and carry him to his high chair in the dark kitchen. You felt like he was your responsibility, since you’d become Fezco’s grandma’s responsibility. An even trade, so to speak.

He’d kind of talk—mushy, toddler-speak—and make noises while you prepared his oatmeal.

Fez never spoke in the morning time. He would shuffle out of his room, bleary-eyed and stunned, sit down at the table with a tin lock box and begin his daily ritual of counting money. You learned he drank coffee and you learn how he liked his coffee. Plenty of milk with maple syrup instead of sugar.

Grandma was only awake when you both returned from school. The afternoons were spent packing dime bags, doing homework, manning the corner store and riding bikes around the neighborhood. Never past your old house.

“I gotta go somewhere with my grandma, G.”

“Where?”

“Just… somewhere.”

“I wanna come.”

“You can’t. Somebody gotta stay here and watch Ash.”

That was the first time Fez left you to do a deal. Never did get any easier watching him leave.

Christmas rolled around faster than you could blink. Grandma bought you a purple down-filled puffer jacket. Fez’s was green. Ash’s was black.

When you thanked her, she put a hand on your cheek and said: “Looks good, babydoll.”

When she fainted in the bathroom in March, you were in the kitchen stirring a pot of instant macaroni. The hard thud drew your eyes to Fez’s. He ran, fast. In the end, he was too late.

Those seven or eight months were the strangest because you two weren’t close yet. Not necessarily. You lived like two strangers who knew they would come to mean a lot to each other someday. Looking back, that was the happiest time of your life. Fez’s, too, probably.

He dropped out before finishing seventh grade.

/*\

Things were harder than hard, for a while. You put your brains together to figure out what needed to be done. The mortgage was on an instant draft from one of Grandma’s many accounts. As long as you kept a certain amount of money in the account (ATM drop-offs every two weeks), no one would come asking about the house.

You forged Fezco’s mother’s signature on his drop-out letter, saying he’d transferred to another school in Topanga Bay. Grandma’s medical insurance documents were sent by mail. Her prescriptions were filled by a junkie named Abigail in exchange for free product.

Fez worked diligently to keep the connect lines open and flowing. He used everything his Grandma had ever taught him about how to keep junkies hooked, how to prove himself as trustworthy, how to intimidate.

CPS never came sniffing around, though there were times when they probably should have. You were only a few days away from being stuck with a truancy charge both eighth and ninth grade. When Ash was sick, you’d stay home to take care of him. When he started pre-K, you’d skip first period to drop him off. Then there were the days Fez couldn’t take care of Grandma and you needed to bathe her, dress her, check her IVs.

Somehow, without meaning to, you and Fez became parents. You leaned on one another. You developed a secret, silent language—the kind which didn’t require words or symbols. A simple look was enough to say:

I can’t do this anymore.

Help me.

I understand.

Try again.

As your lives grew more intertwined, the lines of friendship blurred. Then disappeared altogether. The first night you slept in the same bed, you’d needed him bad.

Ash was almost six and throwing tantrums. He didn’t like the way you cooked breakfast. He didn’t like his clothes. He didn’t like going to school. He tore up the bathroom while you were doing homework. Refused to eat dinner. Etcetera, etcetera.

When Fez came back home from doing a deal, you were sat on the couch drinking gin, at your wit’s end. A single look from him and you burst into tears. Ugly, rotten tears.

“Yo, you good?” He sat down on the couch. “What’s wrong?”

You shook your head. You were being a little bitch. “Nothing.”

“Don’t look like nothing…”

“I’m just—” Your wet chin touched your chest. “Really fucking tired.”

“Go to sleep, then.”

You sent your fist into his arm and he chuckled. “I can’t sleep in the room with Ash no more.”

“How come?”

“He talks in his sleep.” You rolled your shoulders back, sniffled. “It’s whatever. I’ll sleep here.”

Fezco looked pensive for a moment. “Nah. You can take my bed.”

“Fez, no.”

“Don’t even trip. I like the couch.”

You started crying again. Harder. “I can’t.”

Maybe you were crying because he had under-eye circles so dark they were almost purple. Or maybe because he still had his jacket on. How could you take his bed from him?

He looked at you with such tenderness. It was like nothing you’d ever seen in your whole life. If your father had stuck around—and if he was a kinder man than your mother described him—you imagined he might’ve looked at you the same way. Like okay, miss girl, time for bed.

Fez held out his hand.

Your brain emptied of all thoughts.

You laced your fingers through his and they were warm.

Dry.

Strong.

