Poesy - Mary Elizabeth

POESY A Low Novella MARY ELIZABETH Copyright © Mary Elizabeth Literature All Rights Reserved Cover Design: Hang Le Editor: Paige Maroney Smith Formatter: Midnight Engel Press, LLC First Edition

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Innocents (Dusty, Volume 1) Delinquents (Dusty, Volume 2) True Love Way Low Poesy (A Low Novella)







"I found Low by author Mary Elizabeth to be a masterful, poetic journey, that speaks of sacrifice, depravity, and all that makes us utterly human." —Audrey Carlan, #1 New York Times Bestselling Author "Even after the last word, my pulse raced with uncontrollable emotions. Hands down, a MUSTREAD book!" —EK Blair, NYT Bestselling Author "One of the most captivating, engrossing, thrilling, unputdownable reads that I've read in a LONG time! FIVE STARS!" —Maryse's Book Blog "If you love heart stopping romance and want to be swept up in a story with a difference then do not hesitate to pick this one up. These two young lovers were guilty of stealing our heart." —Totally Booked "Wow! Low. Read it. Love it. Savor it. One crazy ride that you won't want to end. So incredible, so perfectly imperfect. Mary hit a home run with this one!"—Jen, Schmexy Girl Book Blog "Mary Elizabeth's word choice was intentional. Her sentences, exquisitely descriptive. Her paragraphs, like poetry." —Feeding My Addiction Book Reviews "Raw, real, gut wrenching and intense, Low by Mary Elizabeth has made me believe in a new kind of happily ever after. 5 stars isn't enough for this book." —Rachel Brookes, Bestselling Author







Novels By Mary Elizabeth Praise For Low Contents Dedication Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine About The Author Acknowledgments







For the bad guys.



I WAS SEVEN



years old when my cigarette-smoking mom, stirring instant pancake mix, told me Santa

Claus wasn’t real. Ash fell into my breakfast; she didn’t care. “Do you really believe an overweight man magically slithers down the chimney while you’re asleep, and we don’t hear a thing? For God’s sake, Poesy, we don’t even have a fireplace. Daddy eats the cookies, that fat ass.” I haven’t trusted her since. As payback, I told my entire second grade class that Jolly St. Nick was a hoax during recess the next day. When my mother was called into the principal’s office, she denied breaking my holiday spirit. The woman who served me tobacco sprinkled flapjacks accused me of stretching the truth and being defiant since birth. “Poe’s a bit selfish. Only child syndrome, or something.” “It’s attention seeking behavior, ma’am,” the school leader said. “You don’t say?” Mom replied. She never trusted me. Our relationship wasn’t much to brag about before she stole the magic from my childhood, but if I had to choose a definite turning point, it was that day. Eleven years later, I’ve come to terms with the fact that some women don’t have the mother gene, despite being capable of childbirth. Georgie Ashby’s fucked up in the head, not the uterus. Too bad she didn’t figure it out for herself before she procreated, subjecting me to this bleak life. Mom was emotionally foul. Dad was just emotionless. He resents his wife for getting pregnant after a few drunken L.A. weekends, and he resents me for being born. I grew up provided for, but I was far from nurtured. There was always a roof over my head and a bed to sleep in. My dad earned a paycheck, and my mom made sure dinner was on the table every evening. We all went through the hoops, back-to-school nights and birthday parties, swimming

lessons and drivers’ licenses. Family photos were taken every May, hung in inexpensive frames around the house four weeks later. There are grins on our faces, because who can help but smile when the photographer says “cheese”? We got a dog once, but he couldn’t handle the meaninglessness and ran away. But I’m stronger than the Golden Retriever none of us wanted. My keepers probably thought they were going to be free of me once I turned eighteen. Unfortunately for them, I still have three months of high school left. They needn’t worry their uncaring little minds, though. This girl doesn’t want to be here any more than they want me to be, and I’ve spent the last four years making damn sure I’ll receive a diploma from Culver City High School, and, at the very least, a first class ticket to community college. Which is why I really need Jenna Ward—basic white girl—to shut the fuck up. Finals are approaching, and Mr. Weech, my English teacher, already suspects I plagiarized my Jane Eyre book report. I didn’t … mostly. He’s scratching on the dusty green chalkboard, looking over his shoulder at me every few seconds. I need to concentrate on today’s lesson to make up for my indiscretions. Mr. W’s covering the Ulysses reading schedule, but did he just say we need to read five chapters or five pages this weekend? I’d know if Jenna would practice self-control and wait to discuss different shades of pink with her neighbor after class. “Shh,” I shush, staring at the back of her blonde-haired head. She smells like knock-off Juicy Couture and bulimia. “Just watch the movie, Poesy. That’s what we do.” Jenna turns toward me and smiles in vain. She and her friends nod concurrently. “And chill, we’re talking prom. It’s next weekend.” They pick up their conversation at seashell pink and bashful, disregarding my eagerness to soak today’s lesson into my long-term memory. Hopefully, Ulysses is on Netflix, because at this point, Mr. Weech sounds like the teacher from Charlie Brown. I tear off small pieces of paper from my blank notebook and launch spitballs into Jenna’s perfect curls. Dipshit isn’t bright enough to realize I’ve sprinkled her tresses in college-ruled paper, even after the emo kid beside me snickers and murmurs, “Idiots.” I’m bored with their mindlessness. Then I see blondie’s backpack is open, and her wallet is within reach. “Yeah, well, my dress is Cupid pink, and the tuxedo place only has magenta. Eric and I won’t match. It’s total bullshit,” Jenna womp, womp, womps. Excitement sizzles from the tips of my fingers, up my arms, and across my shoulders as I look around the classroom. Delicious nervousness trickles down my spine, filling my stomach with fluttering butterflies, pushing heavy pressure into my chest. No one’s paying attention to me, and I’m

already reaching into Jenna’s backpack. I lift a mint-colored wallet from her book bag between my thumb and pointer finger and hide it under my binder. For the next thirty minutes, I ride a wave of adrenaline flooding my veins, surfing the electric-like ripple with a sly smirk on my lips. My heart drums in my ears, drowning out all other noises when class ends, and Jenna zips her Jansport and hitches it over her shoulder. Spit wads fall from her hair, but she still doesn’t notice. “Have you bought a prom dress yet, Poe?” she asks, smiling forcefully. Her blue eyes squint, and she twirls the hookah shell necklace around her neck between her long fingers. “Are you going?” “Nope, I’ll be busy trying to figure out what the fuck Mr. W was teaching today.” I close my folder and return her smile. The three-ring binder teeter-totters above the stolen wallet. Jenna drops the act and spins away from me, sling-shooting wet paper balls across the next aisle of desks. I wait until she’s exited the classroom before I stand, gathering my folder and her wallet against my chest and following the crowd into the hallways. After dumping my things into my locker, I flip through Jenna’s wallet, pocketing the twentysomething dollars in cash and tossing the rest into the lost and found bin outside the main office. Midafternoon sunlight shines blindingly from the top of the sky, distorting my vision and warming my freckled skin. I skip down the flight of stairs leading toward a broken sidewalk in front of the high school, ditching class for the rest of the day. The city crackles with life. Public transport coughs black clouds out of a hot exhaust pipe, and oil sprinkles from a cracked pan or leaky whatever-part-of-the-bus motor oil flows through from the undercarriage. A short Mexican lady in socks and sandals sells tamales in front of the ninety-nine cent store, and a lanky white guy with meth mouth asks for my signature on some sketchy petition. “Sorry, man,” I mumble as I walk by. “I’m only seventeen. Not old enough to vote.” “Help me out. Sign with your mom’s name,” he calls as I pass. I keep forward toward the center of town, past a homeless man pushing a wobbly shopping cart, and a woman dressed in a shabby Lady Liberty costume, twirling a Tax Depot sign. Sweat pools above my lip and drips from the back of my neck. By the time I reach my favorite sandwich shop for a turkey on rye and a fizzing cherry cola, my hair and skin smell like hustle and flow. “See ya later, P,” the girl behind the counter says, handing me a brown paper bag with my food inside. I eat half of my sandwich and give the other half and Jenna’s change to some kid, who should be in school, with missing teeth and holes in his sneakers. He’s posted on a bus bench by himself, kicking his little legs back and forth. “Get yourself home, squirt,” I say, running my finger through his overgrown and underwashed head of curly brown hair. Roaming the streets, soaking in Southern California diversity and richness, one mile has bail

bondsmen and laundry mats on every corner, and the next is cluttered with fancy coffee chains and boutiques. As downtown tapers off to uptown, sidewalks go from being bordered by scummy gutters to being edged with palm trees and lanes without potholes. Like there’s an invisible line in the road, bums and playas don’t pass “Go” and collect two hundred dollars when things get fancy, and the uppity avoid the mark leading to the dark side like they’ll catch “poor” by breathing the same air as the less fortunate. Both parts of town feel like home. Both welcome me with open arms. I bump elbows with men in cropped jeans and slip-on shoes, and I admire storefront windows showcasing alligator skin handbags and expensive distressed jeans. My image reflects back at me off the surfaces of my aviator sunglasses and limo-black window tint. City buses are hybrid, and the air smells of espresso and spray tanner. My heart triple beats as I contemplate lifting a set of gold bangles I absolutely need, but I use my dad’s credit card, because the small shop has cameras and the owner complimented my eyes. “They’re hazel,” I say, signing my old man’s name on the CC slip. I swipe my John Ashby’s plastic a few times before I head home, mentally hammering myself for missing a half-day of school and not returning in time to get my things before the weekend. If Ulysses isn’t streaming anywhere, I may have to resort to online cheat notes, and those are as reliable as my mom on my birthday. So, not at all. Under a new pair of sunnies, with bracelets singing around my wrists and large hoops swinging in my ears, I step foot on my street as the day begins to dim and the late April temperature cools a few degrees. I hum the melody of a song, content in my head—my own best friend. Not belonging on either side of the tracks is a tricky place to be. It’s left me friendless, loveless, and uncaring but daring. I was a three-foot-nothing five-year-old when I started stealing from my parents … a little ragamuffin kid looking for attention. Mom had a red pair of stilettos she wore for special occasions, and I liked to walk around the house in them. She forbade me from touching her things, so I’d do it behind her back, which wasn’t hard when menthols and The Days of Our Lives kept her preoccupied most afternoons. Unfortunately, I forgot to put them away on a night she happened to be meeting friends for dinner. Mom found her heels under my bed. As punishment, she made me hold my hands out while she slapped my knuckles with a wooden spoon. I cried, and she yelled, red-faced and stunning. “Look at what you made me do,” she hissed, rubbing her thumbs over my swollen fingers. “You make me so angry sometimes, Poesy.” My mother, barefoot and rose-scented, made an icepack out of a sandwich baggie and held it to

my hands as a cigarette burned between her lips. She pushed my tear-soaked hair behind my ear and sat next to me at the kitchen table, not over me like she normally would. I felt loved. I choked on carcinogens and nicotine, and my hands throbbed like hell, but she was there until the swelling went down, and she painted my fingernails purple afterward. There was an overflowing pressure inside my chest that made my eyes water, and a warm sense of closeness I felt when she touched me. I’d soon figure out they were sensations I only experienced when my parents showed me affection, and it usually only occurred after penance. “You don’t take things that don’t belong to you, Poe. It’s in bad character, and I’m not raising a chump. Do you understand me?” “Yes, Mama,” I answered. The street I live on consists of two and three-bedroom homes built in the Howard Hughes and the Spruce Goose era. They’re in some need of remodeling, but the lawns are green, and the cars in the driveways are middle-class appropriate. This time of day, right before the sun sets and the streetlights turn on, small children ride their bikes on the sidewalk, marinating in the last hour of playtime. Dads and moms come home from a long day at work with tired eyes and sore feet. Gutters flow with overspray from sprinklers and hoses, and the ice cream man slowly cruises down the block, eager to spoil dinner for a dollar. “Hello, Miss Poesy,” my neighbor, an old woman I’ve lived next door to for as long as I can remember but can’t recall her name, says. She waves with a hand full of mail. I smile and continue home, walking past a truck and trailer with a handmade, scuffed sign advertising “Flaco’s Lawn Service” on the side. The sharp scent of just-cut grass tickles my nose while pollen and dust irritate my eyes. The three-man crew—two Mexicans and a white boy—clip, edge, and mow my front yard, because my dad’s too busy and my mom’s too lazy. The short, dark-skinned man pushing a lawn mower shuts it down as I move up the driveway. He grins politely, pulling a sweat-stained ball cap from his head. The second guy, edging the landscape with earbuds on, doesn’t realize I’m here. And the third person … He turns away from my mother ’s overgrown roses, cut and bleeding thanks to their razor-sharp thorns. Blood courses slowly around his arm, from his elbow to the tips of his fingers, like ruby-colored ribbons tied around a gift. “Hey,” he says. “Hey yourself,” I reply. Drops of his DNA drip onto the walkway as he steps forward. I don’t skip a beat, swaying my hips and pushing my hair over my shoulder as I walk past him toward the front door. But I know he’s staring, and I got a good look at his blue eyes and head full of thick blond hair. He smells like a hard day’s work—dirt, sunshine, spice—dressed in a white T-shirt and old denim. My heartbeat explodes, shooting heat through my limbs and warming my cheeks.

