by Randy Mason
Rick laughed. “Aw, c’mon. Don’t be a bitch.”
The girl stomped off in her high-heeled sandals, butt swaying side to side. As she passed Micki, she tried to knock the pizza box out of her hands.
“I gotta go,” Micki said.
“C’mon,” Rick said. “Hang out awhile.”
“No, really. I gotta go.”
“Curfew?”
“Yeah,” she replied, sounding surprised. It wasn’t until she got home that she realized he’d probably been talking about a parental one.
She put the pizza slices—unwrapped but still inside the box—in the refrigerator, hoping they’d be safe enough from the roaches. Then she peeled off her clothes, put on the oversized T-shirt she used as a nightshirt, and flopped down on the mattress.
But sleep wouldn’t come. Pictures kept running through her head: disjointed scenes from her days in the Bronx mixed with those of Heyden and her life now. Giving up, she turned over and stared at the ceiling.
She remembered when she was in the hospital after they’d stitched her insides back together. They’d put her in a private room with a cop stationed there twenty-four hours a day. The cops never talked to her—kept the door closed while they sat outside, alone. Professional and disdainful at the same time, the doctors and nurses weren’t much better. But then one day Sergeant Kelly showed up, out of uniform and with his nose all bandaged. It took a moment till she recognized him. But when she did, she turned bright red, which made him laugh. Then he sat down next to her bed and talked to her. Just talked to her. It didn’t seem to matter that she wasn’t talking back. Weak from trauma and surgery, she had tubes running in and out all over the place with an IV morphine drip to combat the pain. She liked lying there, looking into his eyes. He had kind green eyes.
After that, he came back to the hospital just once—and found her sick as a dog. One of the doctors, to give her a good taste of withdrawal, had stopped the morphine cold. Sergeant Kelly took one look at her and went storming over to the nurse’s station, yelling like hell, calling the doctor a sadistic bastard. Within minutes, they started her on methadone, tapering her down over time till she was completely off.
But as soon as she was discharged, she was taken to Heyden, and things went downhill fast. When they pulled her out of solitary, saying she had a visitor, she thought they were kidding. She didn’t even ask who it was. Dirty and disheveled, she wanted to hide when she saw it was Sergeant Kelly. The expression on his face didn’t help.
He said, “Hi, Micki”—and seemed to be waiting for her to say something back.
She stared out the window instead.
He walked up behind her and quietly asked if they were mistreating her. In reply, she closed her eyes—as if that could make all the bad things go away. And when he gathered the hem at the back of her T-shirt, asking, “Is this okay?” she didn’t respond at all. So he gently lifted the material a few inches—just enough to see what he had to—then stroked her grimy hair and said something reassuring, though his exact words were lost to her now. Not long after that, everything changed. They said she’d been chosen for this experimental program, and she’d started counting down the days to her release.
But this wasn’t anything like what she’d imagined. In her daydreams, her legal guardian had been understanding and caring, someone protective—like Sergeant Kelly. And she’d always pictured herself being different—not acting like she had in juvi. The only thing she could be grateful for was that Baker hadn’t totally lost it on her; the man could easily break her apart. Jesus, what was she thinking back there at the bus stop? What if that had turned into a fight? She could see the bus pulling away again, all of the other kids inside while she stood alone on the curb. Was it her imagination or had that blond boy—the football player—still been looking at her from the window? He’d seemed kind of nice …
She started feeling stressed: boys, sex … So far it had only been ugly. Ugly and cruel. In fact, the thought of someone kissing her in the middle of doing it seemed repulsive. Love—or the thought of love—had to be kept separate. Pure. Untouched. Not that anyone would ever be interested in her that way anyway.
She put her hands behind her head and sighed: as if things couldn’t get any worse, she was physically attracted to the fucking cop. But who wouldn’t be? That morning she’d seen the reaction of the girls who’d noticed him when they were entering the school: blushes, nervous giggles, whispers behind hands …
She wondered what it would be like to have sex with someone that looked like him.
♦ ♦ ♦
HE WAS GLAD, NOW, that Cynthia was in Los Angeles. These past two nights, sitting alone and drinking whiskey in the darkened living room was about all he was good for. And yet, mind going round and round, the liquor was doing little to sedate him. He could’ve gone to the gym, could’ve taken it out on the heavy bag. But that would’ve risked running into someone he knew. He didn’t want to talk to anyone, didn’t want to listen to anyone, either. He’d already heard plenty from Warner. As soon as Micki had left the office, Warner had asked, “Are you sure this is the way you want to handle this?”
“I know what I’m doing,” Baker had snapped. “Everybody’s always coddling these kids, saying they need this, they need that. It’s all bullshit. They need the shit kicked out of them. How do you think they handled her in juvi, and look what good it did.”
Warner had raised his hands. “Hey, I’m not trying to tell you what to do. I just thought if you wanted to bounce around some ideas, I’d give a listen.”
