Cornered

by Rhoda Belleza

  “What?” I manage to say back, trying to stagger to my feet, pushing Dixon’s face away from mine. I’m pissed off I’m with Dixon and not Marketta, and to add insult to injury, the blood rushing to my head makes me feel like I’m going to pass out and fall right back down on the floor.

  “It’s almost ten. Your mom’s been blowin’ up your phone. Now she’s blowin’ up mine. You gotta get home, dude.”

  • • •

  My stomach feels like it’s down to my knees as I start my death march from Dixon’s apartment to mine. It’s not like it’s that far, but I’m walkin’ so slow it might as well be twenty miles away. We both live on the same side of town: the messed-up side. Don’t matter that Dixon’s white. Race ain’t got a thing to do with it. If you’re poor this is where you live—period. Regardless of race, color, or creed, we got thugs that will jack you for whatever you got in your pockets. Equal opportunity gangsters, for sure.

  It’s not like I live in a major city. I don’t even live in a minor city, just this little spit-drop of a place some genius decided to call Helzburg. Folks think because I’m in Ohio I’m supposed to be in the country, out in the cornfields somewhere, but they don’t know. There’s craziness everywhere and Helzburg is as bad as any real big city can get and that’s a true story.

  Luckily by the time I get home, my apartment is empty. No signs of Mumma or Randy at all. Who knows where they are and who cares. I caught a break this time. If they’re not here, odds are they went to Mickey’s Bar, and when they get home, Mumma won’t even remember what day it is, let alone that she sent me to the store all those hours ago.

  I settle into my bed and pull the covers up to my chin. Ready to pull them over my head if I hear someone coming. Yeah, I know, a real punk way to live. Real cool for a fifteen-year-old sophomore in high school to act. Just like a little kid, still afraid of his mommy, still afraid.

  Always afraid . . .

  • • •

  The alley, the wannabes. It all comes back fast. Shocking my brain into waking up, just like someone threw me into a cold pool.

  Mumma. I sit bolt-upright in bed and glance over at the clock. “Six thirty-seven.” I whisper to myself, straining to hear any stirring or movement on the other side of my bedroom door. They have to be home. But I don’t hear a thing. Just the comforting sounds of silence. It would be the break of all breaks if they weren’t here, if it was just me. It’s happened before. They stay out all night, drinking, or doing whatever they do then crash at one of their friends’ places. Right now it would be perfect timing.

  I try to walk carefully out into the living room, but I almost trip over the coffee table. I hate that stupid thing. Peeking into their bedroom, I see the bed’s still a mess, just like it always is, just like it was since yesterday morning. Nothing’s changed. No sign of a return trip.

  “Yes,” I shout it out loud into Mumma’s bedroom, almost dancing back out into the living room and into our tiny kitchen. “Thank you, God,” I shout out loud again. Today might not be a bad day after all.

  • • •

  The bus screeches to a stop, and everyone goes flying forward. We’re herded outside and up the stairs to the entrance of the building. I look for a cattle prod, but so far I haven’t been able to find one. There’s still time.

  Helzburg High, is just that: Hell. At least it is for me. I’m small; I’m not white; I’m not black; and I’m not in a gang. Just like I said, Hell. Fifteen hundred kids, or delinquents, are more like it. Welcome to the Jungle, right here in the cornfields of Ohio.

  The morning starts, and we’re off. Uncontrolled chaos. The halls choked with kids who shouldn’t even be here. They should be at Davis, that special school that takes all the kids that have messed up so badly even this school won’t take them. Mumma’s always sayin’ I’m just one step away from Davis. But I know I ain’t never done anything close to gettin’ me sent there. Mumma probably wishes I would really mess up and get sent to Juvie. Then she’d be rid of me, at least for ninety days.

  “Move.” I feel a big hand push my chest as the strong smell of too-sweet body spray hits my nostrils. I get smashed against a locker, held there like a prisoner from the force of the kids rushing through the hall. The voice that belongs to one of the hands that pushed me doesn’t have a face. It doesn’t need one. It doesn’t matter. They’re all the same.

