Romeo and Juliet.
It seemed romantic at first, all that “us against them.” Marah quit college and moved into the run-down apartment Paxton shared with six other kids. It was a fifth-floor walk-up in a vermin-infested building in Pioneer Square, but somehow it didn’t matter that they rarely had electricity or hot water and that the toilet didn’t flush. What mattered was that Paxton loved her and they could spend the night together and come and go as they wanted. She didn’t mind that he had no money and no job. His poetry would make them rich someday. Besides, Marah had money. She’d saved all of her high school graduation-gift money in a savings account. During college, her dad had given her enough money that she’d never needed to crack into her own savings.
It wasn’t until the money in Marah’s account ran out that everything began to change. Paxton decided that marijuana was “lame” and that meth and even sometimes heroin were “where it’s at.” Money began to disappear from Marah’s wallet—small amounts; she was never one hundred percent sure, not enough to accuse him, but it seemed to go more quickly than she expected.
She’d worked from the start. Paxton couldn’t hold down a job because he needed nights to slam poetry in the clubs and days to work on his verses. She’d been happy to be his muse. Her first job had been as a night clerk at a seedy hotel, but it hadn’t lasted long. After that, she’d gone from one job to the next, never able to keep one for long.
A few months ago, in June, Paxton had come home from a club one night, late, high, and told her that Seattle was “over.” They packed up the next day and followed one of Paxton’s new friends to Portland, where they moved into a sagging, dirty apartment with three other kids. She’d gotten her job at Dark Magick within the week. The bookstore job was different from her other jobs, but it was also the same. Long hours on her feet, helping rude people, coming home with very little money. Months passed like that.
It wasn’t until ten days ago that Marah really understood the precariousness of their life together.
That night she came home to an eviction notice nailed onto the door of their apartment. She pushed open the broken door—the lock hadn’t worked when they moved in and the super never cared enough to fix it—and found her roommates sitting on the living room floor, passing a pipe back and forth.
“We’re being evicted,” she said.
They laughed at her. Paxton rolled sideways and stared up at her through glassy, unfocused eyes. “You’ve got a job…”
For days, Marah walked around in a fog; fear set in like an iceberg, deep and solid. She didn’t want to be homeless. She’d seen the street kids in Portland, panhandling, sleeping in dirty blankets on stoops, rifling through Dumpsters for food, using their money for drugs.
There was no one she could talk to about her fear, either. No mom. No best friend. The realization made her feel even more alone.
Until she remembered: My job is to love you.
Once she had the thought, she couldn’t shake it. How many times had Tully offered to help her? I don’t judge people. I know how hard it is to be human.
At that, she knew where she had to go.
The next day, without telling Paxton, she called in sick to work, took her last few precious dollars, and bought a bus ticket to Seattle.
She arrived at Tully’s apartment at just past seven o’clock at night. She stood outside the door for a long time, fifteen minutes at least, trying to work up the nerve to knock. When she finally did, she could hardly breathe.
There was no answer.
Marah reached in her pocket and pulled out the spare key. Unlocking the door, she went inside. The place was quiet and well lit, with music playing softly from Tully’s iPod in the living room. Marah could tell by the song—“Diamonds and Rust”—that it was the iPod Mom had made for Tully when she was sick. Their songs. TullyandKate’s. When had Tully played anything else?
“Tully?”
Tully came out of the bedroom, looking like a street person, with messy hair and ill-fitting clothes and tired eyes. “Marah,” she said, coming to a dead stop. She seemed … weird. Shaky and pale. She kept blinking as if she couldn’t focus.
She’s high. Marah had seen it often enough in the past two years to know.
Marah knew instantly that Tully wouldn’t help her. Not this Tully, who couldn’t even stand up straight.
Still, Marah tried. She begged, she pleaded, she asked for money.
Tully said a lot of pretty things and her eyes filled with tears, but in the end, the answer was no.
Marah wanted to cry, she was so disappointed. “My mom said I could count on you. When she was dying, she said you’d help me and love me no matter what.”
“I’m trying to, Marah. I want to help you—”
“As long as I do what you want. Paxton was right.” Marah said the last words in a jangle of pain. Without even waiting for Tully’s response, she ran out of the condominium. It wasn’t until she was in the bus station in downtown Seattle, sitting on a cold bench, that she knew how to solve her problem. Beside her was one of those celebrity magazines. It was open to a story about Lindsay Lohan, who’d been pulled over driving a Maserati while she was on probation. The headline read STAR OUT OF CONTROL ONLY DAYS AFTER LEAVING REHAB.
Marah picked up the magazine, called the hotline number, and said, I’m Marah Ryan, Tully Hart’s goddaughter. How much would you pay for a story about her drug problem? Even as she asked the question, she felt sick. Some things, some choices, you just knew were wrong.
“Marah? Check this out.”