by Randy Mason
She shoved her hands in her front pockets and shifted her weight to the other leg.
“First of all,” he began, “you’re to get here by seven thirty-five in the morning so I have time to check you out before you go to class. At the end of the day, you’ll report back here before going home.”
She wondered exactly what he meant by “check you out.”
“There’s no smoking anywhere on school grounds.”
“I don’t smoke.”
“You mean there’s actually a vice you don’t indulge in?”
“I’ve never smoked.”
“You’ve smoked pot, right?”
“No.”
He laughed. “C’mon, you’ve got needle tracks up and down your arm.”
“I’ve never smoked a fucking thing.”
“You’re full of shit.”
She glared at him.
He unfolded his arms, and his voice became quiet. “Let’s get something straight: I don’t want to hear you cursing anywhere. That means in school or out. Understand?”
“Yeah.”
“Furthermore, from now on, when you answer ‘yes’ or ‘no,’ you say ‘yes, sir’ or ‘no, sir.’ Is that clear?”
She seethed silently. It was always the same fucking military crap.
“I said: ‘is—that—clear?’ ”
“Yessir.”
“You’re to call me ‘Sergeant Baker’ or ‘Sir.’ ”
“Not ‘Detective Baker’?” The question had just popped out because she’d never been able to figure out police titles: “detective” always sounded so much more impressive to her than “sergeant.”
“What are you, fucking deaf or just stupid? What did I just say?”
She pressed her lips together.
“You’re not to carry any weapons,” he continued, “and you’re not to use any drugs or alcohol. In order to make sure you’re complying with these rules, I can search you or your apartment any time I feel like it. And if I have reason to suspect you’re using anything, I can have you drug tested, too. It’s the same basic drill as parole. Do you have any questions?”
“No, sir.” She had stopped looking at him. Instead, her eyes were fixed on the coffee machine atop the little refrigerator by the door. When he said he could search her, he didn’t mean—
“Then turn around and put your hands against the wall. I’m sure you know the routine quite well by now.”
Her eyes snapped back to see him already coming toward her. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Warner get up and step closer to the desk on her right.
“Move it!” Baker ordered.
She recalled the security woman she’d seen in the lobby. “Y’can’t do this,” she said. “Y’supposeda get a female officer if there’s one around.”
“Well, I’ve got news for you, Reilly”—his eyes were laughing down at her—“you don’t have a female parole officer; you’ve got me. And it’s well within my jurisdiction to do this. So if you don’t like it, you can just suck my dick.”
“Well whip it out, and let’s see whatcha got.”
His left hand moved to strike her, and she blocked it—only to feel the palm of his right hand smash across her face. The force of the blow knocked her off balance, making it even easier for him to turn her around and throw her toward the wall. It took all of her strength to keep her face from colliding with it.
Palm pressed between her shoulder blades, he kicked her feet back and further apart. “You don’t talk to me like that, you little son of a bitch.”
Her left cheek was stinging, and there was a slight aching pain in the bone. She wondered if it was swelling up.
“Put your head down and keep your eyes on the floor,” he barked.
Jesus! He was acting like she might actually try to hurt him.
With a rough, grasping motion, large hands patted down her denim vest, then moved underneath and did the same as they slid over the side of her ribs. Reaching around, he placed his hands just below her collarbones. But as soon as they moved, she balked. He slammed his palm into her back again, forcing her to remain in position. Leaning down till his face was only inches from hers, he asked, “Do you have a problem with this, Reilly?”
She continued to stare at the floor.
“Huh? I asked you something! Do you really think I’m trying to cop a cheap feel here? Huh? ’Cause the truth is, you disgust me, and I’d rather not have to touch you at all. But I’m not about to jeopardize my safety—or the safety of anyone in this school—over some bullshit modesty of yours. I can just imagine how many guys have had their hands all over you. Now if you have some problem with this, you go ahead and complain to whoever the fuck you want. But for now, you’re just going to have to take it. Is that understood?”
She stared at the floor.
“YOU ANSWER ME WHEN I TALK TO YOU.”
Voice flat, she said, “Yessir.”
“Now, you don’t move. If I have to stop again, I promise you, you’ll regret it.” He paused as if to let this sink in, as if he wanted to give her some time to consider the consequences. Yet between the two of them, he was the one who was sweating. He placed his palms under her collarbones again, pinkies resting on the rise of her chest. With just the tips of his fingers, he traced the space between her breasts. Then he put his hands below, thumbs touching the underwire rim of her bra, before continuing down. Until he felt the hard object in her right front pocket. He reached in and retrieved it, then swiftly ran his hands over her back pockets, her crotch, and her legs. He straightened up and took a step back. “Turn around.”
Her expression cool, she faced him.
He held up the offending item.
“It’s just a pocketkni—”
“Shut up! You’re not supposed to carry anything that could be used as a weapon. Considering how handy you are with knives, I’m sure that, even with this, you could do some nifty work.”
