Cowboy Villain Damsel Duel

by Ginger Scott

  “Sorry,” I say. Her eyes meet mine for a short moment of truth before falling to the right.

  “I didn’t see you. It’s . . . it’s okay. Are you—?” Her brow creases. It takes me a second or two to read her expression.

  “Oh. Yeah, I decided why not. I’m just going to interview. This . . . is my dad.” The burn of acid crawls up my insides. This isn’t close to the worst lie I’ve ever told, but for whatever reason, there’s a special weight to it. Her eyes dart to Sal, who uses his lame Brooklyn accent and reaches out his fat palm.

  “Yeah, great to meet you,” he says, pouring it on thick. My eyes flitter closed for a breath.

  She holds his hand in a firm shake for a beat too long then lets out a punchy laugh.

  “You’re kidding, right?” She glances back to me, letting go of Sal’s hand. She knows.

  My mouth forms a tight, straight line and I shake my head, shrugging.

  “I’m so not kidding. For right this minute . . . he’s my dad.” I’ve pretty much decided to bail on this interview. In fact, I lean away from the wall, away from the open door, and I’m about to jerk on Sal’s sleeve again to gesture for him to walk away with me.

  And then she starts to cry. She also laughs. It’s nearly silent, the kind of breakdown that comes after a real emotion fest. I look to Sal and let my hand fall away. I shake my head and mouth to him “I don’t know.” I lift my hand toward her instead, fingertips twitching an inch from the skin on her forearm. I want to touch her, hold her hand or tip her chin, but I freeze and form a fist that gets promptly tucked away in my pocket.

  “Did it . . . go well?” It didn’t. I already know it didn’t. She can’t be this upset over an absence in physics. This is bigger.

  Her laughter fades, and her lips stretch into a forced smile that I feel ashamed for admiring. Its color is the perfect shade of perfect pink, and her incisors graze the soft skin, slightly longer than the others in her beautiful mouth.

  She’s why I’m here. I admit it now.

  “I don’t know. I don’t . . . think so. Nobody said anything when I answered. I studied so hard. I gave them textbook definitions of depression, but I came off so fake. I could tell when she said “We’ll call you” that nobody will call. I’ll get a letter, a thanks but no thanks. Thing is, I’m so the right person for this. I need it. I just couldn’t study my way in.” A nervous laugh spills out and she brings her knuckles to her mouth, lightly biting them. She shrugs when her eyes meet mine, and the swell of tears there is genuine.

  “And now you can’t even go to class.” My joke draws out a smile from behind her hand.

  She flattens her palms over her face, and my hesitation breaks free of me. I grab her wrists lightly and pull her hands away. She isn’t even surprised by my touch. I’m shocked, but she’s completely unfazed.

  “Hey,” I whisper, dragging my thumbs along her cheeks to wipe away the tears. Her lips pull into a soft line and her eyes close as her head falls forward. This is where I should step in and kiss her forehead. That’s what a real man would do. But I’m not that guy, not for her. I can’t even pretend. I’ve already taken away tears. This has gone way too far.

  “What’s your number?” I ask, pulling my phone from my back pocket. I catch Sal’s side-eyed look over her shoulder and do my best to ignore it. He’s going to give me crap about this the moment she leaves.

  “Why?” she whispers, a confused kind of wrinkle planted on her forehead as she glances up at me. Now Sal’s really going to give me crap. I hear him breathe out a quiet laugh and shoot him a look. Asshole.

  “Just . . . I’ll let you know how my interview goes. Maybe I can learn something that helps, and maybe there’s a way you can call or . . .” I want to check on her later. That’s the reason—it’s the only reason. Why I can’t say that, I have no clue.

  “Okay.” With a lopsided smile she takes my phone and taps her number in my contacts. When she hands it back, I tap on her name and notice she’s already filled it in. Thank God, since I have yet to ask it. Of course, after I study it for a second longer, I realize she’s only typed in some initials.

  “D-M-S-L? What are you, a license plate?” My joke draws out a genuine laugh this time. I’m so satisfied by the sound she makes that I don’t press for more and decide these letters are enough. In fact, I like the word they almost make.