But the truth was, Baker had no idea what he was doing. Everything that had seemed so clear the night before seemed out of focus now. The only thing he knew for sure was that he hated being at that school. It made him think about calling it quits and quietly turning in his shield. But then what? He had no desire to go back to law school, and, at thirty-six, he no longer felt there was a world of opportunity waiting for him. He didn’t talk about it with Cynthia anymore because she always said the same thing: “You’re too negative. You have to open yourself up and try things. See what happens.” Easy for her to say; she was only twenty-seven. Plus her parents had plenty of money. She’d never really known what it was like to scramble around without a safety net. In many ways, he and Cynthia were an odd couple.
They’d met two years ago when he’d been investigating some seemingly credible threats against the director of a controversial film being shot in the city. While checking out some leads on a set in Central Park, he was scanning the perimeter when he caught sight of her entering the holding area. Cast as an extra, she was waiting with some others till she was needed again. He couldn’t take his eyes off her. Six feet tall, with honey-blond hair and big blue eyes, she looked like a model. And, later on, he learned that’s how she’d gotten started. But despite her perfect proportions, classic features, and natural talent in front of the camera, the fashion world had snubbed her because she refused to play the game—no casting couch for her. Ever. And while she’d been making a good living doing catalog and commercial-print work, she’d become increasingly dissatisfied and unfulfilled. And worried about growing older. So she’d switched her focus. Yet acting was proving equally elusive, fraught with just as many charlatans and predators—maybe more. With the hope of better luck on the West Coast, she’d taken this trip to LA to look for an agent.
But why she insisted on pursuing a career where the chances of making it were so slim—even if you were very talented—he could never understand. She was extremely bright; there had to be a multitude of other options open to her. At least, for now. If she waited too long, she could find herself in his situation. It was also ironic that while she staunchly supported Gloria Steinem, had read The Feminine Mystique, and quoted Ms. Magazine like it was the goddamn bible, she continued to earn a living as a model. When he’d had the balls to call her on it once, she’d shot back, “It’s
about having choices. There’s nothing wrong with being a model if that’s what I want.”
“But don’t you think being paid to look pretty and sexy just to sell things encourages women to be looked at like sex objects? Aren’t you against that?”
The ensuing silence was deadly.
“I think,” she finally replied, “that if I were a man with a bachelor’s in philosophy, I would’ve been offered at least one of the decent-paying jobs I applied for when I got out of college. Then I wouldn’t have had to keep modeling to pay my rent. I didn’t earn a degree so I could take dictation and fetch coffee.”
She hadn’t really answered his question. But apparently another one of her “choices” had been to let him open the door for her as they’d left the coffee shop.
He polished off his drink and poured himself another.
Jesus! It had been so easy to hit the kid. Never in his life had he hit a female, but, then again, Micki was different. Still, he hadn’t expected things to go that far. And as he stared off into the shadows, he could see her on the office floor again, gasping for breath, throwing up …
He swirled the whiskey around in the glass, then tossed it back.
Tillim’s stupid-ass experiment. The way the department was treating him, you’d think he’d beaten the shit out of some innocent old man. All he did was give a murdering scumbag a little of what he deserved. They should be giving him a fucking medal for what he did. Everybody acting like there was something wrong with him. There was something wrong with them. Did anyone even take a moment to think of the victim—a good woman, a really decent human being—lying there dead? What about her, huh? What about her? So fuck ’em all. Fuck IAD, fuck Malone, and fuck the kid. He was sick of all this shit. In one smooth motion he stood up and hurled the tumbler at the wall. The thick glass left a dent at the point of impact, then hit the hardwood floor, where it broke into several large pieces.
He flopped back into the chair and hung his head. Just another mess to clean up.
♦ ♦ ♦
RIGHT BEFORE DAWN, THE skies opened up and washed away the brutal heat. Micki crawled out of bed and turned on the light. Twelve calm minutes of coffee and cold pizza were followed by a frantic push to exercise, shower, and get dressed while still making it out the door on time. Before she left, she touched the swelling on her face, but avoided the mirror—not that she ever liked to see herself anyway.
When she got to school, Baker wasn’t at the front entrance, so she went to the security office and found him alone. Leaning against the file cabinets, he was drinking coffee from a Styrofoam cup. They eyed each other warily.
“Is that all you wear?” he asked. “Black T-shirts and blue jeans?”
“Why? Are you gonna tell me what I have to wear now, too?”
“No, I don’t care what you wear as long as everything’s clean. Are those clean?”
“Yeah.”
“Yes, sir,” he corrected.
She looked away. “Yes, sir.”
He tossed the cup into the wastepaper basket and straightened up. “Let’s go. Put your hands against the wall.”
Her eyes flew back to his. “Again? C’mon …”
His expression more than jaded, he waited. And waited. Until she complied. And though his touch felt completely professional—same as it had the day before—she thought he was getting off on it, on exerting control over her. When he was finished, she turned around and stared past him.
“Did you put any ice on that bruise last night?”
“I didn’t have any.”
“Let me see it.” He reached toward her, but she recoiled.
Their eyes held.
He snorted.
She glared.
“Do you know where you’re going?” he asked.
“Sort of.”
“What do you mean: ‘sort of’?”
