Locked Up Together

7: "Don't Look At Me Like That."

7: Locked Up Together

        When I got to the library section, Alexander's bag wasn't I had last seen it. Had he hidden it? But then I realized that he'd just tucked it under the chair. I rushed forward, knowing I didn't have an awful lot of time, and squatted down. The grey handle stuck out so I gave it a tug. It wedged slowly and it took me a couple of good yanks to free. I listened carefully to make sure I didn't see him coming.

        Undoing that zipper had to have been the loudest six seconds of my life, aside from the bombs in Iraq. It seemed to echo through the entire room as I held my breath. Once it was open, I glanced over my shoulder to make sure I was still in the clear. I was. The duffel bag contained all the necessities of an overnight bag: toiletries (I was going to give him a piece of my mind later for not telling me about the toothpaste), extra clothes, a few pairs of socks, a couple of protein bars (was he planning to share those with me?), and finally, at the bottom of the bag I found what I was looking for. A phone. It was an old flip phone and when I opened it the screen was dark.

       I wasn't exactly sure how to turn it on. I held down the side button for a few seconds. Nothing happened. So I tried the bottom with a picture of a green phone on it. Still nothing.

        "Really?" Alexander said from behind me.

        I twirled around toward him, still in my squatting position, and quickly lost my balance and fell on my butt. His phone was now held out in front of me in plain sight.

        "You have a phone," I said. 'I'm stuck here and you have a phone."

        "You went through my things?" It was a question but the anger and frustration in his voice made it more of an accusation.

        "I had to. You told me that you didn't have a phone, but you really do. I just want to call my family. I'm sure they're worried about me."

        "Go ahead." He pointed towards the phone in my hand.

        Was this some kind of trick? I looked at the black screen on the phone again. "I can't turn it on."

       "Exactly." He plucked it from my hand, shoved it back in his duffel bag, and zipped it up.

        "What do you mean by exactly? Can you turn it on for me?"

        "No, I can't. It doesn't have any minutes, nor does it have any charge."

        "Oh." I still sat on the floor and leaned against a chair, too deflated to get up. "That's not helpful in the least."

        "You know, before coming here, I forgot to think about you and your needs."

        "Why would you pack a dead phone? Is the charger in there?"

        "You tell me."

        "Why did you follow me down here, anyway?"

        "Because you left the room looking rather guilty, as if you were about to commit a crime."

        "You know that looked well?"

        "Just stay out of my things." He said it low and barely a whisper.

        "I'm sorry for going through your bag. I just want to get out of here. My brothers are probably worried about me. Isn't your family worried about you?"

        "No."

       "I'm sure they are. Or did you run away?"

        "No."

        "Then what? You just left? They're okay with you just leaving for a whole weekend? Spending the night in empty libraries?"

         "They let me come and go as I please, and in return, I don't turn them in for the cocaine they sell in their basement. It works out well."

       I was stunned silent for a moment. I had heard his mom was a druggie, but I had never known what was a rumor and what was a fact. "Your parents sell cocaine in their basement?"

        "My foster parents. Just forget that I said that."

        For some reason, I was more surprised that I was his foster parents than I would have been if it were his real parents.

        "Don't look at me like that. It's perfect. The best situation I've had yet."

        The best situation he'd had yet. "You like this situation?"

        He raised his eyebrows with a stunned look on his face. "You have got to be the first person to not say 'I'm sorry' when I tell them that. Why?"

        "Why say sorry when you can't do anything about it. You can't fix the past, so why an act like you can? If we can't do a single thing about it, why even say anything about it? It's not our own tragedies that we're saying sorry for, so why even say sorry if it's not your fault?" I paused and took a deep breath. "I'm not saying sorry because I hate when people say sorry to me."

        I let out a small sigh. This was not a conversation I was going to go on with. Why did I even try with him in the first place? I wasn't one of those girls who needed to fix broken boys, nor was he one of those boys who needed to fix a broken girl. I didn't need to fix him. He didn't need to fix me.

        I stook up and started to walk away, but before I got away, I stepped over to his bag, opened it up and said, "I'm borrowing your toothpaste. Thanks."

        His face was one part shocked and one part amusement when I left again, toothpaste in hand.

        When I got to the bathroom I leaned my back up against the cold tile wall and covered my face with my hand as my eyes started to water up. They had left forever, and Alexander didn't have a phone, the only thing that had given me any hope. It had been a truly terrible day and I was officially stuck here.

        As my breath hitched, I reminded myself to focus on the good things. I had toothpaste. And television. I could work with that.