Rensselaer

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I tried reaching Jeana for the rest of the summer. I did a few drive-bys, and called every girl I knew who knew Jeana. The response was the same. They could get in to see her, but Jeana was on lockdown, and probably going to parochial school, a private girl’s parochial school, in the fall. She was depressed, but otherwise okay. Whenever one of the girls brought my name up, Jeana would sigh and or cry, but she didn’t ask to see me or send me a message. It was over in more ways than one, I guessed, but it was very depressing.

Tusker came over one afternoon. For the last year he had known about my apartment, but he kept it quiet. “I heard you and Jeana are broken up. Her old man do that to your face?”

“Mom joined in, too, but yeah, her dad tagged me pretty good.” I gave him a condensed version of what had happened, though I left out some of the graphic details. “I’m worried about her. I can’t see her or talk to her, and nobody knows anything,” I finished.

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