“I’ve always hated those fucking roses,” I say before I enter my house, closing the door behind me. Holding my hand over my chest, I pull my bottom lip between my teeth and turn around to spy on the bleeding boy through the peephole. He’s where I left him, running his dirty hands through his hair. Blood is smeared across his shirt, and he smirks toward the house like he knows I’m watching. “You son of a bitch,” I whisper to myself, matching his grin. Lawn mower guy clips rose trimmer ’s ankle with the weed whacker, stealing his attention. With one more gaze toward the door, the hired help waves off his co-worker and gets back to my mother ’s pink Bonicas, stepping out of sight. But I’m captivated. I rush to my room and carefully watch him rake dead leaves and fallen petals into a neat pile through the blinds. Unlike the other men on his crew who have thick gloves protecting them from blisters and splinters, this one’s barehanded. The sun’s nearly set, but his face is flushed, and the back of his neck is sunburned. He licks his lips and reaches for the green garden hose, drinking water straight from the source. Cool liquid fills his cheeks before he swallows, unbothered when he gets his shirt wet. The thin white cotton becomes transparent and sticks to his chest, showcasing his lean muscle. “Lowen,” lawnmower guy calls. “Don’t drink the customers’ water, bendejo. You tryin’ to get us fired?” Blond boy closes his eyes, takes one last drink, and turns the hose off. He uses the last few drops to wet his face. “Chill, Flaco,” he replies, drying his mouth on the neck of his damp shirt. “No one’s getting fired. I’m just watering these fucking roses.” “I have extra bottles in the truck if you’re thirsty,” mower man continues. Lowen rolls the hose neatly. “I don’t want your water, man.” When I emerge from the house with an ice-cold bottle of Aquafina, all three landscapers are packing up their equipment but stop to stare. The sun’s more down than up, and I pray bluish-pink evening light hides the blush bleeding across my face. “Need some help?” the water thief asks, clapping dirt from his hands. He comes forward, a foot taller than I am, to block his co-workers’ view of me. “Thought you might be thirsty.” Condensation wets my hand and numbs the tips of my fingers. I pass him the bottle. I study his face as he unscrews the top and takes a sip, never removing his eyes from me. I’m electric under his stare, sizzling from the inside out, the outside in. My smile is so grand, I wouldn’t be surprised if the sun shot right back to the highest part of the sky because it’s so jealous of my radiance.

“What are you smiling at?” rose trimmer asks. His lips slightly turn up as he slips the water bottle into his back pocket. “You,” I answer, consumed by my blush. “What’s your name?” he asks. “Poesy Ashby,” I say, meeting his stare. My heart expands inside my chest, nearly knocking me down with its rocking beat, but I remain steady. “I’m Low. Lowen Seely.” “Why do you have a tattoo on your face, Low … Lowen Seely?” I ask, bending my toes in the just-cut grass. Even his name shocks my senses, and the entire world is effervescent. “God forsakes me,” he answers, sweeping the tips of his fingers across the etched marking. The ghost of his smile disappears, and worry instantly carves lines around his eyes. “I have some making up to do.” “False penance. Tattoos do nothing for our King,” I say. The streetlights flicker on, shadowing Lowen’s face. “All you have to do is ask for forgiveness, boy.”







I CHILL WITH

the black girls at school because they keep it real.

And they share their lunches with me. “He’s your gardener?” Latisha asks, unwrapping the extra sandwich her mom sent for me. The savory scent of shredded rotisserie chicken topped with lettuce and tomato between thick bread makes my mouth water. “Somethin’ tells me your parents don’t know about this, Poe.” I shrug, sitting between Shaunee’s legs on the lunch table while she braids my hair. My scalp is used to the harsh pull, and I love the looks Jenna and the other basics give me when my long locks are styled this way. “Girl, betta not let that mom of yours find out you’re messing with the help,” she says with small rubber bands between her front teeth. “She’ll bury your ass under those flowers she loves so much.” “I’m not messing with anyone,” I say. “Yet,” Latisha murmurs. She laughs out loud, picking onions out of her sandwich with her super-long acrylic nails. “You know Poesy don’t mess with no one,” my personal stylist says, manipulating my hair between her fingers. “She got that dusty pussy.” I turn to look at one of my only friends, but she pulls my hair until I face forward. Her own cornrows look tight. “I do not have a dusty pussy,” I reply, trying not to smile. “Tre’s trying to see what’s up with you,” Shaunee says. “But you’re cold.” “Please, Tre can’t handle this.” I roll my hips against the bench seductively. “Whateva, girl. When are you going to see that lawn boy again?” This time, I don’t try to hide my smile. “Today.”

ONE THING I’VE

never considered myself is shy. When there’s nothing to lose, being afraid of what other

people think of me is irrelevant. But when I see Lowen and his partners turn onto the block in a forest green “Flaco’s Lawn Service” Chevy, I’m suddenly timid. There’s a chance I’ve put too much thought in the five minutes I spent with our rose trimmer a week ago. Maybe I dreamed the entire encounter in my emotionally deprived head, and to Lowen Seely, I’m nothing more than a customer who offered him a cool refreshment on a warm evening. Maybe my kindness wasn’t extraordinary. How many clients offer him nourishment after he bleeds for their flowers? All of them, I hope. It’s the decent fucking thing to do. I was the one swaying my hips like some type of hussy, and then spying on the guy through mini-blinds like a prowler. But it’s the way my heart stamps behind my ribcage in his presence that keeps me on the porch as he spills out of the truck. And it’s the affection in his smile that drives me to speak. “Long day?” I ask, swallowing my insecurity whole. It falls heavy in the pit of my stomach, plowing through my intestines with razor-sharp you-are-not-worthy talons. Eyes the color of Neptune fall on mine, and lips faintly burned by the sun curve into a side smile. Lowen’s lush mouth upturned brightens his entire face, overshadowing dark sleeplessness beneath his lower lashes. “Long week,” he replies, pushing his hands into his front pockets. The other two men on his crew set up their equipment, nosy behind their lawn mower. “This is our last house.” “Better late than never,” I say stupidly, blushing … again. Heat floods my senses from the tips of my toes to the ends of my hair, and I’m in flames. “Is that for me?” He nods toward the bottle in my hand. “Yeah.” I smile, pulling my lower lip between my teeth. Rough, hardworking hands brush over mine when he reaches for it, and my heart click, click, booms. The way my body catches fire when he’s around is addictive, and I wait every Friday with a bottle of water for Lowen to arrive, chasing the hit I need desperately. Like a junkie, I seek him out, following temptation through the thorns. Small talk and the way he makes me feel are worth a little torn skin. Late spring burns like summer, and we’re both sweaty under the dwindling sun. I extend my legs and lean back against the house as the damp grass wets my bottom. Flaco mows around me,

uninterested by my company. Low aims a stream of chlorine-scented water at my mother ’s roses, drenching their dark green leaves, losing a petal or two. “You’ve never had a boyfriend?” he asks. Water drips from his hands and wrists, reflecting light. “I already told you. I have these really fucked-up father issues.” He looks over at me. “How old are you again?” “Eighteen,” I answer under my dark sunglasses. “And I’ve had boyfriends. Just nothing serious.” Flower boy nods. A bead of sweat streams down the side of his face. “Do you have a girlfriend?” I ask, lifting my sunglasses to the top of my head. I squint against light that’s turned Lowen into a silhouette. “You’re not the only one with issues, Poe.” My name moves across his licked-wet lips like a whisper, and he’s the only one who should be allowed to say it ever again. I want him to own it like he owns the heat that erupts beneath my skin, and I melt. He squirts me with the hose, saving my life. “Asshole!” I scream, jumping to my bare feet. Shards of clipped grass stick to my thighs, and water chills my overheated skin. Lowen shoots me again, laughing. “You better stop.” I point to him, faking seriousness. He makes it rain, and I run, incapable of controlling the joy that escapes my throat. Maneuvering around Flaco and the other guy, chrome-like water drenches my hair and runs down my back under my shirt. The lawn mower shuts down first, and then the leaf blower, leaving only my happiness hanging in the air. “Poesy!” My father ’s deep voice suddenly rushes through the neighborhood, ricocheting off rooftops and sending birds from trees. “What’s going on here?” Lowen drops the stream of water and turns toward my dad in the driveway, standing firm. The grin on his face dims to a grimace, hardening his entire expression into something I haven’t seen from him in the last four weeks during our short time together. Dad closes the car door, fisting his keys and looking at me for the first time in a month. Unlike Lowen’s ruthless glare, my father scarcely tips indifferent despite his stern tone of voice. “We were just playing around,” I say, wiping drops of water from my brow. “Go inside and leave these men to their work.” The man I share eye color with waits for me to walk ahead of him, but gives no other indication of emotion. “Dry yourself off.” From the porch, I watch my dad walk the perimeter of our yard with his hands deep inside his pockets. Lowen drops the hose and crosses his arms over his chest while the rest of his crew stand

like statues, waiting for the fella in charge to break the spell he’s cast on all of us. Dad bumps the toe of his shoe into the corner of the lawn before walking across the grass to inspect the roses. “I don’t pay you to waste water, and I most certainly didn’t hire you to keep my daughter company,” Dad says, turning from the flowers toward the hired help. “Understood?” Flaco moves forward to apologize, red in the face and contrite. I can’t stomach the sight of him groveling and dash inside, dripping water onto the carpet to my room. My father follows me in shortly after, but doesn’t make it past the living room before he and Mom argue, tossing responsibility of their offspring back and forth, until Dad gives up and cracks open a beer, and Mom turns up the volume on The Young and The Restless reruns. My ability to tolerate their self-seeking bullshit reaches its threshold, and I slam my door before reaching for a dry shirt from the bed. Amid my parents’ battle for the last word, my anger is dismissed, and they won’t give me a second thought for the rest of the night. I can leave through the front door. I can smash a me-sized hole through the side of the house to make my exit. I can jump up and down, waving my arms above my head and scream, “I’m fucking out of here!” It wouldn’t matter, and the outcome in each scenario would be the same: indifference. So I kick out the screen and spring from the window, crushing my mother ’s roses beneath my shoes. “Can you give me a ride?” I ask the lawn crew, clapping dirt from my hands.







