by Randy Mason
“Because I wanted it, right?” Glancing over her shoulder she said, “You asked me, and—and I wanted you to do it.”
In the span of one brief instant, she’d put herself into the equation and then taken herself right back out, as if what she’d agreed to Saturday night was to let him use her. But it wasn’t really like that, was it? He’d satisfied her, hadn’t he? His mind became flooded with images: strobing, impressionistic flashes of her naked body moving under his. Disjointed and mostly out of focus, the fragments were drenched in an orange-red haze, the heat of the moment burning itself further into his memory when what he really wanted was to smother it out. He remembered how desperately she’d clutched at him when she came. He watched her now as she gazed out at the cold November day, the light—finding its way through the windowpanes—in streaks across her face. She looked tired and drawn.
The first-period bell rang.
She whirled around. “Y’want me to fuckin’ write it in blood?”
Very softly, he said, “No, Micki. Your word is good enough for me.”
When she realized he wasn’t being sarcastic, her face fell. But Baker wasn’t sure what that meant.
The silence grew.
“I don’t think any less of you,” he offered.
She snorted.
“What are you high on?”
“Nothing.”
“Well, then you’re hung over from something. You think I can’t tell?”
She shrugged.
“What did you take yesterday?”
Her gaze shifted to the window again. To think he had the balls to be questioning her about using drugs after—
“Micki!”
Her eyes snapped back to his.
“Answer me!”
“Hash,” she said.
“I thought you said you never smoke anything.”
“I ate it, okay?”
“How much?”
“About a gram.”
His jaw dropped. “You ate a whole gram of hash? Yourself? At once?”
“So what!”
“So maybe you’re lucky to be standing here today.”
“Yeah—real lucky.”
His voice turned harsh. “You want a reason not to take drugs?”
She glared at him.
“Saturday night’s a good reason not to take drugs. I was totally out of control and did something I very much regret. What do you think would’ve happened if you were that high and hanging out with a bunch of boys like you did that night you broke curfew?”
Micki looked away. She knew exactly what would’ve happened. All she had to do was think about yesterday when Rick was knocking at the door; all she couldn’t forget was what had been done to her when she’d been passed out in the shooting gallery.
Baker said, “I never would’ve done what I did if I’d been straight.”
Yeah, Micki thought, you’ve got to be totally stoned to screw a lowlife like me.
As if reading her mind, he said, “That’s not what I meant!”
But she was staring at a stubby little pencil someone had left behind on the conference table. It had bite marks all over it, the eraser—
He took a step toward her.
Her eyes shot up to his.
“I don’t make it a habit,” he said quietly, “of going around fucking little girls.” And though his face betrayed nothing, he cringed at the pain that flashed across hers—he hadn’t meant to say it quite like that.
“I—I’m not a little girl.” And yet her voice had come out thin and uncertain.
“I’m nearly twenty years older than you.”
The late bell rang.
“What went on between us,” he said, “should never have happened, do you understand that? And it certainly doesn’t give me license to do any damn thing I please. I’ll respect the same boundaries I always have.” His tone relaxed. “If we can’t get past this, then it’s all over.”
But her eyes were fixed on the door, and she was picturing the lone flower that had sprung up several weeks ago behind the chain-link fence beside the bank. A lush, vibrant pink, the petals had basked in the bright midday sun—fine lines, like veins through skin, glowing red. But when clouds had rolled by, the light had dimmed, revealing nicks and tears—little chunks bitten off by tiny rodent teeth or bugs. The following week, the flower was gone, its headless stem sticking up among the ratty, browning weeds. She had no idea why she’d felt so sad about it then. Or now. Her eyes slowly drifted back to his.
“I know this isn’t easy—”
“What’s the difference anyway.” And she abruptly turned around, holding her arms away from her body.
Baker hesitated, then patted her down the way he always did. It was over so quickly it hardly seemed worth all the fuss. Totally sexless. For him.
But for Micki, everything had changed. The sensation of his large hands moving over her, his body so close, sparked memories it never could have before. She wanted to run away. Instead, she was facing him again, head tilted back so she could eye him with a hard, unforgiving gaze.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
He sounded so genuine. He was so smooth! “Sure, why not?” But she turned away.
And for just a moment, he shut his eyes. Then he said, “Look at me, Micki.” But he had to yank her around. “Look at me, Micki!”
And they studied each other. For quite a while. And though nothing further was said, it seemed as though they’d reached some sort of agreement.
Baker spoke first, his voice low. “Right now, while we’re here in this room, you can say anything you want to me. You can rank me out, curse at me—whatever. I promise I won’t retaliate. Not now, not ever. But once we walk out that door, all the old rules still apply.”
She shoved her hands into her pockets.
“There must be something you want to say.”
She lowered her gaze to his chest.
Aware he was towering over her, he went and sat on top of the conference table, legs dangling over the edge, jeans faded, black turtleneck soft and loose. “Don’t you have anything to say to me?” he asked again.
