Dodging Trains

by Sunniva Dee

  Keyon’s hands are shaking. He barely has the tip of his toes on the ground, and he’s not acknowledging his father. That gaze, it’s hazy with bloodlust. Oh God, Keyon is some person I don’t know.

  I begin to cry. Cover my mouth to quench it, because I’m just a spectator.

  “What the fuck have you done?” his father shouts. “Do you have any idea of the consequences?”

  It happened a long time ago, and the consequences are over. That’s why I smile now, thinking of fierce little Keyon, so unlike the giant he is today. He’s in control of his power now.

  Back then, Tyler spent five nights in the hospital with a concussion, and Keyon’s father settled with both boys’ parents before they even sued him. He grounded his son for a month and banned him from martial arts training.

  It left Keyon in a funk for a few weeks, but not once did he regret what he did to his bullies. I couldn’t fault him.

  The first months after Tyler returned to school were quiet. Aaron and Tyler both ignored him and stayed out of his way. The rumor mill ran wild, exaggerating what Keyon had done to them. Some insisted he had broken a bone in Tyler’s skull. Another rumor had it Keyon had pulled his pants down and was ready to rape him when his dad pulled up.

  “Even though the onion rings are on the lighter side,” Mom says nodding toward my plate, “you’ll see they’re nice and crisp. They’re cooked through.”

  She wiggles her butt onto the seat next to me at the bar counter. Takes a bite of her sandwich, while I lift an aromatic calamari ring. Goodness, my mouth is watering. I only had oatmeal for breakfast this morning. “If you say so.”

  “Did you see the poster?” she asks.

  I narrow my eyes over the lemonade. “What poster?”

  “Keyon really grew up, didn’t he? The boy is even taller than his father,” she repeats an earlier sentiment in lieu of answering.

  “Sure…” I roam the room with my eyes until I freeze on a seventeen-by-eleven poster by the door. It’s colorful with a picture of some faceless girl in a Robin Hood outfit. No, no, no… bad feeling.

  My mother shakes her head, noticing my horror. “How did he not recognize you? And that’s interesting that you didn’t tell him who you are. If I were you, I’d be telling him five minutes in.”

  “Crap,” I mutter under my breath. “This isn’t happening.”

  Mom follows my gaze to the poster. “Well, Keyon always was creative.”

  I groan, walk over to the window, and read.

  GIRL LOST FROM THE CORAL MANSION

  “Mooom,” I whine. “He came by?”

  “Sure did. Was polite too. Said to tell you ‘hi,’ that he’d be in touch.”

  “What? You told him?”

  She’s having too much fun. My forty-three year old mother is giggling like a little girl. If it weren’t for the circumstances, I’d be happy seeing her this carefree, but right now?

  “No, he said ‘hi’ to Paislee, not to… Rubina Hood. Nice touch.”

  I flush. Angle my gaze at the poster again.

  Age—18-25

  Eyes—Iridescent green

  Hair—Long? Short? Red, brown… blue? Surely as gorgeous as the rest of her but unfortunately disguised.

  Height—5’ 4’’

  “He got my height right,” I say.

  Weight—Approx. 135 lbs?

  “A hundred and thirty-five pounds? Bastard!” I glare at Mom, who’s slapping her knees, laughing.

  “Oh hun,” she starts as soon as she can breathe. “Guys believe boobs weigh more than they do. Take it as a compliment.”

  “Boobs made of lead, that’d be,” I grumble and swing back to the poster.

  Last seen—At unspecified location on the second floor of the Coral Mansion. Enjoys whiskey and blue raspberry lollipops. Speaks English and kitchen Spanish.

  Other characteristics—Favors hot little female Robin Hood outfits. Often(?) found wearing a painted-on, black mask. Sticks to friends named Max, maybe Maximilian.

  Flees on impulse.

  Terrible at keeping promises.

  REWARD

  No. No-no-no. “Fucking hell.”

  “Paislee Marie Cain.” Mom’s plate clangs against the countertop. She’s unsurprised at me visiting the bedroom quarters of the Coral Mansion, but a colorful expletive riles her right up.

  “But Mom, a freaking reward?”