  “Move shorty.”

  “Watch out.”

  “Move or get beat down.” It’s my morning welcome song, but I’m used to it.

  • • •

  “Hey, Shell, what happened, I mean, with your moms?” Dixon whispers. Both of us sitting in our fourth-period history class. He sounds worried, kind of looking me up and down to see if I’m okay.

  “Dude, she wasn’t home. Neither was Randy.”

  “Where were they?”

  “Who knows and who cares,” I answer, my voice just slightly going above a whisper. I check to see if Ms. Lygant heard me, but she still has her back turned, writing something on the white board.

  “What did she say this morning?” Dixon is really looking for all the 411. And I’m just not in the mood.

  “I said they weren’t home. Didn’t come home all night. Maybe they’ll never come back,” I answer, this time even louder than before. I’m kinda shocked that I would say something like that, but also kinda excited about the possibility. I mean, I wouldn’t want them to get hurt or anything, but maybe they could just leave the state. Or get arrested and sent to jail for a long time. That might not be bad. The thought makes me smile.

  • • •

  Lunch is like a minefield. It’s me and Dixon against, well everyone, or at least that’s what it feels like. In this school, in my life—anything can happen.

  “Dude, there she is,” Dixon says, sounding like a little kid on Christmas Eve who just can’t wait to open his presents.

  “Who?”

  “Your girl.” Dixon nods his head to point to someone behind me. I turn around slow, trying to be slick. At first I don’t see her, but then she comes in crystal clear like a high-definition channel on TV. Marketta Barrett, in all her sixteen-year-old glory, breathing the rarified air that only superbad, upper-class cuties breathe. If I could get just one breath of that.

  Marketta is all that, and ain’t nobody gonna argue with me on that one. She’s biracial like me, except her mom’s black and her dad’s white. Yeah, I do my research. She’s actually cool, which is unusual for a girl like her. She’s the kind of girl if you sit next to in class, you better be wearin’ a long shirt to cover up your growing—uh, excitement or you are busted, for sure.

  “You need to go talk to her.” Dixon is always tryin’ to instigate something. He’s good at instigating.

  “You talk to her,” I say back.

  “Dude, she’s your girl,” he says all matter-of-factly. “I gotta girl, remember?” There he goes again. It’s kind of a nerd thing that I guess we both do. Pretending some hottie is our girl. For Dixon, that would be Katie Walker, who’s basically the white version of Marketta. Pretty face, slammin’ body, but couldn’t pick Dixon out of a lineup if her life depended on it. Now Marketta, she’s different. At least she knows I’m alive. Shoot, we’ve even had a few conversations. I don’t like to talk about it to Dixon though, no need to rub it in his face. What would I say anyway? My pretend girlfriend is more real than your pretend girlfriend? Shoot, we’re both pathetic.

  “Dude, she’s by herself. Now’s your chance. Go over there.” Dixon practically stands up.

  “Chill, I’ll get over there when I’m good and ready,” I tell him. Both of us know I’m too scared to walk over and talk to her; both of us know I’m just stalling for time.

  “Better hurry up, she ain’t gonna be there forever.”

  “Dag, she’s leaving,” I say, trying to sound disappointed, even though I’m actually relieved. I watch her walk out of the cafeteria with a group of other superbad cuties. Why do they always travel in packs?

/>   “Lucky for you, huh?” Dixon tries to give me a jab, but I let it go. I feel like my cheeks are flushed red. I take a swig of my fruit punch and feel the urge to pee. It’s been building for the whole lunch period, the urge that I’ve been trying to ignore, but now. . .

  “I gotta go to the bathroom.” The words leave my mouth like a judge handing down a death sentence. Dixon looks at me like, better you than me.

  “You want me to go with you?” Dixon asks softly.

  “Dude, I ain’t no girl. I can handle mines.” I try to put on my fake, I got this gangster voice, but it ain’t foolin’ no one, most of all me.

  I take my long dead-man-walking walk to the bathroom. I look around the hallway, trying to see if I can spy anyone who might want to mess with me. So far so good.

