Damaged Goods

by Jennifer Bardsley

  “You can fill me in while I take you to the doctor to get your eyes checked,” Tiffany says.

  “Your eyes?” Cal jumps. “What’s the matter with your eyes?”

  “Pepper spray,” answers Seth.

  Which seems like justice right about now.

  Chapter Thirteen

  My blood pounds hot in my head. My lungs struggle for my body to catch up with my intentions. Running around my courtyard in circles pushes me to exhaustion. Sweat drips down my bra and trickles across my back. In the moonlight, my pale skin glistens.

  What exactly are Seth and Tiffany doing at this very second? Are they at the doctor’s? How long does it take to have a lawyer-client conversation?

  I shouldn’t think about any of that. This is the time to sweat.

  An intense exercise regime was something Ms. Lydia insisted on. An hour of running, an hour of Kenpō, and then yoga every day like clockwork.

  “You’ve got to be prepared for anything,” Ms. Lydia used to say. “The next photo shoot could happen any day.”

  I slow my pace to a jog before I walk it out. As it turns out, my next photo shoot is tomorrow. It’s a big one too. Since McNeal Solar is sponsoring the next Vestal corporate banquet, other companies are loaning us Vestals to add extra star power to our commercial. I had been looking forward to it for weeks, but now all I can think about is Seth, Tiffany, and Gilroy.

  My breathing is normal again as I lap the courtyard in a slow walk. I head to the redwood box and pull out my yoga mat. I unlace my shoes and step onto rubber stickiness with bare feet.

  If Ms. Lydia were here now, what would she say? Would she have any motherly advice for me?

  You can’t ever trust a Virus. That’s what Headmaster Russell would say. And your last friend didn’t fare too well.

  I squint my eyes and try to make Headmaster Russell’s face go away. I picture my friends instead. I float back to the past.

  “You’ve got minds like diamonds,” Headmaster Russell told us. “We polish Tabula Rasa students to perfection but only the highest quality will reach graduation.”

  The thought of being sent home terrified me for seventeen years. Like most Tabula Rasa students, I didn’t know who my parents were. I certainly didn’t want to return to people who had sent me away.

  So it didn’t matter what the subject was— Vestal history, languages, or charm—I paid attention. I got good grades but wasn’t a showoff. The tallest nail gets wacked.

  Keung and the rest of the Guardians were black belts in Karate. Fatima watched them practice every day, mainly to make Beau jealous.

  She was annoyed when Headmaster Russell assigned Keung to be my personal language partner. Keung was supposed to teach me Mandarin, and I was to help him perfect his English accent.

  I slide into Pigeon stretch and wince at the memory.

  The language lab was filled with cubicles. Voices carried so you had to murmur. Ms. Alma paced the aisles, on the hunt for misconduct. But in the beginning, all Keung and I did was talk.

  “How old are you?” he asked me that first session.

  I wanted to say, “I turned sixteen a couple days ago,” but I couldn’t figure out the proper words. “Sixteen,” I answered bluntly.

  “And so sweet,” Keung said. “I noticed you the first day I arrived.”

  I blushed at the compliment. It was a lot easier to understand Keung speaking than it was to formulate my responses.

  “Most people look at my friend Fatima,” I answered in stilted Mandarin.

  “Most people look for the obvious. But I always search for angels.” Keung took my hand and unfolded my palm. On my tingling skin he traced the characters for “angel.”

  Tiānshĭ.

  Out here in the night on my yoga mat, that moment still feels fresh. I relax into Child’s Pose and reflect on what happened next.

  The weeks passed, and it became harder and harder not to tell Fatima. The silent touches … the feet brushed against each other … the feeling of Keung’s hand on my knee when Ms. Alma wasn’t looking. When I saw Keung, my body yearned to explode.

  I spent every spare moment I had studying Mandarin. I wanted the hour I spent with Keung each day to be perfect. Still, I mangled simple phrases.

  “You do better with gestures,” Keung would say. Then he’d scan for teachers, and when the coast was clear, reach for my hand.

  The first time he kissed me, I was afraid of being caught. But Keung’s lips were soft against mine, and the wet feeling of our tongues excited me.

  It was my first experience breaking the rules, and it made me feel alive.

  After several weeks, stolen kisses were no longer enough. My whole body was coming to life, hungry for more.

  So I went to Fatima for advice. By this point, Fatima had given up on flirting with Keung and the rest of the Guardians. She and Beau were back together and enjoying life as sterilized sixteen-year-olds.