Actually, she wouldn’t say she was handy with knives. While very effective in threatening people with them, she’d never even cut anyone—except, of course, Speed. It must’ve been beginner’s luck that had made the knife slip so cleanly between his ribs. Nick, “the Knife,” on the other hand, was truly handy with knives—and she had the scars to prove it. She could still see him holding the blade only an inch from the tip so he could use it like a razor to slash at her—
“ARE YOU LISTENING TO ME, REILLY?” Baker barked.
Her eyes shot back to his. “Yeah, I’m listenin’!”
“Really? ’Cause you don’t look like you’re listening. You look like you’re thinking about something else. If I were you, I wouldn’t be thinking about anything except whether or not I was going to be on the next bus back upstate.”
Her lips parted slightly.
“Yeah, Reilly, that’s right. This could all be over now. What happens next is up to me. You ought to be thinking about convincing me to let you stay. You ought to be begging me to let you stay.”
Shifting her weight, she folded her arms over her chest. This was a real power trip for him. He was taking this so fucking seriously. A stupid pocketknife!
“I’m waiting,” he said.
She continued to glare at him—but his eyes were laughing.
“In fact,” he said, “I think you should get down on your knees and beg.”
“Fuck you.”
He backfisted her across the face with his left hand, splitting the skin over the same cheekbone he’d hit before. Her head snapped to the side, and the world seemed to spin. Only his steely grip on her shoulder prevented her from stumbling and colliding into a desk. Blindly lashing out to break his hold, she almost hit him in the face. He responded with a punch to the gut. But when his fist met with a solid wall of muscle, their eyes locked. And in that split s
econd before she could retaliate, he yanked her toward him and punched again, only this time high enough to ensure the wind was knocked out of her.
She dropped to the ground, gasping for air that was unwilling to enter her lungs. Crushed by a smooth, round pain and a rush of nausea, she clutched at her stomach.
He snorted. “Now what? You’re going to throw up?”
His words, floating around the backs of her eyelids, were mixing with the bitter taste rising in her throat and the ominious little chills that kept running through her mouth.
“So what’s it going to be, Reilly, huh? I haven’t heard anything yet, but I see you’re already on your knees.”
Eyes still closed, she could feel him towering over her, a million miles tall. If only she could stand up. If only—
“Well, I guess I have my answer.”
“No!”
“What? What was that?”
“I—I don’t wanna go back.”
“Not good enough.”
She could picture the look on his face, the nasty little smile. She wanted to tell him to go fuck himself. But with each jagged, uneven breath, her mind was flooded with images of Heyden, the sudden stillness of the room folding into a dark and empty space. Eyes fixed on the floor, her voice little more than a mumble, she said, “I’m beggin’ ya t’let me stay.”
Leaning over slightly, he cupped a hand behind his ear. “What? What was that? I couldn’t hear what you said.”
Fucking son of a bitch. Through gritted teeth she said more loudly, “I’m beggin’ ya t’let me stay.”
“Hmm.” He straightened up. “Well, I might as well give you another shot. I’m sure you’ll fuck up again soon enough.”
Unable to hold off any longer, she threw up the water she’d had for breakfast. She just about never threw up. Even when she really needed to, she had to put her finger down her throat. Of all times for this to happen. Still doubled over, she saw his sneakers walk away, then heard water running. When the sneakers returned, a bunch of brown paper towels—some of them wet—were dropped in front of her.
“Clean up this mess.” The sneakers walked away again.
Head heavy, she wiped up the floor with careful, deliberate movements. And though there was pain with each swipe of her hand across the linoleum, she felt oddly numb, as if it were someone else’s. When she was done, she slowly stood up and looked around.
Pointing to a door that was ajar next to the desk where Warner was still standing, he said, “In there.”
She walked over, but avoided looking at the assistant head of security, convinced that he, too, was reveling in her humiliation.
But Warner was in shock. Stricken silent by uncertainty, he’d merely stood by and watched, hadn’t done a single thing to intervene because Baker was a cop. Because Baker’s custody of Micki had supposedly been sanctioned by both the juvenile justice system and social services. But he felt ill.
Inside the small bathroom, Micki discarded the used paper towels and examined herself in the mirror. Face flushed, eyes a little bloodshot, her left cheekbone—already swelling—was bloody. She washed it, inwardly wincing, then dabbed at it with a paper towel. When she looked in the mirror again, she saw the blood was clotting. She also saw Baker framed in the doorway. She spun around.
“You talk to me with respect,” he said.
“Yessir,” she said quietly.
The passing bell rang, and he stepped aside. “Take your stuff and go.”
But as she was about to leave, Warner grabbed her arm. Body rigid, she fought the impulse to pull away.
“First chance you get,” he said, “put some ice on that.”
Eyes down, she mumbled, “Yessir.” And hurried out the door.
♦ ♦ ♦
HOW SHE CAME TO be standing at the bus stop, she didn’t know. There was no recollection of anything that had happened between the time she’d left the security office and the moment she’d noticed the other kids looking at her and whispering. Several girls huddled together near the curb were being especially blatant about it.
Turning toward them, Micki said, “What’re you starin’ at?”
They immediately backed up. But a boy about her size—jeans ripped at the knees, a pack of cigarettes rolled up in the sleeve of his T-shirt—stepped forward. “Your ugly face,” he said.
