him. Stop. I have to stop. Can’t …
SUDDENLY, I AM JERKED
Into the air,
kicking,
swinging.
Strong bands
of muscle
encircle me,
pin my arms
against my side.
What in the hell
are you doing,
Summer?
It’s Phil. Of course.
Have you
totally flipped?
“No! It’s not me!”
“It’s her!” I yell,
nodding toward
Erica. “She did it,
not me!” But
even as the words
spit from my mouth,
I know I look like
the crazy one.
I MAKE MYSELF GO LIMP
What happens next
can go a number of ways,
I realize. Darla has pulled
Erica off to one side of the room.
Surely Darla notices the state of her high
or the stench of meth sweat.
Ashante stands in the doorway,
holding my blanket and sucking her thumb.
“Tell them,” I plead. “Tell them what
she did to you.” Her eyes look like
they’ll pop right out of her face.
Suddenly I notice crimson
drip-dripping onto my shirt. I try
to reach up, find the source,
but Phil still has a death grip
on my arms. “Am I bleeding?”
His squeeze relaxes some.
Let me see. He spins me around,
draws in his breath. Uh, yeah.
You’d better clean that up. He lets
go of me. Come right back, okay?
THAT BAD, HUH?
I go to the bathroom,
flip on the light switch.
Aagh! No wonder
Ashante looked so
scared. This is ugly.
Striping the right side
of my face from eyebrow
to cheek is a long, narrow
gash. Not a scratch.
Too deep, carved by
something critically
sharp. A ring? Closer
inspection makes
me slightly queasy.
This will leave a scar.
Soap. Water, hot as
I can stand it. Pain
can be a good thing.
Sometimes it means
killing germs, and if this
gets infected … well,
I’m not sure exactly what,
but I’m positive I don’t want
that to happen. The bleeding
slows, but the wound puffs up.
The girl in the mirror
looks like a total freak,
with one side of her face
swollen. Ugly. Deformed.
She starts to cry. Shit!
No fair. No fucking
fair. It wasn’t even
any of my business
what Erica did. Was it?
And what if Ashante
won’t tell what she did?
Who will take the fall?
Erica? Or me? If I tell,
will they believe me?
And how much do I tell?
Everything could come
crashing to the ground.
It’s like trying to cross
a raging river on a rope
bridge—fairly stable until
you reach the middle,
and then it all starts
to sway, and you know
you shouldn’t look down.
But you can’t help yourself.
DARLA COMES INTO THE BATHROOM
She approaches slowly, warily,
as if she’s cornered a killer tiger
or something. I snort. “No worries.
One attack per day is my max.”
But her expression shows concern,
not fear, and I realize it’s my face
she’s worried about. That looks bad.
Maybe we should take you to the ER.
ER? They’ll want to know what
happened. Take a report. Send
it off to my caseworker. Bye-
bye, Darla and Phil. “No. I’m okay.”
That’s going to leave a nasty
scar, Summer. Unless … we
could try the Liquid Band-Aid
stuff. It stings like crazy, but …
“I can handle it.” I follow her
to the other bathroom, watch
her dig through her medicine
cabinet. Finally she finds the bottle.
This is a good antiseptic, too.
That’s why it stings so much.
The smell is almost enough
to knock me over. Hang on.
Sting? It’s liquid fire, welding
my skin together. “Holy crap!”
But it lasts only a few seconds.
And I’ve felt worse pain.
Darla looks at me with sympathetic
eyes. But then she says, Okay,
now that you’re going to live, will
you please tell me what happened?
IF I TELL
Things could go
from bad to worse.
It’s been stable here,
few real surprises. But
if I tell,
the status quo will be
ruptured. The system
isn’t famous for
equitable fixes.
Things could
go from worse to
unbearable. But if I don’t
tell, Erica will get away
with her disgusting act
and Ashante will
go
without the help
she needs right now.
If I don’t tell, things
could definitely go
straight to hell.
MY MOUTH OPENS
Like a floodgate,
cascading words
doubtless better left
dammed up inside.
But every ugly detail
comes splashing out.
As I talk, Darla’s eyes
grow wide. She didn’t
suspect a thing. How is
it possible to take care
of problem kids and not
maintain a semi-constant
vigil for problems? Is she lazy?
