Round Here

Do you remember when we’d get stoned in the parking lot of the one donut shop downtown after our parents locked us out, on those summer days that seep into your pores and settle in your bones? Then we’d hide from the smothering heat while pressing our faces up against the window inside, mesmerized by the dough’s journey around the conveyor belt loop.

I know you remember the last time we ever did that.

I remember how you whispered encouragement to the fresh batch of future donuts as they disappeared into the machine. You were wearing that awful bucket hat with the faded purple flowers. You said you only wore it ironically, but after half a joint you were always in love with it.

I remember tilting my head, trying to see past the shadow it cast over your eyes to check if they’d been blackened again. You were always such a goofy idiot when you were high, like when we went to see Dazed and Confused and you ranted the whole walk home about how it was going to win Best Picture at the Oscars. Not me. I was just an idiot. Looking back, being 14 was like being high all by itself, and adding weed to the mix was asking for trouble.

I remember you turning away from the donuts and looking straight at me, your giddy grin lopsided as you pulled two slips of paper out of your pocket.

My voice felt trapped in my throat, but I forced it out. “Fitz, tell me those aren’t what they look like.”

“Well, what do they look like?” You giggled, your smile only dropping when I glared at you. “Because they’re bus tickets to San Francisco, but to me they look like pure gold. These are a one-way trip to the damn chocolate factory, Savvy. We’re free.” I remember how you put your hands on my shoulders for a moment, voice thick, before the munchies ruined the moment. “Man, now I want a chocolate donut,” you groaned then, wandering over to the display case.

I stepped forward to block your path. “You can’t do this.”

“Why not? I want a donut, and I’ve got some cash left over from buying the tickets—”

“Yeah? Where did you get it?”

You ducked your head, tugging your hat lower.

I ran a frantic hand through my hair until it stuck up. “That’s what I thought.”

           “It’s different for me, okay?” you burst out. “I don’t have any siblings for him to hurt.”

           “Yeah, it’s different for you, because my mom hurts us with words and not a belt.”

           “Not different enough. You can’t stay with her for four more years. I won’t let you.” I remember the white of your knuckles as you clenched your fists.

           “I have to. I may not be able to protect them, but I can’t leave them, either.”

           “Well. I’d say to sleep on it, but…” You held up the tickets again, and I finally got a closer look.

           “Your bus leaves in fifteen minutes,” I said flatly.

           “I see you’ve made up your mind,” you answered in a monotone matching mine, but then you perked up again. “Then here’s to fifteen more minutes together. Two chocolate donuts, please!” you called across the counter.

           I remember talking about nothing and everything for fifteen minutes, my head on your shoulder, sitting at a dirty donut shop table. The bus stop was right outside the front window, and we walked out when we saw it pull up.

           As we stood aside for the two passengers getting off, I saw the hesitation in your hunched shoulders and said, “Fitz, don’t you dare.”

           “Or what? You’ll kick my ass?” Your laugh cut off as if you were choking on it.

“No. Of course not.” I hugged you and whispered, “But if you get off that bus before you hit LA County, I’ll never speak to you again.”

“I love you too.” You took your hat off, and sure enough, you had two black eyes. I focused on the brown in them as you placed the horrible hat on my head.

“Are you getting on or not, kid?” the bus driver snapped. Still, you leaned in, resting your forehead against mine. I remember that this close up, you smelled like shit from the weed and the weather. But I also remember wanting to be even closer.

Even through the haze of heat, my high, and my hormones, I knew that if I kissed you then, I wouldn’t be able to walk away. I don’t know how that thought came through so clearly. Part of me must have wanted to ruin that one beautiful moment.

Looking back, I remember the droplets of sweat rolling off your upper lip and tell myself that beautiful would have been too much to hope for anyway.

I needed to say something to make sure you got on that bus. I just didn’t mean for it to come out the way it did. “My mom’s going to let me in and go back to ignoring me when I get home, just like always. If your dad finds out you took that money, he’ll kill you, and I mean actually kill—”

You stepped back, the tears in your eyes definitely not from the weed. “I know that. God, Savannah, I’m not as stupid as you think.”

People who hate each other have to work brick by brick to tear each other down. But people who love each other? They can do it in seconds. I loved you so much that I was able to do it in two words. I spat those words at you like tiny, poisonous darts. “You aren’t?”

           It all happened so fast. I don’t remember much, only that the bus must have pulled away at some point with you on it, and that I stood there so long that by the time I made it home I was about to pass out from heatstroke. You were gone before I realized that I’d never gotten your cousin’s phone number. No address, either.

All I had of yours that I could hold was your hat and the mixtape you made for my twelfth birthday. Remember how you played that one Counting Crows song, the most depressing and dramatic one about mentally ill Maria, on repeat that summer? I did too, after you left.

I’m still around here. I hope you got all the chocolate donuts you could ever want in San Francisco, maybe kissed someone kinder. I just wanted you to know that I remember you.