Bleed

by Laurie Faria Stolarz

  And now I’m all alone in the kitchen. I pause to pluck out a nub of lashes, but when I look down, see a smear of watery blood on my fingertips. I touch the lid to be sure. More blood. And the skin feels sore and puffy. At first I feel myself shaking. Feel my heart break up into bits of splintery glass. But then I close my eyes and tell myself to relax, to be strong. There’s bound to be bloodshed at this level. What’s important is that I finish the game.

  I grab a couple Reynolds Wrapped packages and throw them into the garbage. Then I remember Mom and Dad’s cake sitting at the back of the freezer. It goes next.

  Feeling a little better, I blot at my eye with a napkin, grab my magic whip, and sneak down the stairs. I open the front door as quietly as I can, careful not to disturb any of the wakeful beasts of the lair. I scooch myself through the crack and out the screen door.

  And now I’m out. I’m free. I’ve won this level.

  I run across the driveway and down the street as fast as I can. Away. I know I’ll get in trouble later. I know I’ve probably used up all my magic meter. That I’ll probably be grounded for a month and have to wear this stupid sign pinned to my clothes for the next year, but at least it’s not the pig nose, and at least I got that ice cream.

  SATURDAY, AUGUST 12, 11:20 A.M. WEST COAST TIME, 2:20 P.M. EAST COAST TIME

  This is just a little too real for me.

  I did love you. Just not anymore.

  I’m sorry, Robby.

  I can see her running down the sidewalk, that yellow sundress whipping up in the back with each stride. But I can’t chase after her. I won’t. Even if it kills me. I will sit here and count as high as it takes, will picture a boy and his dad flying kites by the seashore, but I will not go after her. Will not beg her forgiveness for whatever I did wrong: Should I have brought flowers? A poem? Maybe I shouldn’t have hugged her like that right away. I will not force her to listen to my side. I clench my fingernails into the vinyl booth seat and promise myself this over and over. And over. Until I can finally take normal breaths.

  With a glass of ice water, I swallow down the image of Kelly running away from the diner, away from me, and I’m able to unclench my fingernails. I think I’m sweating, that it’s visible all over my face. I take a napkin from the dispenser and wipe at my forehead and the back of my neck. The waitress, a pudgy, pimply, straight-out-of-band-practice misfit, is looking at me weird, like she’s scared for me.

  Maybe I’m scared for me, too.

  She holds one side of her tangerine-colored hair back and reinserts a red silk flower, smiling at me the whole time, like she wants to come over. I take another sip of ice water to ward her off, like maybe she’ll leave me alone if she sees me eating and drinking. I pick up my fork and poke at the sausage links.

  “How are you doing?” she chirps, standing over me now, head to knee in pink-and-white waitress garb.

  “Fine.” I fork-slice off the butt-end of the sausage link.

  “More coffee?”

  “No thanks.”

  “Are you sure? You look like you could use a little perking from the percolator.” She laughs at her ridiculous pun, flings the rag she’s holding over her shoulder, and heads toward the counter to get a fresh pot.

  I puncture my fork into the sausage and put it up to my mouth, feel it on my lips—pickled with grease, hot and bumpy. The spicy steam—a blend of fried pork, black pepper, cumin, and garlic—hits against my upper lip, reminding me of Sunday brunches after church five and a half years ago, the way my mother used to make them.

  Five and a half years since homemade sausages. Five and a half years of thinking about them, pretending it was them in my mouth, on my tongue, and between my teeth, instead of lukewarm cereal, undercooked toast, and still-frozen-in-the-middle, sorry-excuse-for sausages. And yet, I can’t even take a bite. Don’t even want them now.

  “Are you from around here?” The waitress is back. She fills my mug up with steaming black coffee and then reaches into her apron pocket to throw down four or five of those mini plastic creamers.

  I nod, tearing the lid off one of them and adding it to my mug.

  “Oh, yeah? Where?” She’s one of those girls who wears her lipstick bright Christmas-bow red and too big on her lips, as though she’s not looking in a mirror when she applies it, or she wants to give the illusion of a bigger mouth, or I don’t know what. Maybe it’s just me. Maybe that’s the new rage and I’ve just been away for too long.

