Continuation of L.A. with Dred. Read that first!

It was just my luck (my bad luck) that Jason was at my Wicked-Step-Aunt’s house when I arrived. I’ve always hated that guy!

Dred had just left for L.A. that morning and I still hadn’t been able to reach him to figure out what Plan B was. How was I going to get there when Dred had all the money for our trip? There I was, knocking at my Wicked-Step-Aunt’s front door on the day I was supposed to be heading to L.A. with Dred, when who should answer but Jason.

“Hey there!” He was wearing blue coveralls with these big stains, a brown stain was on right leg and a white smear on left shoulder. There was a splotch of white paint on his forehead and his mousy hair was all a mess. He looked so dumb, as usual. Did he have any idea? He didn’t invite me in or anything, he just stared at me, holding the door with his right arm and holding a dirty rag in the other.

“Didn’t you move out?” He scratched his head, like a monkey would, of course. But then he stepped aside as I charged in. As he should. It was my step-aunt’s house, not his. Even if I don’t have a key anymore.

I almost said, “Duh, why else would I knock?” Instead, I took the disdainful approach that always worked when we were in high school. “Why’re you here?”

It’s just my luck that Jason would see me on a day when I overslept and spent hours walking in the Chicago snow. I admit, I’d even cried a little bit. Just my luck that I hadn’t seen a mirror in hours. I’ll bet my mascara had smeared. That would be just my luck.

“I’m painting the kitchen,” Jason said, nodding toward the room. “Gotta get back.” He started walking away from me. “Your aunt and uncle are out of town, so you won’t catch ’em.”

I almost corrected him, as usual: step-aunt. I want to make sure he remembers that she is not a blood relative. But I didn’t.

“Aren’t you going to ask me why I’m here?” I followed him, dropping my backpack on the ground in the front hall on the way. The kitchen was a mess: the cupboards were edged with masking tape, the table was pushed away from the wall, and newspapers were everywhere. Jason grunted, as usual, and didn’t respond. He picked up his paint brush and crouched by the wall next to the pantry.

I opened the fridge, but it was just my luck that it was as empty as my own had been.

“I missed my bus to L.A.” I explained, grabbing the half-eaten jar of dill pickles. Jason didn’t answer. I pulled a chair from the hall and sat at the newspaper-covered kitchen table.

“Dred must’ve gone without me.” I fished for a pickle. Jason looked up at me and grunted again, as usual. Just my luck that he won’t even talk to me on a day I needed it. Isn’t that what neighbors are for?

When Jason still hadn’t said anything and I’d already finished the second pickle, I started telling him all about Dred anyway: how he laughed at just about everything I say, how he always listened to me, how he had this great plan for us in L.A., how his eyes danced when he laughs – really, it was so cute, it shouldn’t be allowed. It was when I was telling Jason about Dred’s curl around his ear that I saw the illustration on the scrap of newspaper in front of me. The hair was just like Dred’s.

“Like this,” I said. I lifted the newspaper and, pointing to the curly hair on the page, I turned it toward Jason, but he kept painting. He’d moved on to another part of the wall. I turned the paper around again and stopped talking for a moment while I fished for the last two pickles in the jar. The sketch really looked like Dred.

“Composite Sketch of Fast Food Chain Robber,” said the caption. Wow, just my luck that my boy friend looks just like a robber! I thought. I didn’t say this aloud, of course, because I didn’t want Jason to get the wrong idea about Dred.

I was finished with the pickles, so I actually read the article that went with the sketch. Just my luck that the end of every line was cut off because the page had been ripped.

This robber had hit a few times, and every fast food joint he’d hit was near my old apartment. The longer I looked at the sketch, the more I knew: that was Dred.

I rubbed my arms to try to warm them from the sudden chill that went over my body.

I glanced at the date on the newspaper. It was two weeks old, the day he’d told me we should go to L.A. Just my luck, I thought: Dred, my boyfriend, was a robber.

“You’re actually reading?” said Jason from over my shoulder. I jumped and tried to hide the scrap of newspaper.

“Um, no…” I said. I swallowed. The pickle aftertaste was now disgusting.

“What’s up?” The taunting edge had disappeared from Jason’s voice; it was now smooth and gentle. I looked up at him. For the first time, I noticed that his eyes were a California-sky blue. They seemed to whisper “It’ll be alright.” I knew it would be. Just my luck, my new good luck, that I didn’t have to worry: I hadn’t gone to L.A. with Dred!

Fictional response to Fiction Friday prompt.