SITTING BETWEEN FLACO

and Low in the front seat, with weed whacker guy in the back by himself, we drive

from Culver City into Inglewood. An orchestra of trumpets, violins, and guitars clatter from blown speakers in a Mexican symphony that has Flaco bouncing up and down with rhythm and joy. When two of the three men begin to sing song lyrics in a language I don’t understand, I look to find Lowen’s blue eyes set on me. I elbow him playfully before resting my bare arm against his on our own laps. The slight burn of his skin soaks deep within me, melting away lingering bitterness for my parents. They become an afterthought … an indifference. “Should we take you somewhere?” Low asks as Flaco pulls the truck in front of a small blue house. A Hispanic woman and three dark-haired children wave at our arrival from the porch, illuminated by an orange doorway light. I shrug, unbuckling my seatbelt. My ears ring from the sudden silence when the engine is cut and the stereo silences a mid-trumpet solo. “I can find my way around,” I say, stepping out after Lowen onto the cracked sidewalk. “By yourself?” My unlikely friend scoffs, slinging a backpack over his broad shoulders and smirking. “No fucking way, Poesy.” The pre-summer day has fallen into early night, setting off streetlights that cast shadows across Low’s face. Unlike the domestic hum my neighborhood sings at night—primetime television, pool filters, and crickets—this is East Los Angeles. This town doesn’t hum; it shrieks. Police sirens pollute the air, and backyard-bred dogs sprint up and down chain-link fences, guarding the homes they surround. Homeboys drink 40s in front of open garages, and homegirls hang on their arms. The scents of marijuana and exhaust fill my lungs, gangster beats shake my bones, and I lean against the green Chevy to soak it all in. “I’m not afraid.” I lift my chin.

“You should be,” Low says, holding his hand out for me. Taking it without a second thought, I place my small palm in his large one. Hard work and struggle roughened his skin, a blatant contrast to my own. I don’t lace my fingers with his, but keep our hands cupped together as he leads me down the street. “Have friends here or something?” my chaperone asks. His grip tightens slightly around mine. “No,” I answer. Lowen lets out a small laugh. “Is jumping in trucks with strangers something you do often?” “You’re not a stranger.” “I’m your gardener,” he replies. “You’re my dad’s gardener,” I say spitefully, turning my gaze from him to the broken sidewalk passing beneath our feet. “That doesn’t have anything to do with me.” Lowen drops my hand to rest his arm across my shoulders as we exchange neighborhood sidewalks for city streets. The night is alive and thriving as the freaks come out, crowding street corners and tramping through gutters. Eventually, liquor stores and laundry mats taper to apartment buildings and run-down houses in a part of town that has the hair on the back of my neck standing straight. “This is me.” Lowen stops, stepping away from me toward a yellow house with white trim. Stucco has fallen from it in clumps, the brick steps leading toward the door are chipped, but the lawn is on point. “Okay,” I say, looking around. Most of the streetlights are broken, there’s not a star in the sky, and the thick sense of being watched is suffocating. As Low heads toward his front door, leaving me alone on the sidewalk, the fright balled inside my chest reminds me of exactly who I am: a scared white girl from the ’burbs. “Poesy,” the deserter calls out to me. “Are you coming in or what?” My feet move before I inhale a breath to answer. LOWEN’S HOME IS

everything mine isn’t: adored.

The TV is set on an old dresser, the couch has holes in the arms, the coffee table is missing its glass top, and the artwork on the wall looks like it was taken from a cheap motel. But there’s a young blonde-haired girl sitting at the dining table with a notebook and calculator, doing her homework, and another woman in front of the stove, jumping away from popping oil with the sound of her laughter filling every inch of the kitchen. “Motherfuck, that hurt!” she shouts, shaking her left hand while flipping chicken with the right

and some tongs. “Mom,” the younger girl groans, rolling her eyes. “I know, Gillian, but the fucking oil keeps biting me,” the chef hoots, swapping the tongs for a wooden spoon to stir the pot of mashed potatoes. “Shit, my language. Dammit, I’m sorry. Fuck!” Low places his hand on my lower back, guiding me to the commotion. Gillian, who’s maybe twelve years old, spots us and drops her pencil. The blueness of her eyes puts me under arrest, enchanting me with the same spell Lowen has for weeks now. She shares the roundness of his lips and the sharpness of his jawline, too. “Who’s this?” she asks suddenly. I smile at her boldness and answer, “I’m Poesy Ashby. Who are you?” “That rude girl is my sister, Gillian,” Lowen says before she can reply, pulling out a seat for me to sit at the table. “Ignore her. She was raised by wolves.” Gillian sticks her tongue out at her older brother. “Excuse me. I take offense to that,” the woman at the stove interjects teasingly. She wipes her grease-slick hands on her pants before reaching out to shake my hand to introduce herself. “Patricia Seely, but I guess you can call me Mother Wolf.” “Nice to meet you.” I shake her hand with both of mine, taking notice of the coarseness of her palms. They’re the hands of a woman who’s lived a hard life. The wooden table wobbles as I take a seat, unbalanced on four legs. None of the chairs around it match, and the varnish has rubbed away in some places on the aged surface. But there’s a green vase with fresh flowers in the center, and red cotton placemats faded from use. Lowen takes a seat at the head of the table, unlaces his work boots, and sits back. He closes his eyes, working his neck back and forth to release tension from the day. Patricia sets a glass of ice water in front of him, and Gillian pushes her workbook toward her brother, looking for help. It’s a display I’ve only witnessed in movies. No one uses the kitchen table at my house. I don’t remember a time when I had a meal with my parents that wasn’t in front of the television, or had anyone help me with schoolwork without huffing and puffing about what an inconvenience it was. “Are you staying for dinner?” Patricia asks, lowering the flame on the stove to simmer the packaged gravy. “We have plenty.” I look to Low for assurance before I agree. I’m the girl who jumped out of a window and into his work truck without a clue as to where I was headed. He let me tag along and saved me from wandering amongst gangsters and thugs on the streets, but it wouldn’t surprise me if he didn’t want me making myself at home in his space. “Stay, Poe. I’ll drive you where you need to go after you eat,” my knight in shining armor replies. We eat fried chicken, mashed potatoes, and applesauce, and drink grape soda from coffee mugs,

occupying all four chairs around the table. Gillian talks about her day at school, and Patricia complains about the garbage disposal not working again. “I called the landlord, but he didn’t answer, of course,” she says before popping a piece of chicken between her lips. Patricia’s wearing bright green eye shadow with heavy pink blush across her cheeks. Her curly bleach blonde hair is pulled back into a clip, and her nails are painted red. She’s outrageous and fantastic and true all at the same time. “And he still hasn’t sent anyone to fix the faucet in the bathroom.” “Don’t call him again,” Lowen says. He wipes his mouth clean with a napkin. “I’ll take care of it this weekend.” Simple gestures and the genuine affection this family so obviously feels for each other burns my cheeks with awe. Hiding my smile behind my mug, I drink the rest of my soda to keep from embarrassing myself in front of Low. “Is it okay if I get some more?” I ask, lifting my cup. “Sure, honey.” Patricia pauses the conversation to answer, falling right back into it once I stand. The off-white refrigerator is covered with school awards and decent report cards from the youngest member in the household. Poems written on college-ruled paper with Gillian Seely’s name in the corner are taped between her academic accomplishments, and a brochure for a teen summer writing program is in the center of it all, kept in place by a magnet. “The bottle is on the counter,” Lowen says, directing his eyes to the liter of grape drink. “Oh, sorry,” I say, but it’s too late. I’ve already opened the fridge to see what’s inside. Or in this case, not inside. Lit dimly by a clear bulb in the back, the refrigerator is empty and smells like mildew. Sticky spots and crumbs are the only indication that anything but a pitcher of water, a take-out container, and random condiments are kept here. “I haven’t had a chance to make it to the grocery store,” Patricia says, waving me off dismissively. “Hopefully, I can go sometime tomorrow.” This isn’t a fridge that belongs to a family with no time to shop. It belongs to a family who starves. “No problem.” Cold, processed air cools my warm cheeks, and I close the door quickly, fighting the urge to open the freezer. As comprehension blankets me in a scratchy embrace, I eat every bite on my plate and consider licking it clean, not daring to waste a single scrap. I can feel Lowen’s blue-eyed stare on me from across the table, but keep my gaze down as shame rips me to pieces. It was only last week when I watched my mom throw away a week’s worth of leftovers and a drawer full of fruit that molded and thought nothing of it. “Poesy, tell us about yourself.” Patricia also scarfed her meal. She pushes the dish away and

folds her fingers underneath her chin. “Start with your family.” Shame shifts to resentment, straightening my spine and lifting my chin in defiance. I circle my finger around the rim of my mug, working the courage to utter untruths to these hungry people. It’s the same story told anytime I’m asked about the people obligated to raise me: we’re happy. “They’re assholes.” A smile spreads across my face, and I laugh loudly—right from the belly. “We totally hate each other.” The sound of my laughter echoes off water-damaged walls, but telling the truth chips at hostility, and I feel lighter. Lowen brought me to his house—his run-down, foodless, happy home— without pretenses or indignity. A place with exposed electrical wires and stained carpet, but a place warmer and more sheltering than my house has ever been. “My mom watches soap operas all day, and my dad wears loafers. It’s ridiculous,” I say, looking toward Lowen. His smile matches my own. “Shit, Poesy,” Patricia says, shaking her head. Her lips curve. “I’ll tell you what, though. Parents really know how to fuck shit up.” “Ain’t that the truth,” Gillian mumbles. THE WOMAN OF

the house refuses help in the kitchen after we’re done eating, and Gillian closes her

school books and drags her feet to bed, finding it impossible to keep her eyes open once the food settles in her stomach and the excitement of the day comes to an end. “Which room is yours?” I follow Lowen to the living room, standing a foot shorter than his towering frame. Frayed laces drag on the carpet, and grass-stained denim hangs low on his hips. Twirled cowlicks and lengthy around his ears, Low pushes his long fingers through his golden hair. Summer just began to heat things up, but the sun blazed hot enough this week to lighten his ends. “You’re in it,” blond boy answers, falling onto the sofa. A white bedsheet covering the couch collapses under his weight. “Am I allowed on your bed?” I ask in a light tone, winking. “My sister used to sleep with my mom.” He pats the spot beside him, extending his legs and kicking the table back to get comfortable once I sit. “But I gave Gillian the second bedroom a few months ago. She’s too old to crash with her ma, you know. So this is me now.” “It’s not bad.” I bounce on the cushion. He laughs, and my heart leaps. “I’ve slept on worse,” he says.

The yellow light from the lamp beside the couch throws a shadow across Lowen’s face, exaggerating the hard lines of his nose and chin. A light stubble trails along this boy’s jawline in a hundred different shades of blond. It’s killing me not to reach over and trace the tattoo beneath his left eye at the sharpest point of his cheekbone, but I settle for brushing my fingers over the scars on his knuckles. “I don’t live like you do, Poesy.” He looks down where my hands touch his. “Tell me how it feels,” I whisper. My thumb sweeps over healed fight marks and slopes between hard bone. “To struggle? To not know where your next meal will come from or if you’ll be able to pay the rent? You don’t want to know how that feels.” Lowen suddenly turns his palm, capturing my wrist in his large grasp. He eases when I don’t pull away but doesn’t let me go. The passion in his stare, dark blue and cutting, steals the breath from my lungs in one easy pull. Airless, hypnotized, and dissolving under his rough touch, I lean toward my capturer and part my lips in search of something to stop the aching pressure in my chest. “No,” I say breathlessly. “Tell me how it feels to live with people who love you.” Lowen’s lips collide with mine, forceful and warm, and his palms cradle my face. I close my eyes as the rhythm of my heart drowns out the sound of running water from the kitchen. Gripping on to the front of his shirt, melting into his embrace is thoughtless, and the feel of his tongue touching mine is provoking. He’s sincere but commanding, pushing his fingers through my stringy hair and scratching my scalp. I let him lead, at his mercy, gasping for air when the tingle in my lips spreads to the rest of my face. “Is this okay?” Low asks softly. His wet kiss presses to the corner of my mouth. Capturing his bottom lip between my teeth, I pull until it lets loose and smile. Deep-set warmth envelops my entire body until I’m reduced to goosebumps and prickles. “Baby, there’s a piece of chicken left if you’re—shit!” Patricia’s cheeks burn bright red. She turns in a circle, not sure whether or not she should go back into the kitchen or to her bedroom. Deciding on the latter, mother wolf sprints by. “Ignore me. I’m not even here. It was nice meeting you, Poesy!”







“TELL ME THE

truth.” I spin so Lowen can see me at every angle. “I look ridiculous, right?”