“I dunno, I checked the classrooms off on the maps in that book you gave me; but, y’know, it looks different now. I dunno …” Her voice trailed off.
“Let me see your program card.”
She handed it over.
“What the hell happened to this?”
“It—had a little accident.”
It took a lot for him not to laugh: “a little accident.” The piece of paper looked like a Scotch-taped jigsaw puzzle. The passing bell rang. “C’mon,” he said, “I’ll show you how to get to your first class.”
She looked up sharply. “Really?”
“I’m just in a good mood,” he said dryly. “Don’t get your hopes up.”
♦ ♦ ♦
AS SHE WENT FROM room to room, Micki discovered that Joey had been right: she was taking advanced-placement courses in calculus, physics (a double period with lab), and English. She also had honors American history, economics, gym, and art—but no lunch. She’d have to eat during physics. And with the exception of gym and art, she saw the same kids in almost all of her classes because she’d been thrown into the accelerated science program. Made up of twenty-two boys and four girls, it was a fast track for the most gifted students. While they all looked at her with curiosity, no one said much of anything, though one boy, Greg, came up and introduced himself after history, the last class of the day. Not wanting to have to answer a lot of questions, she said she’d just been transferred from another school and had to go fill out more paperwork right away.
Arms full of heavy textbooks, she returned to the security office and asked Baker if she could get a locker like a lot of other kids had.
“Absolutely not,” he said. “That’s all I need is one more thing to keep an eye on with you. You can leave your books on the corner of my desk. In the winter, you can use the coat rack over there near the door.”
A winter coat. Winter clothes. More things she couldn’t afford. “I need a note for gym,” she said. “Mrs. Tandy said I needed a note if it would be a financial hardship for me to pay for a gym suit and a lock.”
“You’ve got a job.”
“He’s only paying me a dollar-forty an hour.”
“Isn’t minimum wage two dollars?”
“He only hired me ’cause they said he could pay me less.”
Tapping his pen on the desk, Baker did a quick mental calculation. He couldn’t see how she’d manage even the bare necessities.
He wrote the note. With his left hand. She hadn’t noticed that before.
♦ ♦ ♦
ANOTHER BUSY SHIFT AT work, another slow procession of restless hours in bed. Micki had finally entered the deepest layer of sleep when the alarm went off. Yawning, eyes half closed, she boiled some water only to watch the milk curdle in the cup of instant coffee. But when she got to school, things took a turn for the better: Baker told her to simply turn around and hold her arms away from her body while he patted her down. In time, he’d search her only intermittently and at random.
And so, with the ring of the first-period bell, she became a full-fledged student at Newbridge High. Sitting tall in her first class, loose-leaf open to a clean white sheet, she listened closely to everything her economics teacher was saying. But by the end of the day, after hours of being still and copying notes from the blackboard, she was slouched at her desk, barely listening to her history teacher or fellow classmates. Elbow on her notebook, hand propping up her head, she was doodling around the words she’d scribbled on the page. Thick and fine lines—embellished with tiny, little dots—were crossing and curling around intricate, flowery designs—
The passing bell rang. She raced down the stairs, checked in with Baker, then headed out to face the long trip home. The Q44A came relatively quickly, and an E train was pulling in just as she reached the subway platform. But then, doors open, it just sat in the station for fifteen minutes before running local instead of express. Her books in a pile next to her, she t
apped her foot on the floor. What a fucking waste of time. She got back to her apartment and could only wolf down a couple of Twinkies before dashing out again for Bel Canto.
But no sooner had she tied her apron on than diners started coming in to get an early jump on the weekend. Mr. Antonelli—moving between tables, checking in frequently with the kitchen—worked hard to keep the turnover rate high. And as the eatery headed into the heart of the Friday-night rush, groups of tired coworkers gave way to dating couples and families, waiters posting orders in rapid succession. The pass bar filled up, and the atmosphere in the kitchen grew tense. And though Micki’s twenty-minute meal break turned into a few forkfuls of rigatoni, she took it as a challenge to have no more than one layer of dirty dishes and pots on the bottom of the sink at any given time.
Shortly after eleven, her T-shirt soaking wet beneath her vest, she finally left the restaurant, the street strangely empty of kids. With only cars passing her by, she saw Saturday stretched out before her like miles and miles of nothing except wide-open space—she didn’t have to be back at work until five.
But after spending most of her free weekend hours sleeping, Sunday night came upon her fast. Homework assignments that had seemed like nothing on Friday now looked like massive projects. She sat down and started with physics and calculus, both of which went quickly and were actually kind of fun. English wasn’t bad; economics was pretty dry. But history—it was hard to keep her eyes open. Friday’s class hadn’t been quite so boring because the teacher had used the time to talk about current events—mostly Watergate and Nixon’s resignation. The discussion had grown heated, and everyone had had something to say. Except Micki. With only the vaguest idea of what they were talking about, she’d sat at the back of the room, drawing in her notebook and only half listening—same as she had before the class had started. Only then kids had been talking about sports, music, TV, movies, parties, driving … They all knew each other, some of them friends. They went to each other’s homes, bought books and albums to share …