  • • •

  Oh no. I can feel him before I see him. I lift my head up from the sink and feel his breath in my ear. He starts whispering, taunting me in a singsongy voice.

  “Hey, little girl with the red dress on, what you doin’ in my bathroom?” It’s Ben Reeves, but he goes by Benny. Probably thinks it gives him more street cred. I hate this dude. Always got to say I’m a girl ’cause of my name. He’s only a junior, and he’s already declared. Always trying to get me to run with his set. Gave me a good shiner last year. He don’t play. . .

  “What’s wrong, you too good to answer my boy, here?” Another voice coming out of one of the stalls, another thug I didn’t even know he was there. That’s how they do. They’re tricky like that. I should have known. I never should have gone to the bathroom.

  “Look, I was just leaving. . . .” I can hear my voice crack and shake, breaking off in midsentence.

  “We’re not gonna hurt you. We just wanna talk.” The thug from the stall says, moving past me and toward the door, blocking my only way to escape. I know they don’t have much time before lunch is over, but I also know these dudes could do a lot of damage in a short period of time.

  “I just wanna go back and finish my lunch is all.” I try to sound calm. Try to get them to be calm, but the strange thing is, they already are.

  “You can finish your lunch just as soon as we finish some bizness.” Benny gets right up in my face for emphasis. He stinks somethin’ awful, worse than that even. Like rotten fish and underarm funk. I take a quick glace at the door. The other thug’s got a trash can wedged up against it. “We’re gonna cut to the chase. We need you to do something for us.” I hear the words and get an instant bad feeling in the pit of my stomach. This is not gonna be good. . . .

  I lower my head and let Benny’s words beat me up. You’d think it would be better to get hit by words than fists, but in this case, I would’ve taken the beat down of a lifetime than have to hear what Benny was tellin’ me. Givin’ me instructions was more like it. Tellin’ me step by step what I had to do.

  I shut my eyes, pretending that I’m listening real close like he told me. Really, I’m just pretending I’m someplace else. Pretending I’m anyplace but this hellhole of a bathroom and a school. Wishing I was any place but in this life.

  Benny gives me a little push to my chest as I watch him and his friend leave the bathroom. I take a minute to collect myself, splashing some water on my face to try to wash away what I just heard. But there ain’t no soap invented that will get rid of that mess.

  • • •

  My walk back to the cafeteria is even slower than my walk to the bathroom. Dixon has a look on his face like he just saw a ghost. Probably thought I was dead. In true Dixon fashion, he waited for me. Even though lunch is over and the bell is about to ring. He waited. I gotta give him props for that. He is a true friend.

  Dixon stares at me like he wants to say something, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t even have to ask, and I don’t even have to answer. My look says it all. I was in the shit, big time, and there wasn’t a damn thing either of us could do about it.

  • • •

  Flipping through the pages of my American history book I try to concentrate, but it’s no use. History, that’s what I’m gonna be, come tomorrow.

  “Whatcha gonna do?” Dixon’s voice breaks into my thoughts. Both of us are supposed to be studying at the library. We always sit in the quiet section, away from the DVDs and computers.

  The library is like no-man’s-land, a safe haven in between gang territories. Nobody messes with you at the library. It’s like an unwritten rule of the gangbangers.

  “I don’t know. Got till tomorrow night. That’s when it’s supposed to go down. That’s when . . .” I can’t even finish my sentence. I can’t even think it.

  “You think Benny was serious? I mean, if you don’t—”

  “What do you think?” I stare down at the floor, wishing I could stay in this library forever.

  There’s a long silence before either of us speak again. It’s like I can feel the wheels turning in Dixon’s brain, trying to figure out a way for me. But both of us know, no matter how fast those wheels move, there ain’t no way out.

  “I guess you gotta do what you gotta do,” Dixon finally says.

  “Closing time, boys. Did you find some more good books?” Ms. Anne asks, pushing a cart full of books that she probably still has to put away.

  “Naw, not today,” I answer her.

  “Oh, that’s too bad. How about you, Dixon?”