But on her way to school, Micki had decided she was going to act like she didn’t care. It was hard for someone to gloat over something that didn’t bother you. And though she’d done a pretty bad job of things so far, she had no alternative strategy to fall back on. But what she wouldn’t give to just tell him off.
Baker watched her staring into space. There was probably a whole slew of epithets about to be hurled in his direction. Maybe she simply couldn’t decide what to start with. He was dying for a cigarette.
Her expression turned hard and cold. “I need a late pass.”
A little thrill of fear shot through him, and he looked on anxiously as she turned toward him, her whole persona sharp and angular. How she’d surprised him in bed with the gentleness of her touch, a feathery lightness that had sent chills rippling through his body. Hard to believe it was the same person standing before him now.
He hopped down from the table. “Okay, Micki, as soon as we get back to the office.” He went to the door and held it open for her. But when she was passing through, he grabbed her arm. “Stay—away—from the drugs. Do you hear me? I can’t let it go a second time.”
She jerked her arm back, then stalked off down the hall.
He watched the thin, black figure. So angry. So alone. So … silent. As he followed her to the office, he wondered where she’d found the black jeans. He wouldn’t mind buying a pair of those for himself.
♦ ♦ ♦
AFTER MICKI HAD GONE to class, Baker pocketed the twenty dollars, lit a cigarette, and sat down. He was pretending to examine some papers on his desk when he asked Warner, “How come you’re still here?
Anyone covering one-north for you?”
“Dixon’s holding down the fort for now.”
Baker stapled two pages together. “So then the second floor is open?”
“Yeah, the second floor is open.”
“I see.”
Walking over till he was standing right next to Baker, Warner asked, “What the hell are you thinking sleeping with her?” Baker looked up. But before he could answer, Warner added, “And just how long has this been going on?”
“It was once. Just once. I did something really stupid Saturday night. Jesus, she could have my shield for this.”
“Maybe that’s what you want.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“It means I think you’re very ambivalent right now about being a cop. It means that whatever the real reason is that you’re stuck here, you resent this job and you resent being Micki’s guardian. Part of you wants out, but you’re too chicken to make the decision yourself; you’re going to let the kid make it for you. I can just imagine what would happen if she tells anyone.”
“She already said she won’t.”
“Well then, I guess you’ve got nothing to worry about. That kid’s got more integrity than anyone I know—certainly more than you.”
Baker’s eyes flashed. But before he could respond, Warner added, “How could you sleep with her? She’s only seventeen years old, for chrissakes.”
“It’s not like she’s a virgin—”
“What the hell difference does that make? Seventeen years old is seventeen years old, and thirty-six is thirty-six.”
“Yeah? Well I can tell you she’s no innocent, young thing in bed.”
“I think you assume too much.”
And, silently, Baker agreed. In fact, he agreed with everything Warner had said. Still he heard himself saying, “The bottom line is that I didn’t force her. She—”
“Is that so,” Warner cut in.
Baker took a hit off his cigarette.
“How much choice do you think she really had?” Warner demanded.
“I asked her if she wanted me to stop. I left it up to her.”
“You left it up to her? She isn’t even half your age. You’re in a position of authority over her. One word from you and she’s locked up again. She’s at a stage when her hormones are running wild, and suddenly she’s got a chance to make it with some guy every female in this school would like to make it with. I’d bet anything, she figured this was the only shot she’d ever get at someone even half as good looking as you. And for once, you’re offering to make her feel good when all she’s ever known from you is pain. That kid’s dying for love, and the closest she can get is sex. So you tell me: how much choice did she really have?”
Baker’s jaw worked.
“You,” Warner continued, “you had the choice. Not her.” He lowered his voice. “You’re damaging that kid.”
“She’s already damaged,” Baker heard himself say.
“You’re a heartless son of a bitch.”
But as Warner started for the door, Baker reached out and touched his arm. “I didn’t mean that; I—I don’t know what it is about that kid that makes me act this way. I don’t want to be like this; I really don’t.”
“Then get some help.” And Warner stormed out of the office.
Baker looked down at the cigarette still burning in his hand. There were ashes all over the floor.
♦ ♦ ♦
THEY WERE READING Two Gentlemen of Verona in English. Micki hated Shakespeare. Voice droning on and on, Mr. Newsome’s oversized head was tilting side to side while he made annoying little digging gestures with his pinky to emphasize points. Her notebook filled with doodles, she wasn’t listening to anything he was saying. She hated Mr. Newsome almost as much as she hated Shakespeare.
She dropped her pen to the page, sat back, and let the classroom dissolve into a blur. And as if he were standing right in front of her, she could hear Baker’s voice again: “I don’t make it a habit of going around fucking little girls.” Yet she could still feel the softness of his lips against her throat, her chest, her breasts … further and further down … kissing her scars until he’d buried his face between her legs—
“Are you with us today, Miss Reilly?”