  And yet, Kelly looked perfect. In that yellow sundress. With, I’m sure, underneath, the pink bra and panties I asked her to wear.

  “I used to live around here,” I say, hearing a twinge of annoyance in my own voice. I take the spoon and stir the cream, keeping my eye on the swirl, counting the number of stirs until the two liquids become one.

  “Oh,” she says, deadpan, as though she hears the annoyance, too. But instead of moving away, she simply stands there, coffeepot in hand.

  I fork off a corner of my omelet and rake through the melted orange cheese inside.

  “Was that your girlfriend who left? Bummer, huh? She looked pretty peeved.”

  I glance over at Kelly’s place setting, at the pale-pink lipstick stain she left on her coffee cup, and feel the urge to put my mouth over it.

  “I hate it when me and my boyfriend get in a fight,” she continues. “Actually, he’s not really my boyfriend anymore. We sort of broke up. He says I’m too young for him, but he doesn’t know what he’s talking about. A soon-to-be sophomore in high school who already knows what she wants out of life is way more mature than a senior who doesn’t, don’t you think?” She looks down at the plate of untouched pancakes Kelly left and presses her lips together in a scowl. “He’d do something like that—-just stomp out in the middle of breakfast—without even talking it out.”

  I make a checked pattern with the melted cheese and start counting up the blocks I’ve created within its grid. Twenty-six.

  “At least that means more breakfast for you, right?” She laughs. “That is, if you like peanut-butter pancakes.”

  I detest this girl.

  “I hate peanut butter,” she continues. “It’s so icky; the smell …”

  I look up at her, at her foolish little face, the spray of orange freckles across the bridge of her nose, and those rosy fucking cheeks. “I’m really hungry,” I say. I take a giant bite of sausage to show enthusiasm for my food, and chew nice and big and happy so she gets the message. I think she does. Her sloppy red lips melt down at the corners like a sad clown face, and for just a millisecond she looks almost scared. Her eyes still pressed on my chewing, she takes a couple steps back and then turns around to leave me be. Finally.

  I finish up what’s left in my mouth, but I really want nothing more than to spit it out. I reach over to take Kelly’s cup. I place my mouth over the lipstick spot and imagine her kiss. Soft and warm and slow. I feel my tongue edge out against the ceramic and have to stop myself, have to open my eyes. Luckily nobody’s watching.

  I look out the window once more, to see if maybe she changed her mind and came back. But she isn’t there. Isn’t spying at me from behind a parked car or street pole; isn’t hoping that maybe I’m still here, waiting for her to come back. I grab a fresh napkin and pull a pen from the front pocket of my shirt.

  I read the note a couple times, trying to decide if it sounds too harsh, if it covers everything. I lean back against the vinyl seat and review my intentions, what I want her to understand in my words. I want her to know that I’m hurt, that I love her, that she’s all I’ve been thinking about—that what’s gotten me through the past five and a half years of prison without killing someone else or even myself is the faith that one of her letters would be coming. The thought of reading her words, imagining her whispering them into my ear, feeling the heat of her breath on my neck like hot, steamy tea.

  I don’t want her to be angry at me, nor do I want to hurt her. I just want her to realize that she’s made a terrible mistake.


  My head suddenly feels fuzzy. Maybe I’m thinking too hard. Maybe I just need to take a break, forgive myself for whatever mess I’ve made with Kelly, and clean it up as best I can.

  I fold up the napkin and slide out from the booth seat. The waitress is hovering over the counter, talking to some guy in army fatigues.

  “Miss?” I call.

  She holds her hand out, as if to stop traffic, and says, “Just a sec,” not taking her eyes off the army guy. She cups around his ear and whispers something. And suddenly I want nothing else but to be him for a second—to be the one being whispered to and breathed on. I touch my neck, still feeling where Kelly had breathed only minutes before, when we first hugged hello.