Shrouded from neck to toe in bright blue polyester, my arms swim in my commencement gown, and the cap won’t stay on my head. I’m positive I’ve already lost the fucking tassel, and this is absurd. “You only have to wear it for a few hours. Do it for your parents.” Leaning against my dresser with his arms crossed over his chest, Low’s lips curve into a half-smile. “This is their fault.” I snatch my cap from the floor after it falls off again. “My mom forgot to order my cap and gown, so I got what was left. Which is why this is two sizes too big.” “Then do it for yourself, Poe. It’s important.” I turn away from optimistic and sensible toward a body-length mirror, refusing to glimpse at my reflection but unable to look at him as I fidget with the plastic zipper on my gown. Lowen didn’t finish high school. If there’s one thing he’s been in the two weeks since our first kiss, it’s upfront. “I want you to know what you’re getting into,” my boy cautioned once he realized his empty refrigerator and cursing mother weren’t going to scare me away. Between kisses, Low told horror stories about his life, including the truth about his murderous, incarcerated father, which eventually resulted in his family’s financial struggle, and because he had to work full-time, the five credits short he is from receiving a high school diploma. Patricia was injured at work a few years back, leaving the responsibility of their household on Lowen’s shoulders. “Do you think about going back to school?” I glimpse into the mirror, catching his gaze. Butterflies with razor-sharp wings flap in my stomach, slicing me to bits. “I can help you … if you decide to.” “Worry about yourself, Poe,” the dropout says, approaching me from behind. He wraps his arms around my front, kissing the exposed skin on my neck.

Despite the not-so-terrifying stories of life lived on the other side of the tracks, Lowen and I are devoted. On Fridays, I catch a ride with Flaco and the crew to his house after the grass is clipped and the roses are trimmed, only popping in and out of my place long enough for my parents to see my face during the weekend. They’re clueless about my relationship with Low, so not to spike their curiosity or plain annoyance at my sudden interest to drive, I don’t ask to borrow the car too often. Lowen shares an old Buick with Patricia, but she needs it for doctors’ appointments and Gillian. We’ve put our bus passes to good use in the meantime. “Will you be there tonight?” I lean my head back, opening my throat to his mouth. The gown finally unzips. “I want to see you graduate, Poe…” he murmurs between kisses. “What’s the problem?” Turning in his arms, I grip the neck of his shirt and pull him with me as I step back toward my bed. “Gillian has some shit going on at school tonight. My ma will need the car, and the buses don’t run that late.” He slides his hands under my shirt and around the small of my back. “Stay here then.” I fall onto the bed, guiding him between my legs until we both sink onto my blue gown across the queen mattress. Lowen reaches between us and unbuckles my shorts. “If your dad finds out, I’ll lose my job and my family won’t eat.” “I’ll feed you,” I say, lifting my hips so he can tug the dark cotton down my legs. “Nice offer, girl, but my mom and sister can’t survive on pussy.” Lowen laughs, dropping my shorts to the carpet. Pushing my red painted toes into his chest, my attempt to kick him away fails. He grabs my ankles and spreads my legs apart, loosely draping them around his hips. As my chest expands with deep breaths, Lowen pulls his shirt over his head, tossing it across the room. “When will they be home?” His hands slide up my bare legs, shooting sparks through my limbs. We haven’t had sex. He doesn’t want our first time to be on his couch, and he won’t fuck me in my parents’ house. The boy between my knees refuses to sneak in through my window or come after dark. Not telling my life-givers about Lowen and being purposely deceptive about him are two different things. The only reason he’s here now is because my dad’s at work and my mom is shopping, having waited to the last minute to buy something to wear to my graduation. Lowen walked through the front door. Like a man. “Later,” I say breathlessly. “Much, much later.” Warm lips touch the inside of my thighs. He pushes my knees to the mattress, opening me past

comfort. Muscles from my hipbones to my kneecaps strain sorely, but his kiss on my ticklish skin is lovely and soothing enough for me to breathe through the pain. I stare at the ceiling, grip the bedsheets, and unconsciously circle my hips. “Slow down, ho.” Low bites my pelvic bone before releasing my knees and moving up my body to kiss my tingling lips. “You are such a motherfucker.” I smile against his smirk, digging my fingernails into his sides. Stripped from the gown and white cotton shirt, I’m left in nothing more than a heavy blush and pair of light pink underwear. My legs shake at his sides, and my nipples harden against his chest. Low’s bare skin burns under my trembling fingers, smooth and soap-scented and mine. “Sweetest thing,” he whispers, kissing along my collarbone. “You’re the sweetest thing, Poesy.” I drag my fingertips across his shoulders, attaching my lips to the pulse point on his neck. Pulling his beat between my lips, I suck until blood vessels burst, and a bruise purples his skin. The damage I inflict on his throat sings to me, unlocking dormant lust and overwhelming desire. He’s hard where I am soft. He’s big where I am small. He’s calm where I am crazy. “I want to, Low,” I say. My head falls back as he strokes against my middle, lighting me on fire. Calm and collected dips his hand into my delicates, sliding between the flames. He pushes his thumb against my clit, and my back curves away from the mattress as my breath leaves my lungs in a sweet hum. Then his fingers are inside me, and I see stars. “Fuck,” he whispers, bound by how tight I am. Our lips brush lightly together, and I open my eyes long enough to catch his hooded stare. Lowen’s face is as flushed as mine, and his blue eyes darken. As I exhale, the man above me inhales, slipping his fingers in a little deeper each time. He’s knuckle deep, slow moving, and tender, easy to stretch my opening for his delicious intrusion. “Tell me you’re not a virgin,” he says, placing small kisses on the corner of my mouth. Clinging to him, Low’s heart beats high against my chest, pounding faster as I move my hips back and forth against his hand. I fuck his fingers until a slow burn explodes into a firestorm, and I’m reduced to ember and ash. “That is so much better when someone else does it,” I say a few minutes later, still floating, still breathless, and still stunned. Lowen closes my legs, shifting onto the bed beside me. He moves meandering strands of my blonde hair away from my flushed face, pushing it behind my ear. His eyes return to their normal color, studying my face, taking in the sight of my near-naked form. “How?” he asks, kissing the top of my shoulder.

“How have I never done that with anyone?” I laugh lightly. My arms and legs feel boneless. “Yeah.” He palms my small breasts, rubbing his thumb over my sensitive nipples. “The boys I go to school with are wannabe gangsters or overachievers. My integrity is worth more than a random fuck with some clueless loser. I’ve never wanted to.” I’m quiet for a moment. “Until you.” “They have more to offer than me,” Lowen says evenly, honestly. “Don’t talk like that.” I take his face between my hands. He kisses my palm. “I’ve never felt this way before, Low. Don’t take that from me.” “You’re saying this now, but I’ve been arrested. My family is on welfare. My dad is never getting out of prison because he killed someone. That’s all I have for you, Poesy.” Sitting up, I pull the gown from under my body to cover my chest. The tips of my fingers and toes are still numb, and my legs are too unsteady to stand. I feel pleasantly stretched and strained, even as anger I feel from his stubbornness begins to stir. “If you think I care about how much money you have or don’t have, you’re wrong, Low.” I look to him over my shoulder. “I’m not that girl.” “Why are you so willing to take on my baggage?” He covers his face with both of his hands. “Because you talk to me. Because you care.” I inhale a shaky breath, but even as my eyes fill with tears, I refuse to cry. I’m not that girl either. “None of this shit in this house is mine, Lowen. My mom has always made it very apparent I wasn’t wanted, and my dad has done absolutely nothing to prove her wrong. Once I leave this place, I won’t be welcomed back. And once I leave, I won’t have anything either.” He places his hand on my lower back. “My body,” I start, “and my intelligence are all I have. That’s why I haven’t given them away. You’re not the only one with baggage.” SUMMER TASTES LIKE

nectarines and smells like sunblock.

The solstice sun shines UVAs and UVBs with a vengeance over Los Angeles County, plaguing the city with record temperatures, rolling blackouts, and heat strokes. With the fall semester at the local community college not beginning until the first week of September, Lowen and I are left with the entire summer to melt together. With so much extra time on my hands before class starts, I’m able to come and go from my house to his as I please. Low has to work during the week, so I’ll tag along sometimes, equipped with an ice chest and sunnies. I’ve helped pull weeds a couple of times, earning a few bucks here and there.

Enough for movie tickets or dinner. I’d easily give the extra funds to Low, but he doesn’t ask for it, and I won’t offer. His pride is worth more than twenty dollars. I help in other ways. My teeth puncture the red-orange skin of my favorite summertime fruit, filling my mouth with a first sweet then tart juice. It runs down my fingers, pooling in the palm of my hand, leaving me sticky. Standing in front of the refrigerator filled with too much food for three people, the cold air touches my hot body, over-heated and sweaty from a day spent with Flaco’s Lawn Service. “Will you be home tonight?” my mom asks through the receiver. Her tone is distracted. “No,” I say with the cordless phone between my shoulder and ear. “We won’t either. Make sure you lock up, and leave the porch light on.” Not surprised that she doesn’t ask me where I’ll be or where I’ve been for the last month, I just hang up and take another bite from my nectarine. This time the juice drips to the linoleum floor. Once I eat every bite and toss the pit into the sink, I reach inside the fridge and start looking for expiration dates and unbroken seals. Anything close to the Use By date goes into the large duffel bag I found in the closet, including frozen meat in the freezer. There are cups of yogurt shoved behind a tub of butter and sour cream that no one will eat, so they go inside the duffel, too. Fruit and vegetables on the soft side—including the rest of the nectarines—are coming with me. After I’ve ransacked the Frigidaire, I shuffle through the canned goods and junk food. I’m the only one who eats the cookies, and it’ll do Mrs. Ashby some good to lay off the powdered donuts until the next shopping trip. “Poe, you ready?” Lowen calls out for me. “Yeah, let’s go.” I grab a twelve pack of soda, the last two bananas on the counter, and the sack of food. He takes the duffel bag from my shoulder, and I lock the door. But I don’t leave the porch light on, because fuck them. LATER THAT NIGHT

, Lowen and I are able to take the car for a few hours. The air conditioning at the house

went out, adding it to the list of shit that needs to be fixed, and despite opening all of the windows, it was insufferable. “What’s the big deal?” I ask, pulling my hair into a high ponytail to get it off my damp neck. The air in the Buick doesn’t work either, but the temperature cools as we drive, cooling the layer of sweat over my entire body.

“You’re not getting a tattoo on your face.” Downright hood, Lowen is shirtless behind the steering wheel, shimmering in perspiration. He reaches over the center console and places his hand on my thigh. “I don’t want it on my face, dummy,” I say. We approach a red light, slowing to a squeaky stop. Once the air stops moving, the heat rises and a drop of sweat falls between my barely-there cleavage. I roll the hem of my shirt, exposing my stomach, and tie it in place under my breasts. A billboard on the side of the road displays the temperature: ninety-seven degrees. “My ankle? My wrist? My hip?” I suggest. Low shakes his head. “The back of my neck?” “I’d have you put it on your face before your neck. That’s just trashy.” He winks, laughing. “Says the guy driving around L.A. with no shirt on,” I say, playfully punching him in the arm. A cop car passes on the right, and I notice Lowen’s posture stiffen, so I sit straight. City lights glow in yellows, reds, and greens, advertising everything from fast food to bootleg shoe stores. Beggers beg, teenagers walk in loud groups, and white people wonder how they ended up on this side of town. “Why do you want to do this?” Lowen asks with no humor left in his tone. “Because I adore you,” I answer simply. My boy parks the Buick in front of a beige building, complete with a flickering florescent sign that reads Tattoo, between a Mexican food place and a used furniture outlet. We get out of the car at the same time, simultaneously shutting the heavy metal doors and stepping onto the sidewalk. Lowen pulls a white shirt over his heated body before draping his arm across my shoulders and leading me inside. Brightly lit and freezing cold, the shop walls are covered in cheesy flash art, and the floor is checkered black and white. The only artist working is stationed in the far right corner, wrapping up a butterfly he’s just finished on a redhead’s lower back. He looks in our direction under a flat-billed hat with half of his face hidden behind a long black beard. “What’s going on, man?” he says, standing up and removing the black latex gloves from his hands. “Wasn’t sure if you were going to make it.” “I was trying to talk her out of it,” Low replies with a smirk, guiding me forward. They shake hands before introductions. “Poe, this is my homie Cliff. Cliff, my girl Poesy.” Cliff and I share pleasantries, small smiles, and a firm handshake. The person he tattooed takes her exit, and I roam around the shop, checking out the art on the walls, while Lowen catches up with his friend. When they do call me back, I’m lost in art and have forgotten why we’re here. “So, where’s it going?” Cliff asks, snapping on a fresh pair of gloves. His arms are covered in illegible ink, and there’s an anchor on the side of his neck. “Not sure,” I say. A blast of heat dampens my palms, but I don’t show how nervous I suddenly

