The morning traffic was bumper to bumper on our way to the barber shop on Colfax Avenue—a street well-known to everyone at school, and in the community for having head shops, drug dealers, crime, and it was rumored to be crawling with hookers. The street was the butt of jokes, usually when someone said, "Hey, I saw your mom on Colfax last night". A classmate of ours did a speech on the history of Colfax and presented a slideshow our junior year. Our English teacher, Mr. Benson, squirmed in his seat when the student gave a quote by Playboy Magazine. They called it, "the longest, wickedest street in America". His report was backed up by a long bibliography so Mr. Benson allowed the minor inappropriateness. If you drove far enough west, it went by the capitol building and through downtown Denver, but on the east side, close to our neighborhood, it was a slum.

This was the first time I had gone anywhere in a car driven by a classmate, which sent thrills gyrating through me. My mood bumped up a notch and we nodded to the beat of the sub woofers. It wasn't a typical grocery run with Courtney. Freedom invigorated me. This must be what adulting was like.

We pulled into a spot with metered street parking, and Davianté dropped change into it. On the corner, a man in a wheelchair held a cardboard sign that said, "anything helps". Davianté slipped some change into his tin can, and we continued into Pops' Barbershop. The door jingled upon our entry, and the pleasant aroma of musky aftershave wafted over me.

Pops was a jolly older man who greeted us with a smile but quickly asked why we weren't in school. Davianté explained I needed a trim, and I was thankful Pops didn't ask more questions. I decided I wanted to try a shaved-side haircut. Why not? Courtney told me how she hated that look. It only took twenty minutes, and when he was done he handed me a mirror. My short 'do wasn't that bad. It felt weird when I touched the bristly side, and the rest of my hair fell in line with my jaw. It actually suited me.

Afterward, Davianté took me across the street to get donuts and coffee at one of the best bakeries on east Colfax—Black Magic Donuts. I had never been there, but kids at school talked about it like it was the Disneyland of pastry shops. A line of customers behind rope barriers snaked around to the counter where donuts revolved on pedestals behind glass. Some of their creations were truly brilliant. The one that first caught my eye was the bacon maple bar—a long john with bacon on top, and then the Marshal Mathers—a cake donut with vanilla frosting topped with M&M's, but the one I settled on was the voodoo doll—a raised donut in the shape of a person with chocolate frosting, filled with raspberry filling, and a pretzel stick to prod the 'doll' with.

"Which one do you want?" Davianté asked from behind me.

I pointed to it, then put my palms together in front of my lips, and bounced on the balls of my feet.

"Trying to inflict pain on anyone I know?" he teased.

"Wouldn't you like to know?" I smirked.

Davianté paid for a donut and coffee for each of us, and we sat in a corner booth. This is what it will be like after I graduate high school. I can do what I want, with who I want, when I want. I poked the belly of my voodoo doll and raspberry filling oozed out. I sucked it off the pretzel stick, and the jelly tasted amazingly sweet.

"So," Davianté warmed his hands around the paper mug. "Who are you prodding with that pretzel stick?"

I laughed. "No one."

"I don't believe you. You're mad at someone." He lifted his coffee to his lips.

It pissed me off how he was so sure of what I was thinking, like he could read my mind. I had been thinking of Courtney, but he didn't know that. "Taking my aggression out on this donut is harmless." I changed the subject. "Actually, I'm considering ways to move out as quickly and efficiently as possible. I need a job." I regretted saying it immediately, knowing this would bring up questions I didn't want to answer.

He looked stunned. "Move out? Why?"

I couldn't tell him about Courtney's rollercoaster mood swings. I stammered over a reason. "You know—uhmm—I want to make something out of... myself. I need a job."

He laced his fingers together on the table and pointed his thumbs upward. "Where do you want to work?"

I was relieved he didn't think it was odd. "I'm not sure. Something not too far from home. I'll have to walk when my mom can't drive me." I thought about walking to the mini-mall where the grocery store was. It was a two-mile walk. There was a Mexican restaurant there too. One of those places was bound to hire me. I bit off the head of my voodoo doll and washed it down with warm coffee. "I could use the computers at the library to apply."

Davianté reached into his pocket. "Here, use my phone." He passed it to me. His phone had a black case, and his screensaver was a picture of an electric current. I swiped and pulled up the internet browser, then navigated to the grocery store website under the career-section. As I went through the application process, I hit a snag. "I need my social security number."

He looked amused. "You don't know your social security number?"

"It's not that surprising, is it? I've never needed it before."

He shrugged. "I guess. I memorized mine when I got my permit."

I was an underachiever in comparison to Davianté, who already had his driver's license, a car, and a job. He was already adulting, taking me out for pastries, and we were the same age. "I don't have a permit yet." I felt lame saying it. I handed his phone back.

We finished our coffee and donuts and headed back to the car. For a few minutes, we drove in awkward silence until a sheriff came up beside us. Davianté stiffened and pressed on the brake lightly to let them pass as he got a glimpse of the officer. His neck slackened when the police car drove ahead. "Thought it might be my dad."