  “Damsel.” My smile is tight and fairly flirtatious. I wink after a few seconds of our gazes remaining locked. It makes her blush, and again, I’m so satisfied.

  “You going to save me or something?” She adopts a southern drawl that’s so much better than the Brooklyn accent Sal tried to pull off a minute ago. I think maybe I’m blushing too.

  I shrug as her mom knocks with a heavy fist on the glass door at the end of the hall. A white minivan spills exhaust as it idles along the curb outside, and her mom waves her hand for her to hurry up.

  “Yes, ma’am,” I answer finally, pulling my hood up over my head and pretending to tip it like a cap.

  She rocks back on her feet, finally taking a step, then two, backward. She closes one eye more than the other and tilts her head while pushing her tongue deep into her cheek, a playful expression that’s almost as wonderful as her laugh. “Nah,” she says. She points a finger at me and closes her right eye a little more, lining up her thumb and arm as if she’s putting me in her sights as she brings up her other hand to balance her pretend rifle. “I got this.”

  She holds me hostage with her invisible gun for a few more steps, a wave of confidence finding her with every inch that grows between us. Before she turns, she simulates easing up on the fake trigger, then lowering her weapon.

  “I’ll save myself, thank you very much.” I can tell she isn’t being defensive; she’s flirting back. Incredible and cool.

  Sal kicks my leg the moment she’s gone.

  “Fuck off,” I say without looking at him.

  He laughs, and naturally, that’s when that lady who spoke to us in detention steps through the door.

  “Sorry.” I apologize for the both of us, but her eyes are lit up with a kind of glee. I get the sense people like her revel in other people’s dysfunction. She oughta love me.

  “Good to see you. My apologies for the delay; our previous session ran long.” She turns her head to the left in time to spot Damsel’s family’s minivan taking off to the sound of a whining timing belt. I know how to change those. I should offer to help.

  “It’s fine,” I say, meeting the lady’s eyes for a blip on my way through the door. “I’m Paul. Dad,” Sal says behind me. He points at me to clear up any confusion she might have. I’m just happy I don’t detect an accent.

  My fake father and I sit in chairs that are slightly too small at a round table in the center of the room. This is the room that clubs use to meet, so the chairs are all borrowed from the middle school. My six-foot frame drapes over the seat like a string.

  The psychologist lady reminds me of her name, thank God. Megan. Esher. I remembered the last name because of that artist guy. There’s a C in his name. I only know it because I did a report on him in fourth grade. His kids’ biography was the shortest.

  Two men sit behind her at a smaller table, writing down notes. She offers me their names and purpose, but I don’t really listen. Advisors or some shit like that. One is a lawyer.

  “So, I have to say . . .” The Esher lady pauses, sliding into her chair sideways so she can tuck her skirt tight under her thighs. I catch my fake father licking his lips. Perv. This table is too small for all of us. I wonder if that’s part of the evaluation. “I was really surprised to see you on the interest list.”

  “I like to be low key; what can I say?”

  She gives a faint smirk.

  “Right, well, from our point of view, the most important thing for our participants is that they have measurables.” She flips a page in her notebook and tucks it underneath, jotting down my initials, J.W., at the top. “Tell me about your worst self.”


  I laugh at her bold question. “Right out of the gate, huh?”

  “It’s efficient.” She tilts her head and lightly lifts a shoulder.

  I keep up with her stare. She’s trying to wear me down so I’ll spill a million secrets, but I’m not afraid of this interview. I’m afraid of the real Paul. I feel safe here with the fake one.

  “My mom is super co-dependent and has been married four times. This guy’s the fourth.” I point my thumb at Sal-fake-Paul.

  He lifts his hand and says a quiet “Hi.” She smiles at him.

  “You seem to have a good relationship with him. He’s here instead of your mom.” Her eyes narrow, studying my face, waiting for me to slip up. You don’t sell drugs and survive your stepfather’s beatings without developing a good poker face.

  “My mom regrets ever having me. It forced her to be “tied down”.” I use finger quotes to accentuate my point. Ms. Esher nods. “She loves my baby sister, though. She came from husband number three. He died.”

  “I’m so sorry,” she says.