am. “Last chance to back out,” Lowen says, pulling me in his arms. I take his face between my hands like I have so many times before, and he kisses the palm like he always does. Little things such as this—small displays of affection I’ve been starved for my entire life—are some of the reasons I’ve fallen for him. Cliff cleans my hand with rubbing alcohol before drawing a cross identical to Lowen’s on the center of my left palm. My boy looks over my shoulder at the small mark before he pulls a metal chair and takes a seat beside me. He sweeps my sweat-dirty hair away from my eyes, brushing the back of his knuckles across my cheekbone. “Don’t tell anyone,” I say. “But I am so fucking nervous.” Everyone laughs, momentarily easing the ache in my chest. But Cliff turns on the tattoo gun, dipping the needle into a small plastic cup of black ink. “Keep your hand still,” he says, leaning toward me. Fizzing nervousness makes me feel like I’ll take flight at any moment, and the buzz of the machine drills bone deep. With my bottom lip between my teeth and a lungful of oxygen jammed in my throat, keeping my fingers from trembling is impossible. Cliff can’t come near me without my fingers twitching. “Hey, look at me, Poe.” Lowen tilts my chin toward him until our eyes meet. “I’d never let anything hurt you.” The needle touches skin, etching the first line of the cross. I squeeze my eyes closed, overwhelmed by how much one tiny mark hurts. “You need to know something,” composure says softly, loud enough for only me to hear. “It better be good.” My eyes open to find a smile across his face and bright blur irises reflecting warmth. Lowen takes my right hand and kisses my knuckles one at a time, and the screaming buzz from the tattoo machine hushes to a whisper. His long blond eyelashes brush across his cheeks as he slowly blinks, deliberate with every press of his lips. “I knew it from the second I saw you, Poesy.” He laces his fingers with mine and catches my glossy stare. “I’m so fucking in love with you to death.” “I love you, too,” I say brokenly, choking back tears. They run down my face despite my effort. “Yeah?” Low asks, like it couldn’t be true. “Yes,” I say, laughing as salty happiness runs over my lips. He licks them away before giving me the first kiss since I love you. “All right, darlings. I’m all done.” Cliff wipes my new tattoo with antiseptic before sitting back in his chair, grinning from ear to ear. “You guys have matching tattoos, and you’re in love. That’s sweet. Real sweet.”

My boy stands, helping me to my feet. He reaches into his back pocket for his wallet, but Cliff holds his hand up. “I won’t accept your money, Low. Our dads go way back.” Lowen’s expression falls, leaving him straight-lipped and daunting. “Don’t fuck around, C.” “Pops said your old man had his back in the joint when some shit came up. I won’t accept your money now or ever. It’s principle.” Cliff walks away, removing his gloves one last time tonight.







SUMMER COOLS TO

autumn, welcoming fallen leaves, fresher weather, and college classes. As a result, I

spend more time home in Culver City and less time with Lowen in Inglewood, but we make it work and steal moments together when we can. My school books are open-faced, spread across the glass kitchen table much to my mother ’s dismay. “Can’t you do that in your room?” she complained to me on more than one occasion. “You’re getting fingerprints all over it.” I purposely drop pencil shavings onto the floor for her to find when she gets home tomorrow morning. I’ve also left my dishes in the sink, and put the forks where the spoons go and the spoons where the forks go in the utensil drawer, because fuck her. My parents grew accustomed to me not being around much during the summer, leaving them to their own devices. Now I’m back, taking up space and breathing the same air as them, and they haven’t made it a secret that it’s bothersome. While they’re off pretending to give a shit about each other on a last-minute overnight stay with friends in Big Bear, l have the house to myself. And it’s Friday. Gardener day. At exactly four p.m., the sound of a lawn mower fires up in the front yard, and a smile stretches across my face. Lowen is right outside the front door, and my body is well aware. Prickling nervousness tickles the tips of my fingers, and my heartbeat fills my chest with a thump, thump, thump so heavy I nearly expect my ribs to splinter at the force. When the mower stops, I close my books and stack them in an awkward pile, brushing eraser crumbs and broken lead to the linoleum with the shavings. Low knocks before he enters the house.

A week has passed since I last saw him, and the sight of my boy, sun-kissed and filthy, leaves me breathless and tingling between my legs. Dark denim jeans are haphazardly tucked into his work boots; one is tied perfectly, and the other is unlaced completely. I helped buzz his head a couple of weeks ago, but it’s already long around his ears and in need of another shave. “Your parents are gone, right?” he asks, closing the door behind him. Lowen’s blue eyes fall on my form, barefoot and braless. He smirks. “Please tell me they’re not here.” Words abandon me, so I jump into his arms instead, wrapping my legs around his waist and pressing kisses to his salty skin. Lowen stumbles back, tripping on his untied laces, and collides with the wall. His grip on my bottom tightens, and he laughs into my neck, holding me against his hard chest. “Miss me?” he asks. The tips of his work-worn fingers slip under my shirt and brush across my lower back. “You have no idea,” I murmur between kisses. Lowen sets me on my feet and hooks his arm around the back of my neck to kiss the top of my head. He smells like gasoline and freshly cut grass, and I press myself against him to breathe it in. “What are you doing, girl?” he asks softly into my ear, pressing his lips to the tender spot beneath it. Time away from Lowen is time spent untouched and unloved, back in the company of people who, in the very least, can’t take one moment to stop and ask how I am. After a summer spent cherished, it’s difficult to fall back into a life knowing what love feels like. My defensive walls aren’t built as high, and the silent dance my parents and I do around each other hurts my heart. “I need you,” I say, rubbing my face into Lowen’s shirt. He allows me to lead him toward my bathroom, sharing slight smiles and wordless devotions. I let go of his hand outside the door, reaching under the hem of my thin gray shirt to lift it off. Cool air hardens my nipples, and goosebumps spread across my arms like a breeze. The tie around my bun comes loose, cascading my long blonde locks around my slender shoulders. Lowen scrubs the palms of his hands down his face and leans against the doorframe to watch me step out of my shorts, shaking his head. As I slip my thumbs under the elastic band of my panties, his position breaks, and he comes forward. “Let me,” he says, lifting me onto the cold tile counter. White cotton glides down my legs with ease, and Low covers my naked center with the palm of his hand, stroking wholly and kissing my mouth without haste. I fall back, hitting the bathroom mirror, and gasp for air as relentlessness moves lower. Running trembling fingers through his yellow-colored hair, I drive him toward my heat and nearly scream when his tongue slips between my folds. Piercing blue eyes look at me from between my thighs, but I’m too far gone to hold his stare. I

throw my head back and knock the soap dish and tissue box to the floor, searching for something to hold on to. Lowen thrusts my knees back—opening me wider, loving me deeper—and I wrap my hand around the faucet to keep steady, turning on the water. “Not yet … not yet, Low,” I whisper as my heart beats like a drum, and my body winds up, on the brink of spiraling out of control. Then his fingers are inside me, shoving, thrusting, fucking, and his mouth is attached to my throat, sucking, biting, consuming. And I am coming. “That’s it, girl.” He watches me catch fire like he drenched me in gasoline and lit a motherfucking match. I cling to his shoulders, rocking my hips and burying my face between his neck and shoulder, absorbing the flame. “Do you have any idea what this does to me, Poesy?” tenderness asks, sweeping loose strands of hair away from my flushed face with the hand he made love to me with. “How it makes me feel?” Feather-soft lashes sweep across my cheeks as I blink heavily, waiting for the world to come back into focus. I’m fading in Lowen’s arms, barely breathing and utterly spent, throbbing and radiant all at once. “It’ll be better than that one day,” he continues. “When I’m inside you.” Lowen helps me down from the counter, but the feeling hasn’t returned to my legs, and I sink to the floor, wondering how it can ever be more than this. I rest my face on my knees as he starts the shower and takes off his shirt. Solid muscle flexes under his tanned skin, and his abs constrict every time he exhales. Once he’s undressed and the small bathroom is full of humid steam, my boy helps me into the shower and follows me in. Hot water chutes over my breasts, free-falling down my legs, and lastly, puddles around my feet before pouring down the drain. Low massages lavender-scented shampoo into my hair, scrubbing my scalp and washing away not only the day, but any lingering feelings I had of not belonging before he showed up. This is the only place I belong. “How was your week?” he asks, rinsing soapsuds away. Overwhelmed by the simple question, I turn to face Lowen with tears in my eyes and emotion stuck in my throat, confronting nothing but genuine sincerity and kindness. The decency of his consideration is more than I’ve ever experienced, and now that I have, it’s not something I can live without. “I hate it here, Low,” I admit, unable to be anything but honest with him. Piercing blue eyes search my face, absorbing the torture in my expression and recognizing the

aching in my soul. He sighs. “Things are getting better with Flaco. I’m working more hours, Poe. Maybe you can move…” There’s a knock on the bathroom door. “Poesy, open up.” The handle jiggles. “Who’s in there with you?” “What are you doing here, Mom? I thought you were gone until tomorrow,” I call out. The hot water beating on my shoulders only helps aid the rage building inside me at the sound of her detached voice. “In the living room—now,” the person who gave me life says, and I know she’s walked away. “Shit,” I whisper, turning the shower off. Lowen and I dry ourselves and get dressed in a thick, steamy silence. He does his best to make his hair and clothes—grass-stained and muddy—presentable. Meanwhile, my hair drips water onto my shirt, soaking the back, and I don’t bother putting underwear back on under my shorts, knowing what’s coming. “Don’t leave me alone with them,” I say with my hand on the doorknob. Lowen draws me behind him and walks out first. The short hallway is dark, and the living room is bright, transforming my protector into a silhouette. He has a loose hold on my fingers, leading me toward consequence, with his head held high and his broad shoulders square. I feel unbeatable with him, and proud. Mom is in the kitchen, pretending to put the dishes from the dishwasher away, banging pots and pans and slamming cabinet doors. My dad paces back and forth in front of the entertainment center against the wall. They both stop when we emerge, filling the open area with booming silence. “You’re the gardener,” my father says. “My name is L—” “I don’t give a fuck what your names is. That’s my daughter.” Dad takes a step forward, redfaced and tight-fisted. Lowen’s jaw constricts, but he’s otherwise rock-steady and firm in his place at my side. “I will have your job for this,” irate and irrational continues, pointing a finger in Low’s direction. “What the fuck, Poesy?” Mom suddenly shouts from the kitchen. Her arms are crossed, and she taps her foot crossly. “You weren’t supposed to be here,” I say, offering nothing else. I tighten my grip on Lowen’s hand, unwavering. Mom shakes her head as if to loosen the stupid between her ears and says, “What?” “I thought I had the house to myself tonight, so I invited Lowen over,” I repeat. The way she looks at me like I’m nothing but an inconvenience has my stomach in knots. As if she doesn’t comprehend what I’ve said, my mother turns to her husband and then back to

me, eyes wide and her mouth slightly open. Dad’s dark stare hasn’t swung from the hired help. The man I share a last name with stands before us with his chest puffed out and veins bulging from his neck. “You need to leave my house,” he seethes. Low inhales through his nose and turns toward me. What I find in his eyes is not defeat; it’s a promise as deep as the ocean and as infinite as the universe. It’s worship. He places his hand on the back of my neck and kisses my forehead. “It’s his house, Poe. I have to go.” “What exactly is this about?” I demand with the echo of my boy’s kiss still warm on my skin. “Since when do you give a shit about what I’m doing?” My dad’s nostrils flare. “Don’t question me, Poesy.” “I’m eighteen fucking years old!” I shout. Mom laughs menacingly, occupying every inch of space with distaste. “Trust me. I know exactly how old you are, little girl.” Powerlessness floods my lungs, choking me with searing anger until my throat and tongue blister with resentment. My teeth bleed bitterness, and it takes everything in me not to spit a mouthful at my mother ’s feet. As I stare into her eyes, callous and distant, aggression flushes black blood through my veins, fueling muscle with hate-like strength and slugging oil-thick sustenance through my heart. I don’t bother sharing with her how much Lowen means to me or threatening, accept him or lose me. They don’t deserve to hear about the kind of happiness this boy from the hood gives me … They don’t get to choose. It’s my choice. I pick him. Even the unlovable love. LOWEN IS FIRED

the next day.

