There came a point in my life when I started to care about everything wrong and nothing good. I still do not regret it.
     When I was fourteen, my best friend, Jack, took me to Disneyland, and I have never felt happier than I did that day. Not because of the crying children, the tired parents, and the wandering tourists. It was because Jack bought me an ice cream sandwich when I didn’t have any cash, because we pretended it was my birthday and got better food, because we cut the line to three rides by telling people we’d left our little sister up front.
     When I was fifteen, Jack lost his mind and stepped into a busy intersection. The car killed him instantly.
     Like any good kid, I fought to stay happy, because that’s what he would have wanted. It was three months later that I stopped caring, when I met Sam. It was just easier that way.
     I was close to drunk at some kid’s party, one that I wasn’t actually invited to but attended, nonetheless. The awful DJ had been payed $10 to play a s*** song, so I stumbled outside and away from the noise.
     A human shadow lay in the middle of the trashed lawn, her face buried in the ground. The alcohol told me to go to her. A few feet closer I saw her shaking, sobbing into the packed dirt. And because I am so good with words, I pointed out, “You’re going to ruin your clothes.”
     Startled, she looked up at me and groaned, “Go away.”
     So I sat down on the grass and continued. “Grass can stain, you know.”
     Close enough to see her features in the dark, I realized she was an angel, with ripped jeans and silky skin and dark eyes. Her sandy hair was tangled into a nest, and makeup ran down her cheeks. She was beauty in its most mysterious form.
     “What do you want?” she asked bitterly.
     “Also, this grass is wet, and you’re going to get muddy.”
     She stared at me with the saddest eyes. “If you want me to get up, I take bribes.”
     We walked six blocks to a gas station and bought some lukewarm, bitter coffee. Then we sat at a bus stop, and I listened to everything that was wrong with her. Her name was Sam, and she lived in an abusive household, and her boyfriend was cheating on her, and all she wanted to do was run. I wanted to run, too. I wanted to leave this town where Jack used to be, where my parents hated me because I sucked at school and I sucked at sports.
     So when the bus came by at 6 AM, Sam and I gave our quarters to the driver and found a seat in the back. Sam, practically a stranger, convinced me to go with her to San Francisco. “It’s the Paris of the West, you know,” she whispered an hour into the bus ride.
     I was terrified and sad and homesick. But most of all, I felt good. When my parents called that morning, I didn’t answer. I didn’t answer that afternoon, either, or that night, or the day after. I haven’t spoken to my parents since I left for that party.
     And slowly, although I was unaware of it, I began to like the things Sam loved. Shoplifting ice cream from the grocery store in broad daylight, laughing at people who actually celebrated birthdays, cutting the line to fancy bars and getting in with fake ID’s.
     There is a clear and simple reason I do not regret this. I am totally consumed by a girl named Sam, and I have no other choice but to follow her.
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     “It’s there, to your left.” Sam pulls me across the street towards a little shop with a red-framed sign that says “LittleMart” in block letters. Today we’re on a mission to snatch some beer or something, because we ran out this morning and, besides, Thursday is our grocery day. A pathetic sounding bell chimes when she glides through the door to the shop.
     “Hello, welcome!” I check over my shoulder to see a frail little woman, probably seventy years old, I don’t know. She smiles at us like she is genuinely happy to see us here. It’s not a big deal, but it sucks that we never get to shoplift from some sweaty, bitter guy who deserves to get robbed. Whatever. My job is to browse for candy while Sam heads to the back, where the alcohol is conveniently located next to the unsuspecting soda and chocolate milk. She’s back in no more than two minutes, and she taps her hips to tell me the bottles are safe and sound in her coat pockets. I grab a Snickers bar and take the decoy Coke in her hand so I can check out.
     “I’ll wait outside,” she says.
     And I’m left with this lady and her damn smile. “Okay, honey, that’s all?”
     “Yes, ma’am.” Ma’am? Thank God Sam left.
     “How is your day going?” She talks while she struggles to scan the Snicker’s barcode.
     “It’s alright, thanks,” and she smiles again. She has this really genuine smile that I’ve only ever seen once before, on Jack, and it’s the kind that makes me believe maybe she is actually happy to be here. It’s not a big deal. I just want to get out of this store.
     “You’re all set. Have a good one, Honey.” I nod and try not to sprint out of the place as I leave.
     Sam leans against the brick wall outside, her black coat juxtaposed against the white paint. “Let’s go,” she mutters, and I follow her like a damn lost puppy. We head to the grocery store and practice the same routine to steal some actual food for the week. Six weeks living here, and every Thursday it’s the same thing. I’ve become pretty good at it, actually. I feel kind of sick though, after it happens. I don’t know why. It’s not like I’m robbing a bank or anything.
     We hang out at the motel the rest of the night, Sam getting lost in alcohol while I microwave our dinner — frozen pizza and tortilla chips.
     “You ever have a dog?” She slurs to me from the floor.
     “What? No,” I answer.
     She rambles. “I did. Once. His name was Garfield, because when I was ten I thought it would be hilarious to give our dog a cat name. It wasn’t that funny, though, even after he died.”
     “I’m sorry.”
     “You ever have anyone just die on you, like out of nowhere?” S***, yes. She doesn’t give me a chance to respond. “Garfield died because he had cancer in his brain.” She points a lazy finger to her head. “But my grandma died because she got a heart attack, which really sucked. I liked Granny.”