“Huh?” Her face reddened at the sight of all the eyes fastened upon her, classmates twisting around in their chairs to look at her.
“I asked if you are with us today.”
“Yeah, sure.”
There was muffled laughter, but only because at least one student did a major tune-out in Newsome’s class every day.
“Then perhaps, if I repeat it yet a third time, you could answer my question.”
I doubt it, Micki thought. She hadn’t done any homework over the weekend.
The door opened. One of the student assistants from the general office came in and handed the teacher a slip of paper. After a quick glance at it, Mr. Newsome looked up and said, “Well, Miss Reilly, it looks like you’ve been saved by the note.”
Several groans attested to the general opinion of Mr. Newsome’s sense of humor.
Eyes still focused on Micki, he continued, “You are to go to the security office immediately. There’s no indication as to the purpose of the request, so I suggest you take your books with you.”
The messenger left while the color completely drained from her face.
Newsome’s mouth became a small, obnoxious smile. “Are you in trouble, Miss Reilly?”
I’m always in trouble, you fucking idiot, she thought. And she hated being called Miss Reilly—at least by him. When students irritated or ignored him, he always called them by their surnames. She pulled her books together, snatched the note from his wimpy hand, and hurried out the door.
♦ ♦ ♦
ALONE IN THE CORRIDOR, she tried not to panic. It couldn’t be all that serious if Baker hadn’t come for her himself. Halfway down the stairs, she ran into Angie, who looked her over and said, “You better have a pass to show me.” Micki handed her the now crumpled piece of paper, which the guard examined and gave back before waving her on.
But when Micki reached the first floor landing, she slowed her pace, returning to the moment when she’d opened her eyes to find Baker staring down at her, no longer high, no longer the romantic stranger he’d been—the tender interlude over. He’d seen things he had no right to see—had invaded her once more in yet another way, leaving her with some strange sense of guilt. Yet he was nothing more than a parole officer; he’d made that more than clear. And she—well, she wasn’t a little girl. No matter what he said.
She arrived at the office, but the door was closed. About to turn the knob, she felt a fresh surge of anger: there was still the issue of the money. She rotated the engraved piece of oval brass and stepped inside.
But only Warner was there.
“Where’s Sergeant Baker?” she asked.
Dressed in a light-colored sweater and blue jeans, Warner was standing in the middle of the room. “I’m the one who called you down here, Micki.”
“What for?” She took a look at the note wadded up in her fist. It had Warner’s signature—not Baker’s.
“I thought you might want to talk.”
“About what?”
“Why don’t you put your books down and make yourself comfortable.” And with a slight movement of his head, he indicated the couch.
Instead, Micki put her books on the general desk, then hopped up, swinging her legs over so she could put her feet on the seat.
Warner, feeling like he’d forgotten how to walk, crossed the room and closed the door. Things weren’t going the way he’d anticipated. He pulled out Baker’s chair—the only one with castors to roll around on—and swivelled it to face her. Sitting down, he said, �
��Well, this is just as good.” But his smile looked forced.
She stared down at him.
“So,” he said.
“So what?”
“So how do you feel about what happened between you and Jim?”
Even now, she couldn’t imagine calling Baker “Jim.” “Did he put y’upta this?” she asked. “Is this some kinda test? I told him I wasn’t gonna tell anybody anything.”
“He doesn’t even know I’m talking to you. And anything you tell me is completely confidential—strictly between you and me.”
She snorted. “Yeah, right.”
“You might feel better if you talk about what happened.”
“I feel fine right now ’cause it didn’t mean a fuckin’ thing. Maybe ya jus’ wanna get off hearin’ all the little details.”
Trying not to fidget, trying to keep his voice neutral, he asked, “Is that what you really think?”
“I’m not gonna tell ya shit.” Cool and calm, her eyes began to look like those of an animal sizing up its prey.
Warner swallowed.
“Y’gonna tell Sergeant Baker I cursed?”
“I want you to feel free to express yourself.”
Micki smirked. And Warner knew he’d never broach the other issue, the one that had been so salient in his decision to send for her.
She jumped down from the desk. “I don’t wanna talk, y’got that?”
Her stare was so empty that the hair on the back of his neck stood up. He arose, the chair rolling clumsily away behind him. “That’s okay.” But his voice was choked off. He cleared his throat. “That’s—that’s fine. But, y’know, if you change your mind, I’m always here to listen.”
“I need another pass,” she said.
He felt nervous just turning his back to fill out the piece of paper.
♦ ♦ ♦
ONCE MICKI WAS GONE, Warner exhaled loudly. He threw away the balled-up page she’d tossed on top of the desk, and closed the door she’d left open behind her. He could almost hear his clinical psych professors chuckling, his supervisor jumping on his lack of insight. More than cavalier, his assessment of Micki had been distorted, a product of his own fears and wishes—something he’d have to explore tomorrow night with his own therapist.