  “No, we just came to study. We’ll be back tomorrow, though; probably check some more out then.” Dixon’s always tryin’ to get brownie points, even with a librarian.

  “You two are my best customers, I have to keep this place stocked so you have new books to read. See you tomorrow,” Ms. Anne says with her usual smile.

  “Okay, see ya,” Dixon says as we both head out of the library.

  “Yeah, see you tomorrow,” I say doubtfully, under my breath. If I can make it through tomorrow.

  • • •

  Sleep comes and goes, mostly goes. I know I must have fallen asleep at some point, but if I did, it wasn’t for very long. I can see the sun coming up; trying to shine its way through my window. Just peaking the beginning of its rays into my room. Tryin’ to tell me a new day has arrived. The day that could signal the end of my life.

  “Go away, sun,” I try to yell, but the words come out all scratchy and groggy sounding. “Go away.” But the sun doesn’t answer.

  I walk out into the living room. I don’t hear a thing. I check in to see if Mumma is home, but she’s not. They didn’t come home last night either. If I gave a two shits, I’d be worried, but since I don’t, I’m not.

  I throw my clothes on, brush my teeth, and head out the door to catch the bus. The school bus isn’t the kind of bus I want to catch on this morning. I have a strong urge to walk to the Greyhound station and leave town. Out of the state, as far away as I can get from Helzburg. The feeling builds in me so strong that I actually start walking in the direction of the station. Just a few steps are all I take, and then I stop. Where am I supposed to go without a dime in my pocket? I realize. I’m just gonna have to do what I gotta do.

  • • •

  The day washes over me like dirty soap, and I can’t get clean. I can’t get clear of what I have to do. Lunchtime comes, and me and Dixon sit down in the caf. He is munchin’ down on a sloppy joe, I’m just staring at my plate.

  “How ya doin?” Dixon asks between bites. He’s looking at me like it might be the last time he ever sees me. Which is not too far off.

  “I’m doin’,” I answer back. I hear my voice, but it doesn’t seem like it’s my own. Everything today is like from some sort of alternate reality.

  “I’m feelin’ kinda lightheaded,” I blurt out, from nowhere.

  “You know you don’t have to do it. You could go to the cops.”

  His voice doesn’t sound very convincing.

  “Yeah, the cops, that’s gonna go over real well. How long you think I’ll last after I call them?” Dixon just nods, knowing that I’m right. Knowing that there’s no way out.

  �
�� • •

  I feel like I’m gonna puke as I walk out of my last class. It takes everything in my whole body and my mind not to just throw up all over myself.

  “See ya later.” Benny leans in and whispers in my ear as I leave school for what could be the very last time. He pushes past me with his “boys” laughing and pointing back at me. I keep my head down, like I’m invisible. Damned if I do, dead if I don’t.

  Me and Dixon get on the bus. I feel like a lamb being led to slaughter. I look over at Dixon, and he’s got his nose stuck in a new zombie book. I just stare out the window, watching the school get smaller and smaller. Thinking, when I see it again, if I see it again, I won’t be the same. I’ll never be the same.

  • • •

  “So you know what you gotta do.”

  “I know,” I say back, my voice even smaller than how I feel. Knowing that the next person who walks by is gonna get jumped, beat up, and possibly killed. And I’m the one who has to do it.

  I know it’s impossible, but I’m praying that no one walks by. It’s not the most traveled area, but it’s traveled enough. Just enough off of Rampart Ave. to be out of the way, but not far enough off so that no one walks past. Someone will come by. Most likely someone walking home from a crappy job, going back to their crappy life. They don’t deserve what I’m about to do to them. No one does. But what can I do? It’s either them or me. Benny made it crystal clear: if I didn’t jump someone, rob them, and use the knife he gave me, then it would be used on me.

  “Okay, get back here, behind this Dumpster like this. When you see someone, jump out, pull your knife out, and just stab ’em quick. Like this.” Benny shows me with the knife. Stabbing at the air with a look of demented glee in his eyes. He’s really enjoying this. Psychopath.