That night I max-out my dad’s American Express card, buying Lowen’s family groceries and paying their past due electric bill. My card-carrying rights are soon revoked. Within a month, the fridge runs low on food, the Buick’s tank is empty, and the rent is due. My boy looks for work while Patricia begs the state for more food stamps, but her kids are grown and

she’s reached her limit, and no one is hiring. I pawn my mom’s jewelry and slip twenty dollars at a time from my dad’s wallet, but the struggle is real, and it’s never enough. “I could have sworn I had a pound of hamburger meat in here,” my mom whispers to herself, searching the freezer for the food I took to Lowen’s the day before. “You’re a little young to go senile,” I say, erasing on a blank sheet of paper just to brush the crumbs to the floor. “Or not.” My parents agreed to help me financially as long as I’m under their roof. I wanted to take off after Low lost his job, but Inglewood is too far to commute every day to school without a car, and I can’t afford to live on my own. Swallowing my pride is easy when the person I love strains to keep his intact. He hustles, working odd jobs here and there for a few bucks, but Lowen is unable to secure full-time employment. The guilt he suffers with from being unable to support his family only gets worse when the holidays arrive. On Thanksgiving, we eat a turkey dinner donated from a local church, doing our best to be grateful for small graces, drinking cheap champagne. I take small portions, hoping the food will last for the rest of the week, but with an empty stomach, cut-rate alcohol turns me into a mad person. “This is all my fucking fault,” I cry, covering my face with unthankful hands. Lowen pulls me outside to the front porch, covering my small shivering body with his large warm jacket. The stars are out, but everything is blurry, and I can’t see through despair. “None of you would be going through this if you never met me,” I say. My breath turns white in the cool night air. “If I never met you, Poesy,” Lowen whispers, taking me in his arms. He kisses the top of my head. “There would be nothing for me to fight for. My mom and Gillian would be good without me. It’s you. It’s only you.” He’s arrested two days before Christmas. After breaking someone’s nose in a bar fight, he can’t see a judge until after the first of the year because of the holiday. I spend Christmas Eve in Inglewood, eating another charity turkey and instant mashed potatoes, and suffer through Christmas with my parents, staring at the gluttonous meal my mother put together in disgust while my heart is locked in a cell with my criminal. The next day, I box up the leftovers, gather the gifts I didn’t bother to unwrap, and pack enough clothes to last for a while. With no word from Low since the day he was locked up, I can’t stomach the thought of not being there when he gets out. “Any word?” I ask Patricia when I arrive, passing the food to her and the presents to Gillian. Low won’t have his day in court for another week, but he hasn’t called because they can’t afford collect calls.

“No, baby, I’m sorry,” Mrs. Seely says regretfully with an armful of ham and cranberry sauce. Gillian opens sweaters meant for me and shoes one size too big for her still-growing feet with the reckless abandon of a girl who’s been gifted the world. I’m enveloped in her brother ’s blankets, inhaling slow lungfuls of his lingering scent, watching with anxiety pricking my heart. The youngest Seely runs to the bathroom mirror, holding a turquoise blouse against her body to see how it looks, and tears finally fall down my cheeks. They’re my unwelcome companions for the next six days. I salute a new year with red-rimmed, swollen eyes, overwhelmed by the force of my sorrow, and share tearful midnight kisses with Lowen’s mother and sister. “He’s okay, Poe,” Patricia says, wiping my salty sadness from her lips. Her cheeks brighten under her pink blush. “This … this isn’t the first time my son’s been in trouble. His dad—” “I know about his father,” I say. He’s a career convict. A deadbeat. A killer. Lowen is not like him. Ten nights after he was arrested, Low walks through the front door at three in the morning, dressed in clothes blood-stained from the fight and with another offense on his record. He’s a shadow in the doorway, and I can’t bring myself to sit up or speak in case he disappears. “What are you doing here, girl?” careful and quiet whispers as he approaches the couch. Cool fingertips sweep across my forehead, moving my hair away. “Where else would I be?” I say. “Anywhere but here.” He sits at the end of the sofa and tilts his head back. “This isn’t your life, Poesy. It’s mine.” “That’s what you have to say to me?” I pause. Tears burn my sore eyes. “I’ve sat here for the last week scared out of my mind, and you come to me with this bullshit?” “I only want to look out for you,” he says in a low tone. The silence afterward is deafening, and the night is still. “I can look out for myself. I’ve done it my entire life.” “Not like this.” Lowen lifts his head and runs his hands through his hair. “My family is starving, and it’s not some fucking phase.” “I can feed you!” I sit up and kick the blankets off. “I did while you were gone, and I can keep helping.” “Keep your voice down,” he says. His blue eyes are brilliant, even in the dark. My knees sink into the couch cushions as I kneel beside brilliance, and tremble. He falls into my embrace, pressing his face against my erratic heartbeat. His hands come around me, slipping under my sleep shirt and clutch on to my lower back until his frigid fingers warm. “Didn’t you miss me?” I ask, kissing the top of his head.

“I’m a criminal, Poesy,” he replies. His grip tightens. “You’re my criminal, inmate.” Slipping my bare leg over his waist, I straddle his thighs and pull my shirt over my head, dropping it to the floor. My nipples harden as they touch the cool air, and chills run up my arms. Lowen licks his lips, staring at my naked chest under hooded eyes. He touches me, palming my breasts with his rough hands and squeezing until a low hum escapes with my breath. I drop my head back, and Low leans forward to kiss my exposed throat. His tongue is warm, flat against my erratic pulse point before his mouth moves up the expanse of my neck. I drape my arms over his shoulders, pulling him closer until our chests touch. Anticipation crushes any lingering notion of sadness and anger, leaving me breathless and tingling. “Don’t make me wait,” I whisper. “This is what you want?” he asks, skating his hands down the curve of my hips. Lowen scoots me up his lap until hard collides with soft. “Yes.” I unbutton his jeans with shaky fingers and pull all of him out, gripping his length in the palm of my hand. His blue irises vanish behind thin eyelids, and long blonde eyelashes settle across his cheekbones. Nothing—not the sound of sirens passing outside, sleeping Seelys in the bedrooms, or our questionable future—matters. It’s he and I. The boy from the wrong side of the tracks and the girl from the right side. Villain and hero. Worthless and worthy. Not bothering to remove my underwear, I move them over and guide Lowen inside me. He’s patient and soothing, gripping my bottom and whispering I love you and be easy and go slow into my ear. I circle my hips with my face buried in Low’s neck to keep from crying out too loudly, slipping down his cock little by agonizing little. Reaching between us, I touch where we’re together, and he’s only halfway in. “Help me,” I whisper through the pain. Lowen guides me to the couch, pushing my knee back to open me wider. He’s heavy on top of me, drowning and lifesaving all at once. Tender kisses take the edge off, and I whisper to him I love you and don’t be easy and don’t go slow. My convict groans when he’s broken the part of me to allow him to fit. The pain is swift, piercing and slicing and easy to forget when he starts to stroke slowly. He takes my hand and laces his fingers between mine, pushing our hands into the old cushions. I’m burning, cold, panicked, and thriving. “This is it,” Lowen says, looking down at me under his thick lashes and furrowed eyebrows.

“There’s no going back, girl. This is you getting fucked lawless.”







JANUARY, FEBRUARY, MARCH,

and April pass without improvement, but come early May, Flaco takes pity on

Lowen and offers him part-time work back on the crew after he lands a large business account he doesn’t have men to spare for. Three times a week, Low cuts the grass and rakes the leaves around a chain of real estate offices, making just enough each month to pay the rent and keep the lights on when the balance can’t be extended again. “Did you take money from my wallet?” Dad asks, as I’m about to walk out the front door. “I had forty dollars in here.” “Nope.” I lift my backpack over my shoulder and leave with a twenty and four five-dollar bills in my pocket. I grab a tea from a coffee shop down the street from school after I get off the city bus and toss the change into a homeless woman’s cup. With only a month and a half left before my first year of college is over and summer arrives, getting to class every day while the sun is out and the air is crisp becomes a chore. “You’re not dropping out, Poesy,” my boy has said to me countless times. “But I can get a job. I can help around here,” I argued. “No.” So, I sit in Math 101, learning the same shit I did last year, between a thirty-something single mother of three and a guy who’s fallen asleep during every lesson we’ve had all semester. I steal his pens from his desk when he snoozes, because fuck him. After a full day of classes, I hop back on the bus, but this time I take the two-hour ride toward Inglewood. Today is one of Lowen’s days off. It’s impossible for him to sit around the house all day. He tries to find odd jobs when he can, day work and cash-only jobs, to supplement his income. If nothing comes up, he returns before nine, and I want to be there when he is. “Honey, I’m home,” I say playfully, making it to his house after the sun has set. The

neighborhood doesn’t startle me like it once did, and I’ve even come to know a few people on the block. Apprehension and shock greet me from the kitchen table, tearful with the phone between them. I drop my backpack to the floor with my stomach and slowly walk forward. The house is dark with the exception of the orange-yellow dining room light, and Patricia kicks out a chair for me to take a seat with her and Gillian. “What’s the matter?” I ask, unable to join them. My heart beats in my throat. Mrs. Seely wipes her nose with a tissue. Her heavy mascara and eye shadow are smeared. “We just got a call from Low.” “And?” I cross my arms over my chest to keep my heart from breaking though my chest. “Where is he?” She looks at me with blue-like-his eyes and blinks the tears away. A black stream of makeup and sadness falls down her cheeks. “He’s been arrested again.” “For what?” Patricia takes her inconsolable daughter ’s hand and answers, “I’m not completely sure, but it’s serious this time, Poe.” I take a step forward and stop, debilitated by terror and unsure what to do with myself. “You talked to him. What did he say? He had to have said what he did.” “He was on the phone long enough to tell me where he was and that he won’t be home for a while.” She tucks her dry, bleach blonde hair behind her ear. “I couldn’t get a word in before he hung up, I swear.” “Where’s the phone book?” I ask, snatching the cordless from the table. I open drawers in the kitchen and look on top of the fridge. “Do you remember what jail he called from? They have to tell us something. They can’t just hold him.” “Under the sink,” Gillian says in a tear-soaked tone. Searching water-damaged yellow pages, I find the number for the Inglewood Police Department and dial three times before my fingers steady enough to get it right. The first time I get through, I’m put on hold before the line disconnects, and the next two times Lowen hasn’t been booked yet so no information is available. After the third attempt, I wait on hold for an hour, and it’s after midnight before I get a clear answer. “What did they say?” Patricia asks. She pours discount coffee into her mug from the pot and drinks it black. I drop the phone to the table and bury my face in my hands. “Robbery and assault with a deadly weapon. His bail is set at two hundred thousand dollars.” “Oh my God.” Dark liquid burns her fingers as the cup falls to the counter, spilling over. “Did they say what he took? Assault with a deadly weapon. That means someone was hurt. Lowen would

never—” “They didn’t have any more information,” I cut her off. “He’ll see a judge in a few days. We can call back after that.” “Poesy, what am I supposed to do?” she cries, quivering and helpless in her pajamas and robe. “I can’t leave him in there … He’s my baby boy. My favorite boy. My favorite thing.” The chair screeches against the floor as I scoot back and stand on my unsteady feet. With the youngest person in the house comforted by sleep in her bed, Patricia and I are left restless and powerless, weakened by the man we both love in two very different ways but just as deeply. “We’ll figure it out.” I take her in my arms and kiss the side of her head. “You’re not alone this time.” I’LL BE TWENTY

- THREE years old when Lowen serves the full four-year plea deal he negotiated to skip a

jury trial and a possible ten-year sentence for breaking the store owner ’s face with brass knuckles and attempting to steal a jar of peanut butter. A fucking four-dollar jar of Jiffy. “Mr. Seely, do you understand that by pleading guilty to these charges you will be a convicted felon?” the judge asks from the front of the courtroom behind his thick wire-rimmed glasses and black robe. “Yes, sir,” Low replies, He’s handcuffed and chained to shackles around his ankles, despicable beside his public defender, a lanky man dressed in a cheap polyester suit. From my seat at the back of the courtroom, I stare at the boy I fell in love with a year ago—the one who showed me I’m precious enough to love and gave up the little he had to stand up to my parents and keep me in his life. His complexion is pale under this harsh white light, and three days of stubble shadows his face. Our eyes meet and lock, unwavering, even as the judge calls for his attention. I wink and blow a small kiss, draping my arm across Patricia’s shoulders and patting her arm as she quietly cries. The icy air blowing from the duct above me raises the hair on the back of my neck. “How do you plea?” the judge asks for a second time. Chadwick Mahan, Low’s representation, clears his throat. He elbows his client until my inmate turns and punishes us all to a four-year prison sentence by announcing, “Guilty, your honor.”







haircut.”