  First row seats at the grand finale mixed martial arts event of the season in Las Vegas, hotel included.

  “Oh God, Mack’s going to tell him it’s me.”

  “Every guy in town seems to want those tickets,” Mom says. “Mack too, huh?”

  “Ugh. He might not be into combat sports, but he’d go to Las Vegas in a heartbeat.”

  “I think it’s time to come clean, honey. Tell Keyon who you are.”

  Over my dead body.

  KEYON

  “Victor got a body-lock damn fast, there, and pinned the guy against the cage. He used head control to set him up before he dropped to a double,” Jaden says on the phone.

  “And the guy?” I ask.

  “Ha, dude under-hooked to defend, but after laying in some knees, Victor switched to a high single, dumped him down, and fucking got half-guard. Never seen Victor like that. The guy tried to guillotine him, but Victor used shoulder pressure and tapped him with a Von Flue choke.”

  “That’s what he got for not letting go of the choke,” I say.

  He snickers. “’Course Coach’s the only one remembering to film from our camp, and now that you’ve got him stuck up north, Victor’s stewing.”

  “Can imagine.” I grin at the thought of Victor’s silent stewing. He’s something else. I press a towel to my head and dry sweat off my neck. Then I sink down on the bench press.

  “Can’t believe you straight out told me that though, bro, about the filming. No sarcasm or anything. Why didn’t you say what you usually do, something up the alley of, ‘Oh yeah, Victor’s just fiiine with Coach being in your quaint, little village. People were falling over themselves for a chance at filming him, so no worries?’” I smack my tongue and realize how dry my mouth is. Coach hands me a fresh water bottle, which I down in two chugs. He passes me another.

  “Just get your princess ass back to the city, and I’ll give you sarcasm,” Jaden says. “I miss destroying you, and that’s a straight-up fact too.”

  My fist twitches at the thought. One thing I won’t be doing in a whole week is actual sparring. “Sounds like sarcasm to me. Which one of us ends up at the ER again, dude?”

  “Fuck you,” he laughs. “At least I hooked up with a nurse last time. More than you manage on your pitiful little doctor’s visits. Rigita have some nice slits?”

  “Hunting one down now,” I say.

  “Wishing you the best of luck on that one, dude. You’ll need it.”

  I roll my eyes, smirking. Sarcasm or no, Jaden’s starting to sound like himself.

  “Just put a bag over your head—it’s Halloween tomorrow so you’ll have the costume down–and flex a wimpy bicep and whatnot.”

  A knock on the basement door announces my mother. Dawson pushes away some foam-padded gear that’s in the way and greets her politely.

  “You boys ready for lunch?” She smiles wide and clutches her hands expectantly in front of her. Ma loves to share meals, the bigger the better, and she cannot condone how my father and I “wolf them down.” Slow and savoring is the only way to go, she says, grumbling about my father’s genes being predominant whenever I’m in a hurry.

  During lunch she complains about people calling and popping by with their hot leads on who Rubina Hood is. I’ve personally met with ten of them over the last two days, and for now, the leads aren’t good. One took me to an abandoned building, another to an old lady whose granddaughter had left for California three years ago. People in this town are bizarre.

  “Keyon, dear, I think what you did to find this girl is romantic, but it isn’t working. How many posters do you
have up?”

  I shrug, chewing. “’Bout fifteen between the ones in the library, a few bars, and the train station.” Trains fucking suck. I’m never getting on one again.

  “What, dear? Are you taking them down? I can help.”

  “I’m handling it.”

  It’s like my mind runs this sporadic, vicious cycle. Most people go their entire life without taking a train and yet of all the places I could hang up my part-jest, part-serious posters, I went to the train station first.

  I mean, I really, truly detest anything that has to do with trains. My first and last thought when I see one is always, I will never take a train again.

  “I’ll tear them down after Halloween, Mom,” I say. “I’ll be leaving a few days later anyway.”

  “Halloween.” Ma claps her hands. “Goodness, yes. You have to dress up tomorrow. We’ll get you a nice something, like a uniform. You could be a confederate soldier with that grey outfit they wore and yellow sash. Oh,” she gushes, beaming.