     I put two pizza slices on a napkin and set them on the floor next to her. Immediately she stops talking and devours her food. Drunk and mannerless as she is, I can’t take my eyes off of her. She’s still beautiful, in this very broken, very angry sort of way. She’s real, I guess. I can see her for every sad and shallow part of herself, which is nice, because I’m sad and shallow, too.
     Then I hear my phone buzz on the counter.
     It’s my parents again, calling like they have called me every night since I left. I ignore it, but for just a split second, I consider answering. I consider listening to my mom tell me how worried she’s been and my dad offer to pick me up. But I don’t want to go back. I want to be here with Sam, I think.
     Sam suddenly starts laughing — like, really laughing — on the floor.
     “What?” I ask. She just keeps laughing, and laughing, and laughing, until I realize she’s also crying. So I sit with her and I let her fall into my lap, laughing and crying and out of breath, until she falls asleep with the beer bottle still clutched in her arm.
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     On Monday we go back to another convenience store for six packs of cigarettes. Same routine, and another damn friendly store clerk. This time it’s a young man, maybe twenty-five years old.
     “That’s a great band,” he says when I come up to the counter. He nods to the red Strokes tee I’m wearing.
     “Thanks,” I laugh. He won’t stop eyeing Sam as she browses through the store.
     “Having a good day?” he asks.
     “Not bad, thanks.” He keeps looking at Sam, and Sam should be about to walk out the doors with the cigarettes in her coat, so I ask, “How about you?”
     “Just fine,” he smiles. I hear the bell ring as Sam opens the door and slips through it. He stops before handing me the receipt and stares me straight in the face. He looks sort of angry, but also a little sad. What, does he feel sorry for me? “Hope you really needed those,” he says, looking at the door where Sam just left.
     But he doesn’t yell or chase down Sam or call the police. He just hands me the receipt, and I walk out of the store dumbfounded and guilty.
     Sam’s already walking down the street with a cigarette balanced between her fingers. And for once I don’t really feel like catching up to her. So I take a left and walk to the park nearby.
     It’s a tiny little park, tiny enough that the parents who sit tired on the benches can yell at their kids to “Stop that!” The playground is kind of pathetic, with its rusting metal and creaking swings, but the kids don’t care. The kids are in absolute bliss because they know that life is meant for playing. When did I stop being the kid and morph into the sad and drooping adult?
     Sam calls me within ten minutes. When I answer, she doesn’t yell, but just tells me she’ll be at the motel.
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     When I get back, Sam is half conscious on the floor and there’s smoke flooding the air. She doesn’t seem drunk. She looks sad.
     “Hey,” I try.
     “How was your field trip?”
     “I just wanted to hang out alone for a little.”
     “Yeah, me too. Cigarette?” She holds out a pack to me.
     “No, I’m good.” That store clerk comes to my mind. He felt bad for us, probably thought we were homeless or angry teenagers. Actually, I guess we are homeless and angry. “You know the guy at the store saw you take the cigarettes today,” I tell her.
     “Don’t sound so torn up. We made it out, didn’t we?”
     “Sam.”
     “No, listen. If you’re starting to feel bad about stealing harmless stuff from the occasional convenience store, you need to get over it. We aren’t putting the stores in debt because they lose a six pack of beer.”
     “I know—”
     “If you don’t like it then maybe you should leave.”
     A heavy silence. If I walked out right now, I could leave behind all the theft and the drinking and the anger. I could go home to my parents who have no idea I’m even alive. If I walked out right now, I would leave Sam behind, and that would sting like hell. Would it be worth it? She stares at me and waits for an answer; I stare at my shoes and wait for the same thing.
     “Maybe I should.” I meant for it to sound angry, but it comes out as a raspy whisper.
     Her face goes stone cold, but she doesn’t say a word. I have to step past her to grab my hoodie, and I squeeze her shoulder on the way back. I want to hug her, and give my epic goodbye, but I know she won’t let me. So I look at her one more time, so beautiful and sad and hurt, and I’m an asshole for leaving, but I’m also an asshole when I’m with her. I walk out before I’m able to change my mind.
     I spend the night on a bench by the ocean, and I can see the car lights racing down the Golden Gate Bridge, everyone with somewhere to be, somebody to see. It’s way too cold to sleep, but I sit here anyways. Mostly I just stare at the stars and wonder why they even bother showing up for people like us.
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     At 7 AM the next day, I get another call from my parents. Answer it. Don't answer it. Answer it. Don't answer it. My thumb hovers above the green button until I know it’s about to stop ringing, but I hit answer and press the phone to my ear.
     “Peter? Peter, are you there?” I hear Mom’s voice trembling through the phone.
     “Yeah,” I whisper.
     “Oh my God, are you okay?”
     “Can you pick me up?” I don’t even realize I am crying until the question comes out as a croak.
     “Peter, yes, of course. Where are you?”
     “San Francisco, by the Bridge.”
     “We’re on our way, Honey. Okay? We’ll be there soon.”
     “I’m so sorry,” I sob into the phone.
     “There’s nothing to be sorry for. Absolutely nothing, okay?”
She answers my silence with “We’ll see you soon, Peter,” and I hang up.
     Across the street, a little boy walks hand-in-hand with his parents. He’s gripping the string to a sapphire birthday balloon like it’s his lifeline. And I can see it in his crooked smile, his jagged orange hair cut, his Legoland T-shirt, that he’s just like Jack.