The Bluestone Review 2020

The Bluestone Review 2020

Prose

someone else. She just liked to see if she could get away with it. When she was caught, she paid for whatever she took, and no one pressed charges against her. After all, she was an old lady with an engaging smile. Odessa By Mary Jones A train whistle cuts through the still-misty air that hangs by the creek. The morning light slants through the quivering green leaves, the rays sparse. Roots dig into my back through a thinning quilt as I stare at the canopy of late summer leaves. I pull a cigarette to my lips and take a hit before blowing the smoke into the air, watching until the yellow tinted smoke mingles with the mist to the point that the two are indistinguishable. “That’ll kill you,” he says from his spot by my side before leaning over me to pluck the cigarette from my fingers and take a hit himself. “Like I care.” I turn on my side to look at him. He’s all ruffled-brown hair, a scruffy beard, and farm boy overalls. “Might as well keel over now. Your daddy is gonna kill us when he finds out I kept you out all night.” He flicks the cigarette into the creek. “He won’t care. He has no idea that the sweet farm boy from the other side of the mountain is a bad influence.” I turn onto my back again, and there is a moment of silence as I wish he hadn’t thrown away the cigarette. “Thanks...” Another pause. “.... For getting me out last night. I never felt so trapped.” “No problem. Life is scary. I sure don’t have any plans.” “You could stay here. Do something respectable like be a miner.” “Coal is not our only identity, ‘Dessa. Especially not mine.” There is a hint of anger in his voice, always simmering but rarely surfacing “Says the man who won’t even apply to college.” All my stress seeps into the words, and they come out harsh. “That’s your thing, not mine.” His eyes burn like coals. Well, maybe it’s not my thing, either, I think, biting back the words. There is more silence. The mist is nearly gone, the summer humidity rising. A cicada buzzes in the distance like blood rushing in my ears. “You don’t have to go, you know,” he says, voice softer but with the same intensity. “I can’t just not go.” I stand up. “We could go out west,” he says, plowing through my words, “to the desert.” I pull the quilt out from under him. “Like your truck would make it past Ken- tucky.” He follows the quilt and grabs my arms, the quilt bunched up between us. “I’m serious, ‘Dessa.” “I like it here; I’m not leaving.” “Well, I am.” He shoves me to the side a little and starts stalking into the trees. “Have fun in college without me. I’ll be under the stars in the desert. There won’t be any trees to hide in over there.”

15