A/N: I have left the original of What You're Up Against for comparison/

When I awoke this morning, I was sick. My arms hurt, my back ached, and my vision was blurry. My first thought was Good, now I don’t have to go to school. Then I came to remember that I no longer attend school, anyway. The only thing that being sick can mean now is that I’ve formed a habit.

I used to think addiction was something that only happened to rich people. I realize now that it happens to rich people, and friends of drug dealers. I happen to be the latter. It seems I have only formed a habit because it is convenient and easy to do so. I am not rich. Quite to the contrary, I do not even have a job.

Martin is the only one with a job, and he doesn’t even do drugs. He’s a good boy, and he will make something of himself if he ever leaves Alex and I. Alex and I are nothing compared to him.

Alex and I are the troublemakers, stirring things up. Alex is such a ‘people person’ that he gets away with it. I used to try to stop him, but now I just let him go on. I cannot care anymore.

I cannot care about anything.

Alex

Dante and me, we used to be tight. I was teaching him the ways of the street, and I forget that shit can get heavy. The shit got real when we were sitting on the train from New York to DC; ‘cause that was when we were running away. How long has it been? I forget.

Dante and me, we fucked. It’s not even right. And he’s a white kid. Nobody expects the white kids to get fucked up. Course, I’m Korean, and nobody expects the nice Asian kids to get fucked either.

I think is funny that the black kid is the only one who’s not using. It’s like, shit man, it’s ironic. I think that’s how you’d use the word ironic anyway. ‘Cause, like, everyone expects the black kids to do drugs, and he’s the only one who isn’t.

Shit, he’s the only one who has a job.

We don’t even pay rent, though, ‘cause we’re squatters. It’s not like anyone in the damn apartment building pays rent, anyway. The place is a shit hole, but it’s the best we can do.

I run errands pretty regular. I’m not the smartest one on the crew, but I was never the smartest one at anything. They trust me ‘cause I’m loyal and ‘cause they know I exist off their money.

And I hate living like this, but I can’t give it up. ‘Cause this is all that I got.

Martin

I hold down a job. I keep Dante clean, I keep Alex fed. I am their mother and father because I’m not using. And I hate being the only one who is. It feels like I’m missing out on a big joke that they all laugh at that I’m not aloud to hear.

But I stay clean because every time I see Dante I want to scream and beat sense into him. He runs errands like the loyal guy he is. He kisses their feet, in a sense. He loves what he does. But love ruined Romeo and Juliet.

I miss Dante. He’s still here, but it’s not him. He’ll come back glassy-eyed and I’ll ask him, “Are you stoned?”

And he’ll shake his head, “I don’t smoke pot…”

I forgot that. I’ve smoked pot, but I never liked it. I don’t do drugs because I can see Dante wasting in front of me. And drugs make me paranoid. Plus, the Businessman always tells me stories about people doing crazy things on drugs.

He told me a story about a woman who did drugs for inspiration. She took them, and then slit her wrists and wrote ‘my novel’ on the wall in her own blood, and kept writing until she bled to death.

The Businessman said it was the best page and a half of a blood message he’d ever read. I think he’s sick. But he’s clean. He may be mental, but at least he’s clean.

Dante

I once again was dreaming. I slept a fevered sleep, too deep, too long. In my dream I was with Lea. She was laughing, and I could not understand why. I asked her “Why do you laugh?”

She did not respond, she only laughed harder.

Vexed, I asked again, “Why do you laugh?”

“You,” she said.

“Me?” I asked.

And she pointed at me. She just pointed at me, and then left. I tried to follow her but there were hands that held me back. They wrapped around me and held me in a wrestling grip. And Lea laughed as she walked away from me.

“I must go with my sister!” I said to the hands.

The hands said, “No, you do not need to go. You are ours. Our precious boy.”

“Let me go, let me go!”

“Our pretty boy. With his face all painted black and his lips all glacier blue. Our lovely boy. Our boy, our boy, our boy…”

“Let go!” I screamed and my head felt as though it were to explode. I could not bear the pain.

The hands pulled me down and stroked my face. And all of my pain ran away and was left with a sick and dreamy feeling. I awoke with a powerful need to vomit. I wish I did not dream of Lea. She leaves me ill.

The Businessman was around again today. He left me a note that said to meet him back in Georgetown. I went as soon as I saw it. DC is a big town, but the metro makes it so small, so… nothing. I got off at Foggy Bottom and walked into Georgetown. The Businessman was waiting for me at the kabob restaurant.

“Dante, my dear boy,” he greeted me and patted my back, “Anything to eat?”

“No, thank you, sir.” I leaned against the wall as he ordered.

He came to stand by me and smiled his typical suave smile. He is always so charming and entrancing. Had he continued with his business college, he could have been a Wall Street Broker or something.