/*\

The night before his sixteenth birthday, you were curled up together in the dark. Life had reached an equilibrium, of sorts. Fezco made a point to teach Ash how to treat you. He did so in his gentle way. Yo, Ash. What do you say? Thank you. That’s right. Sometimes, he had to be a bit harsh. Bro, if you don’t sit the fuck down and chill the fuck out…

The business was doing well. Fez had his regulars and was expanding into the high school crowd. You could afford to save up now. Stack paper.

“I don’t want nothin’,” Fez muttered. “’Cept to stay home and eat your food, forreal.”

Your laugh lit up the darkness. “You’re such a Taurus.”

“Why that sound like an insult?”

“It’s not, little bull.”

“I ain’t little.”

You pinched his bicep. (But first, to find his arm, your hand accidentally grazed along his bare chest. You thought you felt him shiver.) “Sorry, scrawny. Is scrawny bull, better?”

He pssh’d. “You one to talk.”

“I am?”

“With yo scrawny ass.” He pinched your butt and you yelped in surprise. “Yo, what you being so loud for? Ash sleepin’.”

You slapped a palm against his chest. “Jackass.”

Even in the dark, you knew he was smiling.

/*\

Graduating from high school was the best day you’d had for a long time. Along with a sense of relief at being done with school and a sense of accomplishment at not dropping out prematurely, there was also the wonderful realization: You had a family.

Mama wasn’t there—you hadn’t expected her to be—but Fezco and Ash were. Both boys beamed from the crowd, hooting and hollering when your name was announced by the loud speaker. Afterwards, Fez had come and swung his arm across your shoulders.

“Damn, girl. You smart, huh?”

“Smarter than you.”

“Fuck. You ain’t lying.”

It wasn’t lost on you Fezco had given up his education to support yours. Of course, he never would’ve allowed you to stop going to school to take care of Grandmother and Ash, but the thought had crossed your mind plenty of times. You’d only been able to stay because he left.

He bought you a car as a present. A ruby-red 2014 Toyota Corolla. While Ash pretended to drive in the front seat, you stood on the sidewalk, trying to convince him the gift was too extravagant.

“Ash needs tutoring this summer.”

“It’s covered.”

“We have to reshingle the roof this year.”

“Covered.”

“Gas prices are ridiculous—”

“Yo.” He placed his hand onto your shoulder. “Relax. I got us. I gotchu.”

And he did. Business was beautiful. People were doing all sorts of drugs that summer. Fezco had always paid for everything, but the situation was different now. He paid the mortgage, the utilities, the phone bills, the car notes, the insurance, the taxes. He always kept your tank full. He left money by the kitchen sink for groceries every week and money on his bedside table for your nails. Sometimes, he’d slip cash into your hand for no reason at all.

You worked at the corner store in the evenings and, with no plans to go to college, wondered whether life would always be like this.

If so, you wouldn’t mind.

You would raise Ash to be a good man, like Fez. When he was all grown up… Well, you weren’t quite sure. Ash, for all his psychopathic tendencies and quippy one-liners, was no less than a son. Only seemed natural you would take care of him, even after graduating. The responsibility of Ash held you and Fezco together like two balloons tethered to the same string. Would you stay together after the job was done?

Fez spent his evenings visiting drug dens and frequenting parties. Every time he left you at home, the feelings you’d felt as a child reared their ugly heads. I wanna come.

You couldn’t imagine a life without Fez, but it’d be a lie to say all of your needs were being met. He’d never kissed you. Never touched you with the intent to give you pleasure. Never held you so tight you couldn’t breathe. Sure, he’d come lay his head in your lap and let you stroke his scalp. Sure, he’d hug you from behind while you were washing dishes. Sure, he’d wrap his body around yours to go to sleep at night, but…

It wasn’t enough. It wasn’t nearly enough.

You were parents. You were best friends. But you weren’t his. You had no passion for anything, aside from your fierce desire to protect and care for both boys, and you’d like to think this contributed to your decision.

/*\

Ashtray was twelve when he walked into the house and found you scrambling to shovel pills into a plastic bag.

“Hey,” you called out, feigning nonchalance. “You’re back early.”

It was three o’clock in the afternoon. He usually played basketball at the recreational center until at least five.

He stood stock-still, by the door, watching. “Whatchu doing?”

“Nothing.” You tucked the pill bag into a leather briefcase. “You hungry?”

His eyes went to the case. Your face. The case. Back again. That’s the horrible thing about Ash: he’s too smart. You couldn’t even lie and say the pills were Fezco’s because Ash was a pill expert. He could tell from the color, size, shape (and sometimes smell) the exact chemical makeup. Even whether or not the drug was generic or name brand.