  The waitress draws away, and the two of them laugh at whatever she’s said. I’m so into the moment, I almost laugh, too, have to catch myself. The army guy stands up from his stool and waves her good-bye. Her eyes stay hooked on him until he’s out the door, until those annoying door bells jingle his exit.

  “You want your check?” she asks, finally looking at me.

  I shake my head. “I want to know what you said to that guy.”

  “It wasn’t anything about you.” She turns her back on me to take up the guy’s dirty plate.

  “I just want to hear it,” I say.

  She stops, looks at me, and then lets the edge of the dirty plate smack down against the linoleum counter. “You didn’t seem so itchy to hear me just a few minutes ago.”

  “I am now.” I suck my lips in, hopeful, but then feel myself start to shake.

  “I don’t think so.” She feeds the dirty plate into the sink.

  “Please …” Is my upper lip perspiring? I wipe it to be sure. A slight sudation.

  Her face scrunches up as though I’m not making sense, like she doesn’t understand. “I’ll get your check and then maybe you should go. Your girlfriend’s probably missing you.” She glances back at the cook, some middle-aged guy with at least fifty pounds on me. He nods to her.

  Now I’m really shaking. I think I’ve scared her and I’m not sure how or why. I just know that I need to leave. I flip a twenty dollar bill out of my wallet, slap it on the counter, and head out the door, without even mentioning my plan to leave the note for Kelly in case she comes back.

  Instantly I feel better, more in control, like I did the right thing. The fresh California breeze wraps around my body like a warm towel. I breathe it in and push it out, able to calm the jangling nerves inside me.

  I take a seat on one of the benches across the street. I don’t want to leave quite yet, just in case Kelly comes back.

  “Robby?”

  I turn around. But it isn’t Kelly. It’s her. The waitress.

  “I think you left something.” She hands me the napkin with my note on it. “Kelly must be really special. I’m sorry if I got the wrong idea and thought you were some jerky. You’re obviously super sad. I know I’d be totally spazzing if my guy ditched me after waiting five and a half years to see him.” She comes and sits next to me on the bench, still in her pink-and-white waitress attire. “Were you in the army or something?”

  “Aren’t you going to get in trouble with your boss?”

  “He let me off early. It’s so dead in there.”

  She plucks a package of some sort from the front pocket of her dress—some kind of candy. “Wanna lick?” she asks, removing the wrapper and sliding the ring-pop onto her finger. There’s a big candy jewel on the top. “It’s cherry.” I shake my head and she brings it to her mouth for a suck. “So, what’s your day like?” she asks.

  “I don’t know,” I say, just realizing it myself. My only plan for the past two years has been spending my life with Kelly.

  “Wanna hang out?” She kicks her feet, in these heavy black shoes, back and forth in the dirt. “I’m Joy, by the way.” She extends her hand to admire the candy jewel and then gives it another good suck.

  “Robby.”

  “Yeah, I know, remember?” She smiles and points to the napkin note cradled in my palm. “So, wanna?”

  A part of me feels like I should stay and wait for Kelly. I know Kelly. She’ll realize what a mistake she’s made and come try to find me. She’ll feel her panties clutching her upper thighs, warming her skin, and know I’m a part of her. I just hope she remembers the name of the motel I’m staying at. “Maybe not,” I say finally.

  “Come on.” She gets up and tugs my arm. “If you’re good, I’ll tell you what I whispered in Duggan’s ear.”

  “Duggan?”

  “The guy at the counter.”

  I smile at the mere thought of it—of her, breathing on my neck, having it be slow and rhythmic and hot. “Just a walk,” I say.

  “Cool!” she squeals.

  We end up walking by my old school since it’s only about ten minutes away. It just seems natural to walk that way, like, even though my life’s been set to fast-forward and everything has changed, there’s a part of myself still resigned to old habits.

  “This is where I go to school,” she says. “I can’t wait to get out. I already know what I want to be in life. I wish I could go to one of those high schools that are like college, you know, for kids who already got it figured out. Not a vocational school, but one of those alternative places where you live away and cook your own meals and stuff. But my parents want me to go the traditional route. You know, four years of high school, four years of college, two years working, then marriage, blah, blah, blah. Do you want to know what I want to do?”