“YOU NEED A

He scratches his fingers through his longish hair and laughs. “I don’t trust anyone to touch it.” I sit up, picking at my fingernail polish with the phone between my ear and shoulder. His voice doesn’t sound the same through the receiver, and we’re separated by a four-inch thick piece of glass that may as well be four miles. “It’ll grow down to your back before you get out,” I say, chewing my thumbnail. “Isn’t this place full of halfway barbers and tattoo artists?” He stares at the curve of my bottom lip as he says, “I keep to myself.” “Are you afraid they’ll slice and dice you with their clippers?” I drop my hand from my mouth and smile. “This isn’t like the movies, girl. Days are uneventful. My cellmate is in for selling fake passports and spends his free time teaching himself to crochet,” he says. Lowen’s eyes drink me in, watching the rise and fall of my chest, bitten-too-low fingernails, and the curl I put in my hair. “How about the nights?” I tease, wiggling my eyebrows suggestively. “Are those uneventful?” My inmate laughs into the handset as a guard walks past me and announces, “Five more minutes.” The pistol and nightstick on his waist deplete me of any happiness I feel visiting Low. Suddenly, I’m aware of how dirty the cubicle I’m sitting in is, tacky and painted a gross off-white color that’s chipped to show the concrete underneath. Scumbags and hoodlums, all dressed in orange like my boy, visit with people just as scummy. Babies cry, old people cough, and I’m pretty sure I’ve stepped in gum. The smile from my face fades, and I press my hand to the glass like they do in the movies. “I miss you, Low.” He presses his hand over mine, and I swear I feel warmth through the glass. “This isn’t what I

wanted. This wasn’t supposed to happen.” “You knew you could have come to me.” My eyes brim with tears, and the tips of my ears burn with pent-up frustration. I’m not the one with chains on my wrists, but I won’t cry in a place like this for everyone to see. “I could have fed you, Low. It’s been six lonely months with you in here.” “Tell me something,” unruliness says to change the subject, looking back at me with glossy blues. I sigh, outlining my hand through the glass with the tip of my pointer finger. “My mom hired a new gardener. He totally fucked up her begonias and blamed it on the rabbits. Like we have so many rabbits running around Culver City.” “More than you think,” he says. “Anyway, he’s gross and not you, but I give him water.” I shrug. “He’s old, so I take pity on his soul.” “How’s school, Poe? Are you still going?” Lowen asks. “Yep, I worked on my psychology paper on the bus ride over here.” I drop my hand from the glass and stick my thumbnail back between my teeth before saying, “But I had to drop half of my classes.” “Why?” He sits up, and his mouth falls in a straight line. “College is expensive, Lowen. My parents try to help out, but they have their own shit going on.” Nothing has changed with them. If anything, their nonchalance about their only daughter has worsened. The grass isn’t so green on the other side because the grass is in fucking prison, and they know it. I only take the trip to Inglewood every couple of weeks now that Lowen is gone, to check in and help out where I can, so it’s just my mom, my dad, and I … awkward and silent. “What’s more important than getting you through school?” he asks, practically spitting the words. “I’m working,” I say. “I got a job at that trendy coffee shop down the street from school.” “Two minutes,” the guard warns. “There’s not much money in serving java to college kids, but I’m saving, Low. In four years, I should have enough for us to get our own place,” I say in a rush to get everything said before our visit ends. “Maybe I can finish school by then, but you can mow lawns … And we can get a dog, you know. Things can be normal for you if I save enough. You won’t be hungry.” Disappointment drops the phone and rests his head against the glass so that I can’t see his face. “One more minute!” the guard yells. “Wrap it up.” I beat the palm of my hand onto the glass as my heart bursts, refusing to let him waste precious seconds together feeling sorry for himself when it’s he who did this to us. One hour every other week is all we get. Each tick and tock needs to count for something. It needs to matter.

“Lowen!” My voice ricochets off our glass barrier. Tears fall freely from my hazel eyes, and soon I’m drawing the attention of other prisoners and their company. “Thirty seconds.” “I’m not leaving you. Do you hear me, you son of a bitch?” I cry loudly as heartbreak falls from my eyes, banging the phone against the divider. “I’m here. I’m here with you.” It takes every scrap of self-control I have not to claw through the glass with my too-short fingernails. Oily panic sludges though my veins, not mixing with blood, coating my heart in thick slop. Every beat aches. Living is agonizing. Fuck peanut butter. Clenching his jaw, Low picks up the phone and blinks the tears away. “I know, babe.” “Time’s up!” the guard yells. “Hang up the phones and stand to your feet.” “I love you,” I whisper through the thickest sadness. “Visiting time is over, Seely,” a CO says, hovering behind the prisoner. “Hang up.” “Give me a second,” Low replies, tightening his grip around the receiver. “I’ll come back,” I say in a hurry. Sweat pools between my palm and the black plastic. “I’ll be here every week, Lowen.” “Set down the phone.” The guard reaches for the link to my boy, but he shrugs him away. A second guard approaches my side of the visiting room. “Time to go.” “Give me one more fucking minute,” I say dismissively. As the phone is pried from my ear and a female officer drives my chair back, Lowen is forced to stand and slammed against the wall as his cuffs are tightened to make moving on his own impossible. Before I’m shoved away and he’s led back to his six-by-eight cell, he mouths, “I love you.”







POESY, DURING CHOW,

I caught myself thinking about the first time I saw you. I was up to my elbows in

grass clippings and cut from your mother's roses. Thorns scraped my wrists and arms as I reached into those overgrown bushes, slicing my hands and wrists until I bled. It was evening, around five p.m. You came walking down the street with large silver hoops in your ears and warm-red cheeks. The setting sun seemed to direct its dim light only on you, making you brighter than the entire world. Blood dripped from my wounds, and you looked at my DNA staining the concrete around my feet as you strolled by. "I've always hated those roses," you said. I stood there like an idiot for a few minutes after you took all the light inside with you, leaving me blind and breathless altogether. It wasn't until my boss stepped by with the weed whacker, clipping my ankle, that I snapped out of it. But I wasn't any less aware of your presence. You reappeared when the rest of the landscaping crew and I were packing up our hedge trimmers and lawn mowers. With a small hand, you offered me a bottle of water and let the others finish loading the gear with dry throats and dust in their eyes. I stood under your light until I drank every drop of water you gifted me with, talking about crosses and being forsaken. I watched the way you bit your bottom lip between small talk, and how your long eyelashes brushed the tops of your cheeks. It was then, in front of your house, surrounded by the scent of freshly cut grass and dried blood ... I knew I was going to fuck you. It wasn't until later that I realized it was love at first sight. Miss you, girl. Lowen

LOW, CAN YOU

believe it’s already Valentine’s Day? Lame. I can’t go anywhere without having affection

and devotion and big stuffed bears holding stupid red hearts chucked in my face. Cupid has shoved his arrows up every couple’s ass, leaving them all in a temporary fog where they’ve forgotten the other’s transgressions, and all is perfect. It’s bullshit. I went to the store the day before yesterday for floss and the Bieber album. (Go to hell, inmate. You have no say in what I do or do not listen to.) Anyway, I’m in line to check out, humming “Baby, Baby, Baby,” when it dawned on me that I was literally surrounded by love-deranged weirdos. Everyone had baskets full of chocolate roses and cheap wine, and there I was … alone, worried about my dental hygiene. By. Myself. There was this chick in front of me with reddish-blonde hair. She was with this boy who had the craziest blue eyes. They were obviously fighting, even though her shopping cart had a few boxes of Sweethearts, Twinkies, and pink Peeps inside. She called him a monster. I smiled, because I thought maybe she was actually on my side. But then they started making out, so I put my gum in her hair while they were choking on each other’s tongues. Even my dad bought my mom flowers this week. I pulled off all the petals and ate them. Just kidding. That would be gross. How do jailbirds celebrate Valentine’s Day, Lowen? Because as lonely as I am, as pissed as I am, as troubled as I am that a heart-shaped egg shaper is an actual thing, it has to be worse to spend Love Day behind bars when someone on the outside loves you as much as me. Let’s make a deal, convict. Next Valentine’s Day, the only handcuffs around your wrists will be the chocolate kind. I’ll eat them off, and it won’t be gross. In a few years, when you’re out of prison and we’re on our own, we’ll let Cupid shove his arrows up our asses, too. Let’s be real, right? The stuffed bears with hearts are adorable, and I want them all. I’m here with you, Low. I’m here. Happy Hearts Day, baby. Poe

POESY, IF BEING

sent to prison for four years wasn’t punishment enough, they’ve assigned me to work in

the laundry room. I fold men’s underwear and socks all day. I repent. Pray for your boy, Poe. I’m in hell. On the upside, I met this guy, John. He was hemmed up for robbing banks, and his fucking wife turned him in when she found the cash. John got away with a couple hundred thousand dollars before his old lady snitched. Imagine what we could do with funds like that. We’d live in paradise. I miss you. Lowen P.S. How’s school? I started taking GED classes. Turns out, I have no fucking idea what I’m doing. LOW, BAD NEWS.

Your sister turned thirteen, and your mom let her color her hair black. It’s ridiculous, but she embraces the struggling artist thing like a pro. Wait until you see her again, inmate. Gillian isn’t the little girl you left behind. She’s talented and bold and so fucking emotional. I’m pretty sure she resents you, but that’s to be expected. We all do. I’ve been at the coffee shop for almost a year, which is good, because between school, work, and visiting you, shooting caffeine directly into my veins is the only reason I’m still alive. Making my own money is cool, and dosing java keeps my heart beating, but the best part of working at this trendy coffeehouse down the street from the college is the hipsters. They’re so ridiculous, Low, and they don’t even know it. Why are they so vague? Like, they’re beige. They take the “gender neutral” thing to heart. Are they a boy or a girl? I don’t know. I really don’t. Do they? Hipsters say shit like, “I’m going to ride my skateboard inside your establishment because I don’t identify with rules. And, I’m just going to wear this oversized beanie on the back part of my head, even though it’s ninety degrees outside. And, why doesn’t this joint play more Arcade Fire? I need more Arcade Fire with my no-soy, no-gluten, no-liquid, no-taste espresso.” Seriously.

Fuck hipsters. You wouldn’t think they tip well, but they do … You know, because they won’t be trapped by the dollar, which is good for my pockets. It’s good for us. I’ll be ready when you get out. Poe POESY, I PASSED

the math portion of my GED test. Science, though … The struggle continues, and it’s real.