  “I’m not.” I swallow a little at the memory of the night Rick the Prick drove his car during a heroine binge and careened off the Keller River Bridge when he nodded off. We cremated him. I put his ashes in the kitty litter. Mom slapped me. Whatever.

  Rick was a slime ball. He brought hookers home, and sometimes he made them come on to me. It wasn’t hot like a teenage boy might fantasize. Most of the women were meth addicts serving meth-addicted pimps. Teeth were optional. Since I can’t really bag on Paul since I’m pretending he’s here with me, I roll some of his stories in with Rick’s to give her a good picture.

  “He liked to keep track of the times he thought I stole from him.” I lean forward and roll up the sleeve of my right arm, laying it flat on the table with the tender side exposed. I point to the first two dents, missed attempts to stab my veins, and I catch her wince.

  “He took me to the ER for those two, but the burns . . .” I trail my finger up my arm to seven deep scars, one obviously new. “He let the burns heal on their own.”

  “That one looks infected,” she says, leaning forward to inspect the one I got just last week.

  “Oh, that wasn’t him,” I lie, rolling my sleeve down over it. “That one was just . . . business.”

  Her eyes dart up to mine, and she holds them there as she leans back in her chair. She hasn’t written down a thing, but the two men behind her haven’t stopped. One of them clears his throat and she turns to him. He nods for her to step into the back room with him.

  “Excuse me for one moment,” she says. The three of them move to a small office space tucked between this classroom and the next. Through the glass door, I see her nodding with her back to me.

  “Rick really do all that to you?” Sal asks. There’s a little sympathy in his tone. I shoot him a look that says “Don’t ask.”

  “Right. Paul,” he says, glancing down to his lap where he wrings his hands together like a junkie. “Fuck that, dude.”

  “Yep,” I agree.

  I keep my eyes on the office, catching the muffled voices while they discuss what I guess is me and what a liability I am. Ms. Esher leans her back against the glass door, and I take that opportunity to get up from my tiny chair and round our table to scan the files left behind by the suits. There’s a blue label sticking out of the folder to the right of the one they’re building for me. It reads SALAYA-LOPEZ. My gut says it’s hers, my damsel. Maybe I can save her. With my eyes constantly surveying the room a few feet in front of me, I slide her folder open and scan to make sense of the chart resting on their notes. The only difference I see between hers and mine is a red check mark and circle at the corner by my name.

  “Dude, they’re gonna come back soon,” Sal warns.

  “Shhh,” I hush, flipping through the pile of folders under mine. The checked circle is definitely rare, and I’m not an idiot—they aren’t accepting dozens of students; they’re accepting few.

  Those with . . . measurables.

  I grab the pen from the edge of the desk and draw a perfectly matching mark on Damsel’s paper, then close her folder and push everything back to roughly where I think it goes. I’m just sitting down when the team evaluating me leaves the office. The two men notice nothing, but Esher, she stops, pauses a moment with her gaze sliding from me to the desk, then back again. I shift in my chair and instantly realize how guilty I look. I produce a belch and lean back and stretch my arms above my head. Let her think I’m fidgety. Hell, let her think I’m in withdrawal. I don’t care as long as that red check and circle slips through and Damsel and I end up either both in, or both out.

  “We’re going to need your dad for a little while. You can wait out in the hallway.” She barely looks at me when she makes the request, and I notice the twitching nerves take hold of Sal-fake-Paul’s foot and fingertips.

  “’Kay,” I say, running through all of the scenarios where this goes utterly awful. It’s likely. I kick at Sal’s twitching foot before I stand, and he manages to stop for a beat. His hand, however, rattles on.

  I drag my feet into the hallway and lean against the wall opposite the door, watching it fall shut in front of me. Esher’s slender form sways back to her chair, and she almost glances my direction, but stops before our eyes meet through the glass door.

  I can’t see Sal’s face without standing directly in front of the door, so I’m forced to trust the plans we made, and that my weird stand-in father figure won’t start telling people he’s from Ireland.

  I spend the minutes out in the hallway typing out the same sentence over and over again to DMSL. I boil it down to simple and platonic, nothing that’ll scare her or make me seem like a stalker, but something to ease her fears. Those fears, they’re her measurables. She’s not as good at selling the negative points of life as I am.