Ignorant? Or maybe she doesn’t
really care about anything
except the monthly stipends.
If that’s the case, too bad, so
sad. I’m betting one or more
of those is about to disappear.
DESPITE DRAGGING
My rear on three hours’ sleep;
despite my swollen cheek
being sort of stitched together
by a substance resembling dried
nail polish; despite the drama
I’ve jump-started, then left in my
exhaust, I am sent to school.
While I wait for Matt, people take
one look, swing wide around me,
as if the condition of my face
might be contagious or something.
I seriously need a major dose
of Matt. Need to feel cared for.
Loved. So far, though, no Matt.
But here comes Kyle. Solo.
Odd. He and Matt always ride
together. He notices me, and
even from here I can see his face
light up. But when he pushes
near, he pales. Oh my God.
What happened to you?
I launch a condensed version
of the lurid story, and as I talk,
he reaches out, gently traces
the contour of the wound.
The move is unexpected.
Uncharacteristic. Unbelievab
ly
tender. No one has ever touched
me quite this way. I look up
into his eyes, find invitation.
That isn’t new. But this feels
different. My own hand lifts,
covers his, rides along as it
travels my cheek again, this
time all the way down to
the corner of my lips. I kiss
his fingertips before yanking
myself out of the moment.
“Uh … where’s Matt, anyway?”
I let my hand drop. His should
too. But it doesn’t. He’ll be here
later. Dentist appointment.
MY ACTIONS
Imply regret, but we both know
I’m not sorry for what just happened.
Hastily withdrawn affection or no,
we both understand I want to touch
Kyle again. Almost as much as I want
him to touch me again. I need to
say something, but can find
no words to convey the burst
of emotions I’m feeling. Guilt.
Lust. Remorse. Intrigue. Perhaps
most of all, I have an intense
desire to see where Kyle’s small
gesture of concern might lead.
But what should I do now?
Best answer: nothing. Pretend
it didn’t happen. “Bell’s gonna ring.”
I’ll walk you to your locker.
He keeps his body very close.
Protectively close. Almost
as if I belong to him. Hmm.
MATT FINDS ME
At lunch, sitting on the lawn,
absorbing cool autumn sun.
Thinking about the other guy.
He comes up behind me and
when I turn, reacts immediately.
Holy crap. That’s fucking nasty.
It is pretty swollen and in a few
small places, the adhesive has
come unstuck. I dabbed blood
a few times this morning.
Unlike Kyle, Matt is not
inclined to touch the thing.
In fact, he looks kind of nauseated
when he says, Hope whoever did
that to you looks worse than you do.
Ouch. I’d chalk that up to being
a male reaction, if not for the one
I got earlier from—Stop already.
“I dunno. Haven’t seen her this
morning.” Come to think of it,
she wasn’t in chemistry today.
Oh. Well, do you want to tell me
what happened? The tone of his
voice says he doesn’t really care.
He is just voyeuristic
enough to enjoy the bitch
fight part. But that isn’t what
matters, and if he enjoyed
hearing the other part, it
would piss me off. “Not really.”
Okay then. Skip it. I’d kiss you—
he gives me a grossed out look—
but I wouldn’t want to hurt you.
I don’t know if it’s because
he doesn’t seem to care,
or because someone else
cared so much, but suddenly
I’m pissed all over again. I jump
to my feet. “Don’t bother!”
I head for the nearest building,
ignoring his confusion-soaked question.
Damn, Summer. What did I say?
FOR THE MOST PART
I keep my temper in
check. Rarely does
anger get the best of me.
The past twenty-four
hours have used up my
pissed-off allowance
for the rest of the year!
I sit in Spanish. Thinking
about the puta who
messed up my cara, and
the cabrón who doesn’t
really care about my face. Not
that I learned the Spanish
words for whore or bastard
from Señor Gonzales.
I learned those in my last
foster home. One of the girls
there was pretty much a chola.
That’s a gringa word for
gangbanger. Anyway, I did
learn a couple of palabras
here with Señor Gonzales:
amor and nuevo. If you
put them together, what do
you get? Answer: new love.