“Listen, Dante, I have a very special errand for you tonight. One that I think only you can complete without getting caught.”

I nodded, “Yes, sir?” The Businessman favors me because I am grey. I am that color that nobody pays attention to. The eyes of the general public are always attracted to brighter shades of everything. The cops always follow the general public. I have been safe because I still look like every other teenager who wanders the streets alone.

“I need you to make a delivery to my wife.”

I nodded again, “Yes sir. I need the address and the stuff, and I’ll do it best I can.”

“And you remember your motto?”

“I work under myself alone.”

“And if they incarcerate you?”

“I work under myself alone.”

“If they accuse you of association with me?”

“I work under myself alone.”

“Good boy.” He took his food and put a decorative bag in my hand. On the outside, it said Lemon Tea. I grinned. This meant that I was delivering cocaine. If it said Chamomile, then it was a heroin delivery. The Businessman was smart this way. Then he took my hand and wrote the address on it in pen.

I put the bag in my hoodie pocket and left with a nod. He is never one to do his dealings in shady alleys. He is a kingpin, and nobody can touch him. I always feel a bit honored to stand by him, even if he is a kingpin of the wrong sorts.

I rode the metro to the Smithsonian stop and got off. Lady S and Matavi were waiting for me.

“Do ya got the stuff?” Matavi asked me, grabbing my sleeves and pulling me roughly to Lady S.

“Yes, please release me.”

The boy let go of me and crossed his arms. He is strong for being thirteen. Much stronger than I was, and still much stronger than I am. Matavi always reminds me of a character from a Greek tragedy. A sad boy born into a world he cannot control.

Lady S smiled at me and brushed her shoulder. Her long black hair was held back by a red ribbon. She is always so beautiful. Even in jeans and a t-shirt. She and the Businessman are lovers, I believe. I would say it is a beautiful interracial romance, but it’s under all the wrong circumstances.

Drugs, the great equalizer.

“Dante,” she said her voice so kind and motherly, “Lemon tea for Kendra’s cold?”

“Right here.” I pulled the bag out of my pocket and handed it to her. She gave it to Matavi, who put it in his backpack. He attends school like any other child, and tells the officials that he is adopted, and that his mother is a model and his father is in business. The Businessman and Lady S never attend parent teacher conferences, and Matavi never makes friends.

Sometimes, when I look at Matavi, I want to cry. But I will not. I must not.

The Businessman

“I got it just fine.”

“That’s good. Do you want to meet for dinner tonight?”

“What were you thinking?”

“Something simple. Joe’s Pizza? In Arlington.”

“I know where it is. Yeah, that sounds good. Hey, how long do you think that new kid is going to last?”

“Dante?”

“Yeah. Listen, I don’t mean to be paranoid or anything, but I think he needs to prove himself.”

“Yes, that would work…”

“Do you have something in mind?”

“Remember the officer who came around your place, asking questions?”

“You’re going to think I’m stupid, but I can’t remember his name.”

“I think it was something like Anderson. Something inconspicuous and possibly fake. But that’s not the point. The point is I want him dead.”

“Won’t that attract too much attention?”

“Sasha, darling, not if we do it in a week or two. Then it’s just ‘tough luck’ another officer dead.”

“Yeah, but I’ve never staged a deal before…”

“That’s why you have me.”

“Do I?”

“Of course you do.”

Matavi

People always underestimate me ‘cause I’m a kid. But I live like Gavroche from Les Miserables and I’m a full supporter of little people working. Even if Les Miserables was a stupid-ass book. Screw child labor laws, it shouldn’t apply when a kid wants to work.

Lady Sasha doesn’t know that when she’s working in the brothel, I’m shooting up with some of her whores. I only take enough to keep me going, sometimes more. I don’t remember when I started, but I always knew I needed to hide it.

Sasha’s boyfriend always preaches about the importance of being clean, but I think he’s a drinker. Nobody exits like this without at least one bad habit. I mean, it just can’t be done. And if you’re doing it, your some kind of fucking saint. Or whatever.

And Sasha thinks she’s all high and mighty when she needs to come back down to her ghetto-ass earth. Seriously. She’s been smoking pot every Friday since she was thirteen. I’m surprised she can remember my name much less try to be my mom.

I don’t need a mom, and I don’t need a dad. Thank god her man doesn’t try to be my dad. I don’t need anyone.

I like that new kid Dante. He’s like me only more emo and less experienced. I doubt he’s ever shot someone. And he’s not a crackhead. He’s a doper. He’s a runaway, and I admire that.

As Mr. Cohen at school would always say, “I respect that as an ideal.”

But fuck Mr. Cohen, I don’t need school anyway. I only do it ‘cause they say I need to.