We chuckled. As we continued down east Colfax, we passed characters of all kinds. Some were dressed in suits and sat at the bus stops. A woman pushed a shopping cart full of blankets and clothing—probably everything she owned. I wondered where she slept in this weather. A couple of guys wearing bright coats and hats to match were walking into a bar. One was in yellow and the other in red.

Davianté gave a nod in their direction. "Pimps."

I turned to look, but they were already gone. "I think I've heard a joke that began that way once. Two pimps walked into a bar..."

He smiled, showing his perfect white teeth. "Do you like people watching?"

"Not typically, but I have to admit there are some interesting ones here," I said.

"I like to cruise up and down here with my dad on ride-alongs. See that abandoned building over there?" He pointed to a concrete building with the windows busted out. There was nothing that hinted at what establishment once resided there, not even a tattered sign.

I nodded.

"That used to be a convenience store a few years ago, a popular one. Someone got shot, and the store went out of business. My dad arrested the guy. I used to get Icees there all the time." We turned back onto the street that took us home. He turned up the radio, and we sang along.

A few blocks from our neighborhood, Davianté slowed and turned the music down. He pointed to a tall building that had been abandoned ever since I could remember. A new sign had been erected that said Dollar Cinemas with a fresh dusting of snow on top, and a white board that was to hold movie titles. It must have been hung in the last week because I hadn't noticed it before.

"We're getting a theatre?" I popped up, turning my head to see it. "No way! In this neighborhood?"

"It used to be a theatre a long time ago. My dad said the owner is fixing it up."

We passed it.

"Can we turn back around?" I asked.

He gave me a side glance, and guilt rose in my gut. I didn't mean to treat him like my chauffer, but he didn't argue. He flipped a U and turneded into the empty parking lot. An eerie yet thrilling pulsing spread through me. I was drawn to the old building like a magnet, but I wasn't sure why. Maybe it was the unique architecture of rounded second story windows with red and sandy brown bricks that interchanged up the sides.

The car rolled to a stop and I got out and ran to the door to give the cold metal handle a yank, but it was locked. Disappointment sifted into me like sand. I expected someone to be inside with the sign up, fixing it up like Daviante said, but it was obviously deserted without a single car in the snow-drifted parking lot. I searched for a phone number on the window, but nothing was posted. I held my hand up to shade the glass as my dragon breath fogged it up. It was too dark inside. Maybe it wasn't renovated yet. I turned back and stepped into the same footprints I had made, like hopscotch, back to the car.

"What was that about?" Davianté asked.

I sunk into the seat and shut the door. "I wanted to ask the manager for an application."

He squinted at the building. "Why here?"

His question annoyed me because I didn't know how to explain what was so intriguing about the place. "Because..." I huffed, being a bit more rude than I had intended.

He rubbernecked. "Ummm... okay.."

I couldn't put my finger on what it was, so I gave him the first reasonable thought. "It's a short walk from my house."

He gave one of those slow nods, which made me wonder if he thought it was dumb to work here. "I might be able to give you a ride."

My eyes met his. They were a soft brown, and he had long eyelashes for a guy. We looked away nervously.

I rubbed my hands up and down the tops of my jeans to warm up my legs. "That might be nice but, I don't have a cell phone to call you."

"What's up with that anyway? You guys going through tough times financially?"

I wished that were the reason, at least it would have made a better excuse than the truth. I let out a breath. "My mom says she didn't need a phone when she was a teenager, and she doesn't see why I need one."

He started to laugh but stopped when he saw I was serious. "You have a landline then, like they did in historical times?"

"No. She makes all of the calls on her cellphone for me. She says kids get into too much trouble with cell phones." I tried to say it without feeling anything, as if we were talking about someone else, but it didn't work. It was embarrassing, and a small lump formed in my larynx. I thought of the comment's kids made when something went wrong with their cell phones like when their screen cracked or they got them wet. I heard their agonizing moans for days while they sat in the hallways without their phones until they came back with a newer version, and they were back to scrolling through messages like it was hand crack.

He put his hand on my wrist, firm and warm. "You alright?"

I nodded and put it out of my thoughts. Davianté was a nice guy who had a hard time making friends because kids knew his dad was a sheriff. Even though Davianté had never been a narc, everyone thought he would tell his dad if he found out about underaged beer parties, or that their parents were dealing drugs, or if they went over the speed limit in the school parking lot. I knew better.

Freshman year we had math together. There was this girl in our class, Silvia. She didn't talk much, but she mentioned how much pressure her parents put her under when her grades dropped. She sat at the desk in front of me, and Davianté sat on her left. I saw her cheat off of his test, and he didn't notice it, but Mr. Benson did. He made a scene by ripping her paper in front of the entire class and sent her to the deans.

Silvia was suspended. That was the last time we ever saw her. She took her life that night. It must have been too much for her when her parents found out.

After that, Davianté and I couldn't help but stare at her empty desk, and I think something broke inside him. The second day he brought in a single yellow rose and laid it there with a note that said "Silvia's desk".

As Mr. Benson droned on about equations, Davianté laid his head on his arms and stared at the rose with a bleak expression. The next day I brought in a stuffed animal to add to it, and as the week passed, other kids added notes and piled them there until the desk overflowed. Mr. Benson must have taken the shrine down, because the following Monday everything was gone, and he had rearranged the seating chart.