I’M NOT REALLY IN LOVE
With Kyle. I’m not really in love
with Matt, either. Falling in
love
with someone is the surest
highway to hurt that I know.
When the door to love
opens,
the window to control closes.
I have little enough power
over my life as it is.
The portal
to pain is caring too deeply
about anyone. That includes
me, myself, and I. It’s scary
to
think I might never take a deep
drink of forever love. Scarier
still to gag on yet another
deception.
Too many lies in this frozen
world. And too few destined
mergers of the heart.
I DO BELIEVE THAT
So why, after class,
when I spy Kyle at
the far end of the corridor,
does my heart quicken?
Why do I feel like I can
barely catch my breath
(and it has nothing to do
with my asthma)?
Why does a glimpse
of his crooked smile
threaten to melt the ice
dam encircling my heart?
Why do I even halfway
buy into the ridiculous
idea of a remote
possibility of love?
NEVADA APPEAL
CARSON CITY.—Former Pink Pussycat madam Robyn Rosselli moved one step closer to the Nevada state legislature today when her opponent, Greg Cappelini, dropped out of the race.
Cappelini’s ties to the nuclear power industry have plagued him since tentative plans to go forward with the Yucca Mountain project were recently revealed.
“At least I’m an ex-whore,” joked Rosselli. “But seriously, if Nevada voters place their faith in me, they can be assured that I will do everything in my power to kill Yucca Mountain once and for all.”
Rosselli worked at the Pink Pussycat for fifteen years, before returning to college to earn her BA in political science. “Running a ranch is all about politics,” she said. “Courting voters isn’t much different than courting johns.”
Rosselli, who has admitted a youthful flirtation with crystal meth, was a vocal supporter of the new requirement for legal prostitutes to pass regular drug tests.
Cappelini was not available for comment.
Hunter
NEVADA DAY
Not sure how many
other states make a big deal
about the day they were admitted
to the Union. But God bless
the Silver State for Nevada Day.
Three-day weekends rock.
Especially when they mean
you can spend Friday morning
sleeping in late, then waking
the beautiful lady dozing next
to you for an extra-long go-round.
Ambitious sex totally rocks.
Especially when it leaves
her damp hair splayed in silk
cords across your chest,
and each of her breaths lifts
the cherry tips of perfect breasts.
Another go-round rocks exponentially.
WHEN WE FINISH
We’re pretty much wrecked.
Nikki slips out from between
/>
the ruined sheets, heads toward
the bathroom and a hot shower.
But not before confirming,
I love you, Hunter.
“You too,” I say, mesmerized
by the sway of her narrow hips.
She leaves the door cracked open.
I hear water splash against tile,
and soon ginger-scented mist drifts
into the room. Heaven must be
a whole lot like this. A sigh escapes
as I roll onto my side, notice my cell
phone flashing. Good thing I had
it on “silent.” I punch voice mail.
The message is from Jude, the
X program director. Snagged
those David Cook tickets for you.
I’ll leave them in your mailbox.
MOM IS AN AMERICAN IDOL DEVOTEE
And a huge David Cook fan.
When he was on the show,
she bugged me every week
to call in and vote for him.
So when I heard the Brewery
Arts Center was bringing him
in for Halloween, I asked Jude
for tickets. The station gets them
for just about every concert.
I don’t ask for them often,
but Mom and Dad have been
totally stressed lately. Being
around them is like tiptoeing
on broken glass, razor-sharp
slivers aiming for the soles
of my feet. Sometimes
I wonder how their lives
would be if I had never
been born. It’s not like
they asked to start over.
Sometimes I wonder if I am
the reason they don’t hold
hands anymore, rarely kiss
in public. If I am to blame
for the emotional distance
between them, an expanding
rift that seems to grow wider
when I am home, near them.
Mom insists they’re still
best friends, and I guess
that’s true. She says it’s
normal for passion to cool.
Is all love so predictable
or is it, in fact, my fault?
I don’t mind so much when
Dad gets mad at me. I’m pretty
sure that’s a testosterone thing.
But I can’t stand it when Mom
goes all silent and frozen.
I hope David Cook can thaw her.
THIS MUST BE
How Santa feels on
Christmas Eve morning,
sleigh clean, reindeer
fed, presents wrapped,
loaded and ready to go.
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