  U R in.

  I let the message sit, ready to send, for the longest eight minutes of my life. This time out here in the hallway, waiting to see whether Sal can keep up the performance, feels longer than the time Paul fired up a spoon and let it cool on my wrist.

  “You can come back in now,” Esher says as she props the door open with a wedge. I must be their last interview of the day.

  I push off from the wall and step into the classroom, dropping my phone into my pocket, message at the ready. When I walk in, Sal is flipping through pages of a thick packet, pretending to read. I know he’s not. He moves his lips when he reads for real, and his mouth is pursed tightly, eyes wrinkled as he feigns studying a bunch of legalese that’s lost on him. I stole Paul’s license in preparation for today. It’s sitting out on the table where one of the suits is hovering and taking photos with his phone. Sal and Paul actually look a lot alike. That license photo is eight years old, too, which helps.

  “This form is for you,” Esher says, sliding what looks like a consent agreement over the tabletop toward me. I remain standing and hunch over the low surface as I read the first few lines. It doesn’t matter what it says; I plan to sign it. The first part of the form guarantees me ten grand, scaling up to fifty if I remain in the study. I’ll let Esher burn me with a melted spoon for fifty K.

  I take the pen from where it rests near Sal and scribble my name on the form, then give it back. My fake father takes my lead and signs two initials, P and L for Paul Larkin on the form. I’ve forged my stepdad’s signature on everything this school has required over the last two years. I’ve always kept it easy with initials, which I’m cashing in on now with Sal-fake-Paul.

  My fake dad leans back in his tiny chair and runs his hand through his thinning hair in seeming relief that it’s done. When our eyes meet, he flashes his brow higher and smirks. We’re done. Somehow, we pulled off a kick-ass piece of theater.

  “Welcome to Project Morpheus.” Esher holds out her hand and I take it and give her a firm shake.

  “The god of sleep,” I say, noting the name of her project.

  “God indeed,” she says.

 
I smile politely with tight lips, but no god gives a shit about me. Maybe Esher does, though. Maybe she can help me get out of my nightmare. And maybe I’ll find Damsel waiting for me on the other side.

  I hit send in my pocket.

  9

  Cowboy

  I haven’t committed to anyone yet. Dad is rooting for one of the big names, like an Alabama or an Oklahoma. I don’t dare bring up the North Dakota college anymore, but I make a big deal of wearing their shirt. Every. Single. Time.

  The expensive set of Escalades parked in our driveway as I pull up to the curb from practice makes me wonder if my dad is about to get his wish. We’ve had a lot of recruiters stop by over the last few months. This is the first time they’ve been in luxury cars. The Texas schools all sent trucks. What people choose as their rental car speaks volumes about their soul, I swear. Like Dad? He always gets a Porsche. Red.

  Sugar signed with Arizona yesterday. I told him it was hot as fuck down there, but he was won over by the brochure of the girls in bikinis out by the pool. What I didn’t have the heart to tell him is he’ll be third-string and probably have to red shirt his freshman year and only take a partial scholarship. And he’ll sweat his ass off.

  Mostly I’m sad I’m not going with him.

  I pull my phone out and shoot my friend a quick message.

  Escalades.

  By the time I get out of my car and pull my bag from the back seat, Sugar’s answered.

  Bama?

  I take a short video of myself shrugging and eye rolling, to which he sends back his laughing emoji. Sugar thinks my dad is great. He likes that my dad compliments him to his face and slaps his back and tells him “Good game, son.” He’s never been his son, though. He doesn’t hear all the shit my dad talks after he leaves. If he knew how many times my dad threw him under the bus for my failed passing attempts, he’d switch sides and join my camp.

  I shove my phone in my back pocket and pull my bag up higher on my shoulder as I make my way up the driveway. Rehearsed laughter spills out of the kitchen when I enter through the foyer. I drop my bag by the closet near the entry and heave out a breath, glancing up the stairs to the right. Mom’s craft room door is open, and the light is on. I should go up there and sit with her instead. I know I’m not supposed to, though.