His brother didn’t sell these kinds of pills.

“Ash—”

“Fezco is going to motherfucking murder you.”

You bit the inside of your cheek, nodding. “I know.”

Why was this so embarrassing? In a family of drug dealers, why did you feel the need to keep your side business a secret? You understood Fezco wouldn’t stand for you dabbling in his line of work, but Ash? Why were you suddenly worried this might fuck him up somehow? It’s not like you were an addict.

“You won’t tell,” you stated. “Will you?”

Ash dropped his book bag onto the kitchen table. “I ain’t no snitch.”

It was wrong to split his loyalties this way. To make him choose.

“But you don’t need to be doing this here,” he continued, pulling down a box of cereal from atop the fridge.

“I don’t have anywhere else.”

“The store. Back room. There’s no camera. Just make sure you keep everything separate, ‘cause if his pills go missing, he’ll be asking me what happened.”

You nodded. “Sorry, Ash.”

He shrugged, sitting down to the table with his bowl and milk. “It’s just business.”

/*\

You were clever for all of three months. You didn’t sell to anyone from the three high schools in your district. You didn’t sell at the same parties as Fez—obviously. You scheduled meet-ups with your supplier on Tuesday afternoons, when Fez had his meet-up with his supplier. You kept your product in the back room of the corner store, tucked above a panel in the ceiling.

It was work, keeping a secret from Fez, but you told yourself the work was just. Since you didn’t pay for anything, you kept all of the money you made in a 529 savings account Ash would be able to access when he went to college.

You’d been doing great. But then, you’d always known you would be caught one day. Otherwise, how else could you justify keeping an “emergency stash” of oxy and meth in the cubby underneath the kitchen sink?

In your defense—Fez never does the dishes.

You came home from a late evening drop-off to find Fezco sitting quietly on the couch.

“Honey, I’m home,” you sang, playfully. “Where’s Ash?”

“He at a birthday party,” Fez muttered. He had yet to look at you.

“Oh, yeah.” You remembered. “Well, what should we do for dinner?”

“I’m not really hungry.”

Strange. You hung up your jacket and came over to the couch. That’s when you saw what he was staring at—a black briefcase, open. A crumpled plastic bag full of blue and white pills sat right at the center.

Your heart went still inside of your chest.

“You wanna tell me what this is?”

You breathed slow. There was something thick and acrid in the air. Displeasure? Betrayal?

“Pills.”

“Don’t fuck around. I ain’t joking.” Now, he looked at you. “What is this?”

Fezco was rarely angry. And, if angry, never with you. His gruff tone set you on edge. Made you feel like you were on death row. In short order, you were about to shut down.

“I don’t know. It’s just product,” you muttered.

His eyes flickered. “You sellin’?”

Pause. “Yeah.”

Fezco nodded. He stood up and reached into his back pocket. Pulled out his wallet. After rifling through the folds, he pulled out a thick wad of cash. “How much you need?”

You squinted at him. “What?”

“I ain’t in the business of repeatin’ myself. You heard me.”

“The fuck? How dare you—?”

“You sleep in my bed and lie to my face. How dare I? This ain’t Shakespeare, playa. Name your price.”

“I’m not a whore and I do not need your money.”

“Why you sellin’ then?”

“’Cause I like it.”

“It ain’t no hobby!”

“Because I’m good at it, then! Because I like providing for myself,” you lied.

“It’s done,” he said.

“No, it’s not.”

“Test me. Go ahead.”

“Don’t be a hypocrite, Fez. It’s alright for you to sell but not me?”

“Yeah.” He dropped the money into the briefcase and grabbed the pills. “I’ll be a hypocrite, I don’t care. It’s done.”

You turned towards the door and had your hand on the knob before he sidled his way between you and your dramatic exit.

“Move.”

“You ain’t leavin’.” He wasn’t angry, all of a sudden. Instead, a stoic mask had descended over his face.

“Step out of the way, Fez.” You didn’t have anywhere to go and you both knew that.

“No can do.”

“Fedele Zachariah Cook. Whether you let me by or I have to fight you, I’m leaving this house.”

A true stand-off between a bull and whatever the fuck you were. A hellcat, maybe. Fez knew you were scrappy—you’d gotten into enough fights during school. Still, he stood his ground. He had his hands held in front of him like you could do your worst—he wouldn’t move.

You sighed and he closed his eyes the instant your breath touched his face. “Just wanted something that was mine.”

When he opened his eyes again, they were filled with conflict. His brows furrowed. He opened his mouth to speak and nothing came out.

He kissed you.

/*\