Maybe I’m meant to hustle forever because this book-smart crap is way over my head. Not sure how you manage to do it all, but I’m proud of you, girl. Since you insist on waiting for me to get out of the pen, at least one of us has our shit together. They transferred me out of the laundry room to the kitchen. Not sure if some of these motherfuckers know who my dad is or where I come from, but they look at me like they want something. But my mind is clearer than it has been in a while, Poe. I got a couple of years left in this place, but once I’ve served my time, I’m coming home for good. This isn’t the life I want for you, so I won’t make you live it longer than you already have. Serving chow is all right, but John was cool, and we don’t have time to talk anymore. On my last day in the laundry room, he told me this story about “Pretty Boy” Floyd. He’s a bank robber from the 1930s who destroyed mortgage papers to erase people’s debt and passed out cash after he took a bank. That’s where John went wrong. He was a selfish son of a bitch, hiding the money in a shed in his backyard. Spread the wealth. Earn some good karma to make up for the bad shit. Or maybe that’s just what I would do. Low INMATE, I SLEPT

on your couch this weekend. The sheets have been washed, and no one sleeps on it but me,

but if I close my eyes and stay really, really quiet, and breathe in really, really deeply, I can still smell you. You’re there, under the lemony scent of laundry detergent, weaved within the fibers of the couch cover. And when I can smell you, it’s easier to pretend you’re there with me … in the dark, in the quiet. I wrapped myself in your blankets and rubbed my face against your pillow, pulling it between my

teeth, because fuck, why did you have to go? My legs were bare, smooth against the worn cotton as I rubbed them back and forth, wishing I had my boy between them. I curled my toes and arched my back, keeping my lips sealed as the place only you’ve been inside starts to throb. Remember the last time we fucked? If we had known then what we know now—that you’d be locked away—I would have loved you harder and longer. I would have made sure it would be great enough to last this long. And now all I have are my memories and my hand, criminal. The loneliness is punishing, and I’m at an all-time low. But, bound in your blankets with the softest part of me aching for you, with your family sound asleep in their bedrooms, I touched myself. Writing this, thinking back to the way my fingers slipped between my folds, knowing that you know how impossible it is for me to stay quiet like that … I shouldn’t have, but I couldn’t help myself. Do you, Low? Do you think of me when you’re alone? In the shower, maybe? At night when everyone is asleep, maybe? Is it torture for you, too? Does it feel really, really good while you’re doing it? Does it feel like bliss when your body explodes and you go numb? Do you lie there, out of breath, and weightless with thoughts of me? It only lasts for a few seconds, right? Then reality hits like a sledgehammer to the stomach. That’s when I remember I’m here and you’re there, and we’re alone. Does that happen to you? Aloneness is worse, but it doesn’t stop me from doing it again. I love you, and I miss you. Sincerely, Poesy POE, I’M COMING

home.

Low I HOLD THE

short letter against my chest and close my eyes, truly smiling for the first time in months.

Our prison sentences are almost over. Lowen will be released from behind bars, and I’ll be free from lonesomeness. Together, we can truly live the rest of our lives. Things will be different. “Where do you want this, Poe?” I fold the letter and slip it into my back pocket before turning toward my dad. He’s sweaty, redfaced, and out of breath from carrying the little bit of furniture I have from the moving truck to inside the apartment. With my TV in his arms, he waits just inside the front door for direction. “I guess you can put it against the wall,” I say. “I’ll have to get a table or something to put it on.” My mom follows him inside. Her hair is in a messy ponytail, and her skin glows from perspiration. She has a box of mismatched dishes and old pots and pans from her own kitchen in her grasp, complaining about how hot it is outside. “We should have started earlier,” she grumbles. “I hate being hot.” Rolling my eyes, I head back out for the microwave my parents have given me, untroubled and determined. The apartment I’ve rented is run-down, in a bad neighborhood, and not worth the money I spent to get it, but it’s Lowen’s and mine now. With my signature on the dotted line, it’s six hundred square feet of space that belongs to us. And this is only the beginning. “You know, Poesy, I wish you would think about this a little longer,” Mom says, walking around my small kitchen, opening and closing the cupboards. “There has to be something nicer available.” “I like it here,” I say, lifting the microwave onto the counter and plugging it in. “Why are you in such a rush to move out?” She crosses her arms, standing in the spot where I hope to put a table soon. “Because I’m too old to live at home, and Low—” Mom puts her hand up, stopping me. “No, I don’t want to hear about him.” “Fine,” I say, unwilling to let her tarnish my happiness. “But, you can come back if you need to.” My mom takes a step forward, but then stops. “I won’t,” I say, confident, making peace with my past. After they leave, I spend time unpacking until Patricia stops by with her son’s belongings. Unlike the experience I shared with my life-givers, she couldn’t be prouder of our little place. “It’s a wonderful starting point, Poe,” she says, with bags full of cleaning supplies and toiletries she’s bought for us. “You’ve done this on your own. My son doesn’t deserve you.” “Of course, he does,” I say, pulling her in my arms. “We deserve each other.”







“IT’S TWO THIRTY-FIVE

p.m., and we have breaking news out of Pinella Pass, Alabama. Sky 2 is over the

scene, following two suspects believed to be Lowen Seely and Poesy Ashby, also known as the FourFour Bandits. “We’re going live with our news chopper to bring you up-to-date on the situation. Can you confirm this is actually the Four-Four Bandits, and where exactly are you?” “This is Stan Andrews in Sky 2 above Interstate 85, heading north toward Montgomery. We have been advised by city police and the FBI to stay five miles back to allow Police Helicopter, Forty King, room to follow the stolen car, confirmed to be driven by Lowen Seeley, while ground units close the north and southbound sides of the highway. “As you probably remember, Lowen Seeley and Poesy Ashby have been on the run for the majority of the past year for the murder of bank security guard, Jonathan Henning, in a Hollywood, California robbery. In the months since his death, the Four-Four Bandits have become celebrities, considered to be the modern day Bonnie and Clyde. Sightings of the dangerous pair were reported worldwide after the Hennings family raised over a two hundred thousand dollar reward for their arrest, but they were never caught, despite robbing convenience stores and banks from one side of the U.S. to the other. “But it’s the reward that led police to their whereabouts today. At exactly twelve twenty-five p.m., Pinella Pass PD received a tip that Lowen and Poesy were hiding out in a trailer park on the 600 block of Sixth Street. The FBI was immediately called in, and by the top of the hour, authorities made contact with the wanted criminals. Shots were fired, and I’m told K9 Officer, Chase, wounded Seely during a foot pursuit. “I can also confirm that Poesy was originally behind the wheel of the stolen Cadillac Eldorado, but switched seats with the male suspect before driving onto the highway. Their speed has remained at

a leisurely rate, at approximately sixty-five miles an hour. Authorities have done a good job of closing the highway to keep other drivers out of danger, and for now, this chase seems to be playing out safely.” “Stan, what can you tell us about the mindset of the Four-Four Bandits?” “Because they’re in a convertible, both suspects are in plain sight. Lowen has his arm over Poesy’s shoulders, and they seem to be talking. Oddly enough, if they weren’t two of the FBI’s Most Wanted criminals, they could pass as an average couple on a Sunday drive. “I should also add that even though there are no other vehicles on the road, in the last half hour or so, thousands of spectators have appeared on the outskirts of Interstate 85, cheering as the outlaws pass. Some hold signs of support, but most just take pictures with their cell phone cameras. “There’s no doubt the country is sympathetic toward the bandits after stories of their charity began to surface. A homeless woman in New York claims Poesy gave her a blanket and cash to get a room for a week. Reports of money for their victims being found in the cars they’ve stolen became Lowen and Poesy’s calling card. In fact, Jonathan Henning was the only casualty during their entire crime spree. They are not your typical criminals, but no one should forget they are, in fact, dangerous murderers. “I don’t see a way out for them. This may be the end for the Four-Four Bandits.” WE COME TO

a stop when the engine starts to sputter, low on fuel, leaving us stranded in the middle of the

highway. To our left and to our right, and atop the bridge before us, hundreds … maybe thousands of people stand by, waiting for our next move. News cameras record, reporters report, and others shout and clap, jumping up and down, waving their arms. Directly in front and in back of us, dozens … maybe hundreds of police cruisers, trucks, and motorcycles wait, too. With only a mile between us on each end, they notice we’ve come to a halt and position themselves accordingly. Protected by bulletproof doors, FBI, HP, Sheriffs, and city police alike build a wall of armor between them and us—Good vs. Evil, Right vs. Wrong—and prepare to open fire. “Step out of the vehicle,” they call out over a bullhorn. A spike strip is thrown out, promising to mangle our tires if we try to drive over them. I slip closer to Lowen, leaving no space between our bodies. He rests his arm over my shoulder, and our fingers lace together, careless about the steady stream of blood dripping onto my lap from his wound. “There’s no way out,” I say softly, exhaling an easy breath. This is what it’s come down to.

“Will I be beautiful in stripes, inmate?” He kisses the top of my head, rubbing his thumb on the inside of my palm. “What do you think all of these people want?” he asks, looking around. “What are they waiting for?” I follow his eyes toward the crowd, taking in the pandemonium. “A gunfight.” Our eyes meet, and his are clear blue, swallowing me whole. I search his expression, expecting to find signs of worry, but his lips are curved into a small smile, and any signs of stress have melted away. My heart beats steady, and the trembling in my hands slow. Fate is easier to accept than I expected. We’re not going back. “I fucking hate stripes, anyway,” I say to the only boy I’ve ever loved, because I’m willing to die for him. Lowen tucks a lock of hair behind my ear before resting his hand on the side of my face. I turn to kiss the inside of his bloody palm, licking the taste of rust from my lips. “This isn’t it for us, Poe.” Tears burn my eyes, spilling over. “There’s more.” “We had one hell of a ride.” I laugh lightly. “We gave each other a wonderful life, right? Not many people have done what we have, Low. It means something.” “It means everything.” I cry out, but a smile spreads across my face as the warm sensation of understanding relaxes me from the inside. Pulling love and life into my arms, I hold him until our heartbeats touch and our souls sync. I run my fingers up and down the back of his neck, breathing in his breath, melting under his eyes. “I’m not leaving, you son of a bitch,” I whisper. “I’m here. I’m here with you.” We spend a few moments touching each other ’s elbows, behind the knees, below the waist. We kiss between fingers, on the wrist, and on the mouth “Do you swear we’ll be together, Low? Do you swear it?” “Yes,” he answers simply. In an instant, our entire time together flashes before me. Rosebushes and thorns, bus rides and forbidden kisses. There’s the angry sound of my father ’s voice when he caught us together. And the tender sound of Patricia’s when Low brought me to their home for the first time. We’ve had our struggles, but there have been more good times than bad. He’s my favorite thing. The most precious one. The only person who’s ever loved me unconditionally and totally. “We can’t take it with us.” I unzip the bag of money and sit up on my knees. “And we’re going to need all the brownie points we can get.”

He starts the car. The crowd roars, and the law prepares. “Drive, Lowen!” I shout, holding the bag above my head. “Get us the fuck out of here.” He presses his foot on the accelerator and rolls the tires forward, laughing as we gain speed. The money flies from my grip one-dollar bill at a time, floating in the air around us, painting the sky green in our victory. We were here. Even crooks love.







Mary Elizabeth is an up and coming author who finds words in chaos, writing stories about the skeletons hanging in your closets. Known as The Realist, Mary was born and raised in Southern California. She is a wife, mother of four beautiful children, and dog tamer to one enthusiastic Pit Bull and a prissy Chihuahua. She's a hairstylist by day but contemporary fiction, new adult author by night. Mary can often be found finger twirling her hair and chewing on a stick of licorice while writing and rewriting a sentence over and over until it's perfect. She discovered her talent for tale-telling accidentally, but literature is in her chokehold. And she's not letting go until every story is told. “The heart is deceitful above all things and beyond cure.”--Jeremiah 17:9







Sunny, Catherine, Paige, S.E. Chardou, and Hang Le, thank you. I may write the words, but it’s with your help that I’m able to follow my dreams. Heather White, I told you it wouldn’t be easy! Thank you for taking me on and keeping me on task. EK, my bestie! Thank you for being a constant source of inspiration. And always, to my family, thank you for believing in me.