By the time Loki and I leave the Seven-Eleven, the black limo is gone. Loki is toting an assortment of colon-clogging snack items and I've got a Slurpee, a bag of Funyuns, and a king-sized Snickers. If that doesn't keep me wired until the rave, nothing will.
"So, what's your definition of a wannabe?" Loki asks as we make our way across the parking lot.
Nice job, blabbermouth.
I suck on my straw and try to think of something that won't sound insulting or petty. "A wannabe is someone who talks about all the amazing things they're going to do, but they never do them. Or someone who dresses like they're the shit, but they really aren't. You know those people. Vegas is filled with them."
Loki considers my definition as he snaps off the end of a Slim Jim with his teeth. "I talk about the amazing things I want to do, but I haven't done them."
"That's not true. You play electric cello with a band. And you're only eighteen. You've still got a lot of life ahead of you."
He looks at me as he chews a hunk of fake meat. "So, it's only adults who are wannabes?"
Blab. Ber. Mouth.
"Not exactly. Some of the kids I know think they're the next big thing, but it's really their parents who are the shit."
Loki offers his signature chin jut, which makes me feel totally shallow. Should I tell him I stole the wannabe label from a talent scout? Not even a legit talent scout. A police cruiser stalks past us and pulls up in front of Papa's building. Two cops get out and head into the alley.
"They must be after Harry again," Loki says.
"He's probably hiding in the bar. Or maybe he got himself invited to dinner and a movie. He's such a schmoozer."
I take a long pull on my Slurpee, igniting a brain freeze as I slump onto the curb in front of Paradise Place. It's been two years since Papa's doctor said he shouldn't live alone, and Mom decided she should be the one to take care of him. Then it was decided that our house had too many obstacles for Papa to break a hip on, so up went the For Sale sign. Of course, Ripley's condition had to be considered, but he was already spending weekdays at Dad and Jenna's house to be closer to his school. The one for kids on the spectrum.
But this place will never feel like home. The only trees on the street are in pots in front of the nail salon, if you don't count the weeds growing out of the sidewalk. There's a neon sign flashing in every window, and the smell reminds me of a restaurant dumpster.
Loki sits next to me, letting his knee flop into mine. He looks even ganglier with his legs folded up like that. "Why do you hate Harry? He's an okay guy...for a bum."
"That's just the point. He's a bum. How do we know he's not staking out the neighborhood for some thief? Homeless people get desperate."
"Anyone can get desperate. Did you know Harry used to live in Roswell, New Mexico? He believes in extra-terrestrials. Where do you stand on extra-terrestrials, Mel?"
Smooth topic change, Loki.
"I think we'd have to be pretty arrogant to believe we're the only intelligent species in the universe. And I use the term intelligent loosely."
"I hear you, sister." Loki looks at me for longer than normal, maybe expecting me to say something intelligent. But it's Friday, and my brain is on holiday. "So, a rooftop rave, huh? Do you think a dork like me will be able to get in?"
"You're not a dork, Loki." Only a small lie. "As long as Presley's sister is escorting us, we're in like Flynn." I smile, waiting for him to laugh. When he doesn't, I figure he has never heard the saying. Not everyone has a papa who explains the origins of everything.
The two cops, a petite woman and a three-hundred-pound pie eating champ, walk back to their car, laughing about something. When they see us, their faces tighten, and I know exactly what's running through their heads. They figure we're a couple of rotten teenagers plotting to terrorize the city as soon as night falls.
Loki waves a half-eaten Slim Jim at them. "Afternoon officers."
Petite cop offers a friendly nod, like a mom would, while wrestler cop only grunts as he sandwiches himself into the driver's seat. I realize I'm clenching my jaw as they drive away. I know they're the good guys, sworn to uphold the law and protect the innocent, but they can be so arrogant. Give a human too much power and it's going to his head.
I sing a couple of lines from The Beatles classic Piggies and Loki grins. I watch him scrunch his eyebrows. No doubt he's probing his recently rock-and-roll-enhanced brain for the next set of lyrics. I don't fault him for his classical upbringing. It's what most well-meaning parents would do.
He quotes the second verse perfectly, and I give him a thumbs-up as a car pulls in front of Get Nailed Salon across the street. A woman pops out, cell phone attached to her ear, keys dangling from her fingertips. She shuts the door with her hip as she yaps loud enough for us to overhear.
"Why are you still with him, Jessica? He's an asshole. All men are assholes."
She disappears into the shop, and I turn to Loki. "Try not to be an asshole, okay?"
He blinks innocently, reminding me of a baby deer. "Okay."
Loki will never be an asshole, despite what his nickname suggests.
As we gorge on plasticized food and breathe diesel fuel, the sounds of the city take over. Bass thumps out of trunks, horns blow, sirens scream, and talking signs tell you how lucky you can get. It's like listening to an Art of Noise concert. Definitely not like the old neighborhood where you were lulled by lawn mowers, squealing toddlers, and barking dogs. I'll be the first to admit that I'm a city girl through-and-through, but I don't want to live under neon twenty-four seven.
I check the time on my cell and use Loki's shoulder to stand up. "I better get back upstairs. Papa fell in the kitchen trying to open the peanut butter jar. I had to ice his arm."
"Oh, man. Are you sure he's okay? Old people break bones easily." He looks genuinely concerned as he staggers to his feet. "Maybe I could give a second opinion."
Clearly, Loki wants to come up to the apartment with me. Papa is like the living history channel, and Loki only has his Aunt Cheryl to talk to. His parents died in an airplane crash when he was fourteen. Totally tragic.
I can't say no.