Beth’s eyes are wide, like the terrified eyes of a women in a horror flick just before the killer squeezes the life from her. She is not young or pretty though, and instead of looking delicate and tragic she looks ridiculous and a bit insane. She clasps her liver-spotted hands to her throat and opens her mouth, but only a strangled gurgle escapes her thin lips. It takes me a full thirty seconds to realize Beth isn’t losing her mind or doing some weird dramatic bit; she can’t breathe.

While I’m processing the horror scene in front of me, Mitch is already swinging into action. He races to the end-table and rifles through the pile of refuse, finally producing a blue puffer. He holds it to his mom’s mouth and depresses the canister, which produces a hissing sound, and then tells her to breathe.

“She’s having an asthma attack,” Mitch says in a matter-of-fact way that makes me suspect this is a fairly routine occurrence.

“Should we call an ambulance?” Beth’s skin has taken on an unnatural cyan pallor and her chest heaves with the futility of each desperate gasp for air. I’ve never watched anyone die before. I begin to panic, wondering if an ambulance will even make it in time or if we’ll all be stuck here with Beth’s lifeless corpse.

Beth shakes her head emphatically and Mitch assures me that she just needs a second for her medicine to start working.

Jeremy, Mitch’s brother is still smoking in the corner and seems unfazed by his mother’s medical emergency. I am surprised by his nonchalance and tell him maybe he should put his cigarette out. He just shrugs and continues smoking.

Mitch’s girlfriend Katrina comforts Beth while her skin tone begins to shift from a cadaverous blue to a warmer, but equally unhealthy sallow yellow. Once she’s sure Beth is okay, she heads to the kitchen and returns with a glass of water for her.

Beth takes a swig and squeezes Katrina’s arm with gratitude then searches through the pile of empty chip bags and dirty dishes on the coffee table for her cigarettes and lighter. She coughs and sputters as the cherry ignites. She inhales deeply.

Jeremy shoots me a smug look, as if to say, see?

Katrina had invited me over to her boyfriend’s house after we’d ducked out to skip gym class. I’d been surprised to find her boyfriend just hanging out in the living room with his mom and brother. She tells me that Beth has anxiety and gets lonely, so she lets the kids all skip class and encourages them and their friends to hang out at the house with her. It’s my first year of junior high and my first time cutting class. Katerina assures me that its fine, and that the school never calls your parent’s work directly. You just have to make sure to catch the automated absence notification phone call the school sends out at four pm, and if you miss it, just don’t forget to erase it if your answering machine picks up. I figure it should be no problem for me since my mom doesn’t get home until six.

Mitch wants to smoke a joint and suggests we all go down to the basement. Beth hates the smell but doesn’t care if we smoke downstairs. Jeremy doesn’t follow us downstairs, but hangs back and watches us leave with a look of annoyance. The path to the basement is a minefield of garbage and dirty clothes. A rank smell wafts up from a large black bag of hockey gear, the acrid scent of stale sweat burning into my nostrils and making my eyes sting. I ask about the hockey gear and am surprised to learn that not only does a somewhat responsible person live in this house, but that there’s actually some sort of structure to the lives of Mitch and Jeremy. Their dad is a hockey fanatic and has both the boys in a rigorous hockey program. He works long hours to pay for it, leaving Beth and the kids largely on their own. Mitch says he hates it and wants to quit, but his dad insists it’s good for building character. He says Jeremy loves it though and so his brother has always been his dad’s favorite. He says him and Jeremy fight a lot. He opens his mouth—the inside of which is like a jagged mountain scape—and draws my attention to a half missing front tooth, which he says is still lodged somewhere within the dense bone-matter of his brother’s skull.

The basement is worse than the upstairs. I’ve seen a lot of filthy homes, but this is a level I’ve never encountered before. Old food, dog shit, and a carpet so crusty it’s like walking across gravel. It’s been drilled into me to never walk through someone else’s home with my shoes on, but I am thankful I listened to Mitch’s insistence not to take them off. There are a few beat up 1970s style armchairs in front of a wood burning fireplace. The fireplace surround has something on it that looks suspiciously like dried vomit. Katerina seems, if not unfazed by the squalor, at least used to it.