  I already regret letting her tag along with me. Why did I? Is having her whisper in my ear really worth it? I look at her mouth, smiling at me, white teeth against such lipstick-red lips. A tongue that peeps out between the bite. “Yes,” I say aloud.

  “Okay, but don’t laugh,” she says. “I want to be a princess. I know what you’re thinking. I know it must sound totally lame, like a fairy tale, but I want to reinvent the word princess. I mean, what makes people royal? People make people royal, right? It’s humans who invented the whole concept, right? They may have been kings or queens or knights or whatever, but they were still human. So why can’t another human change it? Update it? You shouldn’t have to marry or be born into it. Isn’t the American dream based on the fact that we can do and be whatever we want? I’ll be an American princess. I’ll be a role model for young girls.”

  “I know this path behind the school,” I say. “It leads to Capers Pond. Do you want to walk up there? It’ll be pretty this afternoon. Lots of shady trees. We can pick wild-flowers if you want.”

  Her face falls as though disappointed I chose not to comment on her puerile idea of a vocation. I say, “I think you’ll make a very fine princess.”

  “Really, Robby?” She crosses her arms and twirls around on one foot, like a ballerina, but then fumbles and nearly trips over her own feet. I wonder why she elects to wear her waitress uniform as everyday street attire. And suddenly I get a vision of her hustling to the bus stop as a prepubescent schoolgirl—schoolbooks loaded in her backpack, boys kicking dirt up at her from behind, a kick-me sign taped to her back.

  “Do you really think it might be possible?” She smiles again, thirsty for my acceptance. “I mean, normally princesses have to be really, really pretty. And I know I’m reinventing the word and everything, but still.”

  I nod and manage to smile back.

  “I’ll have to change my last name, though. You wanna know what it is?”

  Before I can feign interest, she blurts it out—Ryder. Joy Ryder. Something about her father’s motorcycle.

  “But I have it all planned out,” she says. “I’ll just put Van in front of Ryder so then it will be VanRydev. Joy VanRyder. Doesn’t that sound princess-like?”

  I smile when I notice she’s stopped talking.

  We cut across the football field, and everything looks the same. Same goalie posts, same stadium seats, same green grass, tennis courts to the left, field house to the right. Maybe the school isn’t as massive as I rem
ember it. Maybe the bricks aren’t quite as drab as I once thought. Or maybe it’s just me that’s changed.

  “So what do you want to be?” she asks.

  “A prince.” I force out a laugh, and this pleases her, relaxes her a bit. She starts skipping way ahead of me, giggling to herself, showing off just another of her many self-conceited talents—a cartwheel. Only, her waitress skirt doesn’t flip up the way cheerleaders’ skirts do, so eager to reveal their tight, yellow panties. Her skirt sticks against her ample thighs and broad backside, and reveals nothing more than a pair of heavy, camel-brown nylons stretched over two chunky knees.

  My gaze grazes from those knees to the field around us. One thing that definitely has not changed since high school is the fence that surrounds the property. One has to jump it to get into the forest. A fruitless deterrent the administration has designed to try and barricade high school students seeking schnapps and sex and a little light-up before or after class.

  Despite the girl’s cheerleading talents, she has a rough time making it over. Having straddled herself atop the metal fencing, she looks down at the distance she has to jump and hesitates. Once I’m over, I hold my hands out, as though to spot her, but instead she flips the other leg over and jumps down, pulling me forward until my hands are around her waist. And it feels so foreign to me—being this close and holding her this way. She’s soft and smallish at the waist, between my fingers, just under my chin.

  “Thanks.” She giggles and takes a step back. And she really has no idea. Who I am. What I’m thinking. How much I want to hold her again.

  We begin our way down the path. The same path I took with Melanie—just minutes before she declared she wanted to break up with me.

  I feel a chill over my shoulders just thinking about it, just being back here. But now that I am here, I want to see the spot again. I need to.

  “So how old are you?” she ventures.