  I roll my eyes. “I’ll be a fighter. Myself. Like this.” I point at my workout clothes, while my mother squints in disapproval. “Silvia, I’m too big for trick or treating. Plus, aren’t you done with Halloween after the party you just threw? You must be tired,” I add for fun. My mother is with parties the way she is with big meals: impossible to wear out.

  “No, no, honey. The actual Halloween ball is at the square, and your father is the guest of honor.” Ma’s smile widens. Party-Ma. I bet she’s the best First Lady this town will ever have.

  I recall Jaden’s mocking suggestion about me dressing up and getting laid. Hmm. I wonder if Miss Whateverher-real-name-is will be at the square in her Robin Hood costume?

  She hadn’t planned to get with me again, but hey, girls are capricious creatures; they change their minds at the drop of a hat. Might as well get in costume and do a search of the town square. She shouldn’t be hard to find if she’s there.

  What the hell was I thinking? I can’t even find myself in the frenzy here. I’m at a point where I’m surprised to even see Dawson and his wife, whom I came with. They’re dancing to “Monster Mash,” which seems to be on repeat by the shitty Beatles tribute band onstage.

  I recognize the paper lanterns above our heads from the Coral Mansion, although they’ve tripled in quantity. Everyone’s eating hot dogs, and half of the crowd is shitfaced, old men and too-young boys in particular.

  I’m on a bench, arms crossed, spine mashed into the table behind me. My legs are stretched wide while I girl-watch, a beer in my hand. I’m scaling down on alcohol until after the big fight, which means Dawson has already lectured me. He’s a mild-mannered man, but when I don’t heed his instructions, he lets me have it.

  My mother didn’t give in until I’d dressed up as something this time, so I rigged my proven teenaged trick-or-treat costume: ripped jeans and shirt smeared with blood coupled with fangs. Since it’s freezing, I threw on a long black trench coat. She attacked me with makeup too, so my eyes are all dabbed with black goop and I have blood dripping from my mouth.

  “You look like a rebel vampire. James Dean vampire,” Dawson’s wife said on our way here. “I see is you though,” she added in her melodious, broken English. Too bad. What’s not too bad is all the chicks giving me shy onceovers.

  Yeah, I don’t regret coming here. After a day like today, hard but not destructive, I have two things on my mind: food and sex. Food’s easy. Sex I have to hunt down, and there’s nothing wrong with a good chase.

  I stand. Stretch. A blonde with real hair or a great wig turns and freezes. Her mouth drops open, and I wink and let out my sexiest, “hey.” She smiles. Whispers to her friend, who peeks at me and giggles nervously.

  “You look like that guy from Twilight,” the first girl screams over yet another rerun of “Monster Mash.”

  I have no idea what she’s talking about. “You’re good,” I yell back.

  “Are you that fighter? The mayor’s son? I used to go to school with you. Leylah Nuggenheim?” Seems she communicates via questions. I can play that game.

  “That so?” I ask back. “Did we hang out?” I commit another wink. The only thing flowing through my mind from those wretched years are disrespect, isolation, and toilet bowls.

  Fag!

  Paislee.

  Her mother works at our house again, which is crazy. I asked her about Paislee. “She’s in town,” she said. “Working. She’s doing well.” In a factory, apparently. It makes me sad to think of Paislee in an assembly line.

  Beautiful girl she was, my first little love, and the reason I remained sane during the bullying. She was brave too. It still puzzles me that she did what she did, jumped in and stayed with me in my bubble of outcast.

  Fag hag.

  It took me over a year to stand up for her, and that still pisses me off.

  Leylah Whateverheim’s gaze flickers to her friend. Neither of them giggles anymore, but I don’t care that I’ve put them on the spot. On Leylah’s hand, there’s a wedding band. Like her BFF, she’s probably in a lousy marriage with the quarterback of the high school football team, maybe with Aaron or Tyler.

  I feel my expression slide into a mask. The game face is courtesy of the man dancing to the repeat of “Monster Mash” with his wife. Over the last years, I’ve perfected it to the point of my competitors complaining I’m impossible to read during a fight. On demand, I allow murder to ooze from my eyes too. It’s how I frighten the newbies. I was a natural with that look though; it was how I finally ruled the assholes at my old high school.

