Read Words and Their Meanings for Free Online Page B

interview, Patti once said she liked to smoke but not inhale, because she didn’t want to hurt her lungs. She did it for the show of it. I take the Kool from Mateo. My body hums as his fingertip grooves scrape against mine. I can’t do anything but let ash grow between my lips.
    When I give it back, Mateo’s hand reaches up and catches my wrist, light and strong all at once. He holds us together for a second.
    â€œIt’s sad, what happened to that girl,” he says. “Too much money might be worse than not enough of it.”
    His words call for a somber gesture, a straight-faced nod. But I offer up a shy smile instead. The cigarette drops. I step on it. Twist my black ballet flat to grind its little fire between the pavement and thin sole of my shoe. He steps closer, his expression reminding me of Patti’s one-time lover and forever best friend, the photographer Robert Mapplethorpe, in one of the pictures that always pops up first on Patti Smith Internet searches. In it, she’s staring at the camera, one finger in her mouth. Robert stares at her, drinking up every feature of her face. Putting every sensor of their bodies on high alert.
    Behind us, the kitchen is coming to life again. The head chef yells for Mateo. Once. Twice. We are still here. When she hollers next, it’s with a threat of being a jo b without second chances, and how he knows there’s a line of wannabes waiting to take his place. He starts to move, but stops again, kind of rocking back on his feet.
    â€œYou’ve got a nice smile,” he says. “I gotta go. See you later, Anna.” It’s a statement, not a question.
    The space we’re standing in is small, and we have to shuffle around each other. The screen door opens, snaps shut again. He disappears inside and I slump against the concrete step, unable to shake the warmth spreading in my face, stomach, hands.
    He said my name. Match struck. Spark. Explosion. I can’t help the thought burning inside that flame: maybe the year mark does matter. Maybe there’s a way to shift and change again.
    I hold this idea, cup it in my hands like river water, then spread my fingers and let it fall through. Because believing I deserve to feel anything good or true or real ever again is like saying it isn’t my fault—like I don’t care Joe will never get to feel anything ever again. Like I can heal.
    It’s a thought far scarier than going to Hell.

8
    I t’s way past Bea’s bedtime when I walk in the front door, but she’s sitting on Mom’s lap, wide awake and glued to whatever is playing without sound on TV. I cringe, knowing I need to walk in there. Mom looks beyond exhausted. The crazy Botox binge she went on does little to hide the weariness in her face.
    My mother used to be one of those au naturel women, a rare gem in a sea of perfectly coifed and manicured suburban wives. She owned a horticulture business, and her gardens were known all over the city. She sold—or “gave away” if you ask my dad—the business to her favorite employee three months ago. About the time she started getting needles filled with the same toxin found in botulism shoved into her forehead.
    â€œWhat’s going on?” I whisper, motioning toward the giant painting leaning against the wall. It normally hangs in our front hall. My Gran painted it, and no matter how many times I’ve stood in front of the canvas, I can’t quite get what she was saying when she swept her brush across again and again in rough red and orange strokes.
    â€œHi, Anna,” Bea says without looking away from the television.
    â€œHi, Bea. Mom? What happened?”
    â€œYour sister got it off the wall. Hid behind it like a lean-to, and I looked for her for almost two hours—two hours—before I noticed. Bea was curled up there. She’d fallen asleep. So when bedtime rolled around … ”
    I sit down on the couch and lean my