Mitch suggests we head to the crawlspace under the stairs and hotbox it. The space is tight but cozy, and more importantly for my weak stomach, it’s clear of the type of filth that permeates the rest of the house. The crawlspace is outfitted with a red light, and the walls are covered in graffiti scrawled in black sharpie. I recognize some of the signatures. Most of the names belong to the kids all the jocks refer to as greasers and always seem to be harassing. Losers who reject fashion norms and often basic hygiene. It’s not really surprising given that I know Mitch is also considered a greaser. I don’t know how he manages at hockey with all the jerks. I can’t stand most of those douchebags and they’re generally nice to me, even though I’m from the trailer park which is considered greaser adjacent. Maybe it’s because I’m a girl, or maybe it’s because my brother is six-foot-three that they leave me alone. But I’ve seen them harass the guys Mitch hangs out with plenty enough to know it must be hell playing hockey with them. I wonder what it’s like to have to be on a team where the members are contemptuous of you, wonder how him and Katerina even ended up together. He’s an odd choice as boyfriend for Katerina, who is well dressed and classically pretty and could date any guy she wanted. But aside from his poor personal hygiene he seems cool and I’m not one to judge.

Mitch pops a Tool CD in a portable stereo. He sparks a joint as Pushit issues forth from the small speakers, Maynard’s stark vocals warning us that there’s no love in fear. He passes the joint to me and pulls Katrina onto his lap, then kisses her on the head. She closes her eyes and leans into him with a contented smile. She tells me they’ve lived down the street from each other since they were little, tells me about how they used to run through the empty lots across the highway together before the houses all filled in. How Beth let the neighborhood kids have the run of the house and was always sort of like a second mother. She’d hang out there all day while her single mother worked.

We talk about movies and music. Mitch is articulate and has unexpectedly sophisticated opinions. I am starting to get what Katrina sees in him. I take back my earlier assessment that the pair is an odd couple and decide they’re great together. Before we head back upstairs Mitch hands me a black sharpie and says no one leaves the crawl space without leaving their mark. He tells me to go ahead and write something, anything I want.

I write: UR cool. Thanks for the toke. I sign my name below, followed by a happy face with a tongue and xed out eyes.

I live a few kilometres out of town. I tell Katrina I’ve gotta head back to the school if I’m going to catch the bus back to the trailer park in time, otherwise I’ll be stuck walking. She offer to walk me back to school and we head upstairs and prepare to leave.

Beth is lying prone on the brown sofa and staring off into space. She jumps to attention when she sees us.

“Heading out? Already?”

Mitch nods. “Yeah, we’re just going to walk up to the school.”

Beth looks panicked. She scrambles off the sofa. “Wait! Don’t go yet.” She looks pleadingly at Katerina, like a dog watching its owner leaving for work. “Why don’t you guys stay and hang out for a bit?” She grins. “Hey, did I ever show you guys my diaphragm?”

Katerina looks at me apologetically, but she humors Beth. “No, what’s a diaphragm?”

Beth rushes to her bedroom and returns a moment later with a little rubber disk. “You stick it way up inside you and it keeps sperm from travelling far enough to knock you up. You girls should get one. Way better than condoms. Mine mostly sits and collects dust. But I love going to the gynaecologist to get fitted.” She winks. “It’s the only time I ever get any action.”

Mitch sighs. “Okay, mom. We gotta go now. We’ll be back in an hour.”

“I’ve taken too many pain pills to drive, but I could have some beer taxied over. You guys want to stay and have a beer?”’

“Maybe later, mom.”'

Beth sinks into the sofa, deflated. “Yeah, sure. See you guys later.” She grabs a pill bottle off the table and pops two in her mouth then swallows them dry.

I tell Katerina, “I can walk by myself, it’s totally fine.”

She pauses at the threshold then looks to the now empty spot where Jeremey was, then back to Mitch, “Her asthma seems pretty bad today. Maybe we should stay?”

He hesitates, then lets out a long breath. “Yeah, I guess maybe we should.” He smiles apologetically at me. “Hey, thanks for stopping by though.”

“No problem.” I smile. “Thanks for letting me hang out. This was fun.”

Katerina sees me out and I can hear Beth’s voice, hoarse and strained as the screen door closes behind me, “Come back anytime!”