  I crook my finger to Leylah. She crosses her arms, insecure but drawn to me. When she doesn’t move forward, I jut my chin at her in silent persuasion. She obeys. Without shifting from the slouched position I’ve taken on the bench, I wait until she’s seated next to me.

  “Life treating you all right?” I taunt. My coat has slid open, and her eyes go down my chest to my stomach before they shift up again.

  “Uh-huh,” she squeaks. “Same old.”

  I grab her chin and hold her still without altering my relaxed position. “You enjoyed high school then? Prom queen or whatever?” I suggest. She looks the type.

  “High school was great.” Leylah bites her lip, not sure what I’m getting at, but she can’t help rushing out her answer. “I was the runner-up prom queen, by two points. The other bitch? I swear it was rigged. Rose—”

  I don’t give a shit about her woes. I stop her with my mouth. Whip into it until a strangled gasp escapes her. Then I drop her abruptly and stand, watching as her head tosses backwards in a ridiculous little whiplash. She can’t seem to pull her jaw back up from her chest. I stretch. Look around like what I did never happened.

  “Your rotten little school sucked ass,” I say, quiet now that “Monster Mash” is on a break. Leylah doesn’t stand with me. She’s holding onto the bench with both hands, shock riding her expression, over my bluntness or the kiss, I don’t care.

  I’d thought the grudge had faded some. Guess all I needed was to run into people from the grey high school sidelines, from which they didn’t help, didn’t do, didn’t fix. I recall that girl’s face in the crowd more than once, silently watching as they beat me up. She wasn’t the one whose wiry little body broke through the crowd and screamed, “Let him go!” with no concern for her own wellbeing.

  No. That was Paislee.

  PAISLEE

  What is it that makes happy trails so delicious?

  What’s-his-name sits up straight. Touches the cup rack above him, and reveals latte skin beneath a curly black path that disappears under blue denim.

  I lean my butt against the barista counter and stick my boobs out enough to catch his attention. He’s on a break from his computer. He’s a student, a nerd, which means in bed he’s probably better than most gym rats who think they’re awesomeness times ten.

  He looks away immediately, which means he likes what he sees.

  Sometimes I prefer hunters. I enjoy showing cleava
ge, wiggling a hip and fluttering a full set of so-so-real eyelashes before the guy descends on me. Depending on the mood though, I’ll do the chasing myself and feast on the catch of the night.

  The sexy nerd, whom I’d estimate to be in his mid-twenties, is about to get hunted down. He won’t know what hit him by the time I’ve got him on his back in his crummy, shared apartment and I’m naked and prowling over him.

  That happy trail. My heart hammers at the thought of jumping his bones and driving him crazy. There’s nothing better than ruling a man like that. The look in their eyes when they surrender to my mouth vanquishes sleepless nights and fear of the darkness. Because the night can’t inflict pain when you’ve mastered what could have been the devil.

  I swallow the dark glob of emotion suddenly brewing in my throat. I’m not here to wallow, rather the opposite.

  I get a good glimpse of a pelvic V before he lowers his arms and slides his fingers over the tracking pad of his laptop. Geek indeed. It’s Halloween, and he’s here at a coffee shop while everyone else is partying.

  So am I. Not because I’m a geek, but because the best remedy for my mind is to latch onto someone besides Keyon Arias. He’s still in town, maybe celebrating Halloween. Not to be conceited, but he’s probably looking for me—I guess I rocked his world that night.

  If he thinks I’m dressed up as Rubina Hood and wanting him to find me, he’ll be disappointed. A prickle of sadness hits my heart at that. It would have been amazing to see him again—to really see him—to catch up as friends.

  I adjust my focus to my computer geek. The thin shirt he wears reveals tendons and muscles in his shoulders and upper back. I imagine jumping onto that back and rubbing myself against him. I’m doing a good job visualizing, because my clit responds, feeling tender and engorged.

  Sex is meditation. When I sleep with someone, it’s easy to forget the anguishes of the world, and in this moment, those anguishes include my old high school friend.

  The bell above the door jangles. I start, worried, because the last thing I need is to be surprised by Keyon walking in. It’s just a mother and some kids, but I still withdraw to the restroom.