She dropped what she was holding. “Why don’tcha come over here and say that, asshole.”
They moved toward each other, but a very large boy, with a blond crew cut and a school football jersey, came between them. “Whoa!” he said. “Everybody just take it easy.”
A bus pulled up, and all the kids got on. Except Micki.
The blond boy, standing on the lowest step and leaning out, said, “C’mon.”
“Let’s go!” the driver ordered. “You’re holding everything up.”
Micki shook her head no and stepped back. The doors shut, and the vehicle drove away. She felt an odd twinge of regret.
About ten minutes later, another Q44A came along. She flashed her pass, paid a nickel, and found a spot at a window. Then she listened to the motor alternately idle and roar as the bus, stopping frequently, slowly lumbered down Union Turnpike. Seated high above the road, she was looking down at the tops of passing cars. What she was seeing, though, was Baker hitting her, forcing her to beg, making it very clear just what he thought of her.
The bus pulled over to pick up more passengers, coins jingling their way into the fare box, which churned them around in a hidden, rhythmic dance. But crowded as the vehicle now was—little space left, people standing in the aisle—no one was sitting next to Micki. As the bus merged back into traffic, she looked out the window again, aware of the empty seat beside her. Everyone was so quick to judge. Before she’d even said anything, Baker had already made up his mind. But wasn’t this supposed to be her chance to prove she could change? Wasn’t that what this was all about? Actually, she wasn’t sure anymore what this was all about, but, given enough time, she might figure it out.
♦ ♦ ♦
AFTER SHE’D SWITCHED TO the subway, she took a look at the Student Guide. It started off with a short history of the school, which was built in the 1950s. The guide itself looked like it must’ve been written around then, because the photos, drawings, and text were ridiculously wholesome. Nobody bought this bullshit, did they? A brief flip through the pages showed floor maps, schedules, and course descriptions along with a hefty list of school rules. But when she turned her attention to her program card, the class codes—strings of numbers and letters—were indecipherable. She exhaled heavily; everything was always such a hassle.
The train reached the Twenty-Third Street–Ely Avenue stop, and she exited the station, the sun too bright, forcing her to squint. She needed some sunglasses. Actually, she needed a lot of things, including the money to buy them. She crossed the street, then returned to her program card, trying to match the codes to the course descriptions, barely glancing up as she walked along. When she reached her building, she was so engrossed in what she was doing that she stopped on the sidewalk instead of going inside. And then the card was snatched from her hands.
“Let’s see what’s so fuckin’ interestin’.” The thief—a tall, skinny boy with long, stringy brown hair and a bad case of acne—was holding the piece of paper out of reach.
“Hey!” She tried to grab it back.
But his friends, smelling of pot and looking stoned, stepped in to block her—all five of them: three other boys and two girls.
“Oh, look at dis,” the tall boy said. “Aren’t we fuckin’ smart, takin’ college level courses at anudda high school. Whatsa matta, our high school ain’t good enough for ya?”
“Wasn’t upta me,” she said.
The boy ripped the card into pieces and threw them into the air.
> Micki didn’t react.
With a sickening smile, he said, “Sorry, but it wasn’t upta me.”
The kids all laughed. But as they headed down the street, one of the other boys lagged behind. Overweight, he had unruly reddish-brown hair and glasses, which were crooked after he pushed them up higher with just his index finger. Walking backward, he smiled at Micki and shrugged. “Joey’s a real jerk sometimes.”
A petite blonde in heavy make-up, tight shorts, and a low-cut tank top grabbed his arm and shot Micki a dark look. “C’mon, Rick.”
He smiled at Micki again, then went with the blonde.
Micki looked at the pieces of paper littering the sidewalk.
♦ ♦ ♦
DESPITE THE FACT THAT she didn’t have any ice to apply, the bruise on her cheek didn’t swell too badly. It did color nicely, though, all purples and reds. When Mr. Antonelli saw it, he frowned, but said nothing—she was the best dishwasher he’d seen in years.
But the six-hour shift seemed as long as the twelve hours she’d worked the day before. And if there’d been a bed in the basement, she might’ve considered sleeping there. Instead, she left the restaurant, dragging her feet, the half of a medium pizza with extra cheese still warm inside the flat white box she carried. After what she’d spent at the supermarket that afternoon, restaurant leftovers were looking pretty damn good.
Up ahead, gated shut, was an alley that served as a driveway to a small parking lot for a mirror-manufacturing company. A little group of kids was leaning against the chain-link fencing, and she recognized a few of them. As much as she wanted to cross the street and ignore the hoots and hollers that would surely follow, she continued going straight.
“Hey, I see ya brought me dinna.”
It was Joey, the jerk who’d ripped up her program card. He had his arm around a skinny brunette in cutoffs and a halter-top. Rick was there, too, the hot-to-trot little blonde beside him. Micki kept walking.
“Why don’tcha hang out wit’ us,” Rick offered.
Micki stopped.
The blonde pulled away. “Rick, shut up. Whatta ya sayin’ that for.” Hands planted firmly on hips, she glared at him.