  At first, Fatima was shocked when I told her that Keung was interested in me.

  “You?” she asked with disbelief. “And Keung?”

  I tried not to be insulted.

  But after a few moments, Fatima tapped her chin with her finger. “I can kind of see it,” she admitted.

  “Don’t picture it too hard,” I said. “The whole reason I told you is because I want a place where Keung and I can be private.”

  Fatima raised her eyebrows. “Oh! I see. Sure, Blanca. I know the perfect place.”

  I never should have asked for Fatima’s help.

  The cold outside penetrates me. The slick sweat from my run feels like ice. I stand up on my yoga mat and step into Warrior to get my blood moving again. I glide into Warrior Two and look up at the stars.

  Keung and I had exactly fifteen minutes in the supply closet before either of us would be discovered. There were no token affections, no words of endearment. Just a hot mad rush of stripping off my black spandex suit. Of Keung tracing the curves of my sixteen-year-old frame. Of our two bodies entwined for quick thrusts of pleasure.

  I didn’t love Keung. He wasn’t my boyfriend. But he was my release. My escape. The one time in my life I didn’t follow the rules.

  Which is what makes what happened next so difficult. I slide into Plank and brace myself for the memory.

  The third time Keung and I met in the supply closet was the day he was caught. I left first. We thought if we exited at different times, it would look less suspicious. But somehow Headmaster Russell found out what happened. He just didn’t know who Keung was seeing.

  A couple of hours later, it was supposed to be dinner time. Instead of poached fish and asparagus, Headmaster Russell had every last one of us line up in the cafeteria at attention. He walked back and forth with the whip he used for Discipline Hour. Keung stood in front of us, his head held down.

  “Someone has been meeting our Guardian friend for an illicit act that is strictly against the rules. Who is it?” Headmaster Russell fingered the whip, and a little girl whimpered. “Was it you?” Headmaster Russell was grim. He walked up to the second grader and stared into her eyes.

  “No, sir.” She whimpered. Her blond hair looked shiny and thin.

  “Are you sure?” Headmaster Russell cracked the whip. Some of her classmates wept.

  “Please, sir,” she said, “I don’t know what you are talking about.”

  Ms. Corina rushed over and whispered in his ear.

  Headmaster Russell stood back up to his full height and nodded his head. “Very well. Primary grades dismissed.”

  Then his violence began in earnest, and it was all directed against Keung.

  “Tell me who it was,” bellowed Headmaster Russell, lashing Keung’s back.

  “Never.” Keung’s shirt streamed blood.

  “Who was it?” Headmaster Russell attacked harder and harder with the whip.

  “Tiānshĭ,” Keung whimpered, “don’t say a word. I endure this for you.”

&
nbsp; “Tiānshĭ?” Headmaster Russell screamed in broken Mandarin. “Who is that?”

  “Don’t speak,” Keung cried. “I beg you to be quiet.”

  The words bubbled inside me like a volcano. Surely my tears would give me away. But I forced them down with determination. Cry on cue. Stop crying. Tears are a weapon. I couldn’t risk betraying Keung.

  The thrashing became more and more brutal. Usually with us Tabula Rasa students, Headmaster Russell was careful not to leave a mark.

  But he unleashed the full force of his temper on Keung. Headmaster Russell could send Keung back to Beijing in whatever condition he wanted.

  “For you, tiānshĭ. For you.” Those were the last words I heard Keung utter before he passed out on the floor.

  Here on my yoga mat, my muscles can hold me no longer. I fall flat on the ground and bury my face in my arms.

  My guilt overwhelms me. It presses me into the mat with the force of giants. Guilt for Keung’s whipping. Guilt for withholding information about Keung from Seth earlier. Guilt for not thinking of Ms. Lydia as my mother.

  Guilt for Headmaster Russell and whatever became of him in that garlic field.

  I lay on that yoga mat forever, prostrate in front of the universe. As if I could atone for my sins.

  The mantra Cal taught me embraces my soul. I’m a survivor, I’ve got good instincts, and I can think for myself.

  But the truth is, I’ve done a lot of despicable things.

  And surviving is not the same thing as living.

  When I finally stand up, I am drained of all energy. I roll my yoga mat with limp arms and return it to the redwood box.

  When I spin around to head back up the ladder to my room, my foot catches on a loose paving stone. The stone doesn’t merely jut out, it looks different than the others, like it’s a slightly different color. I bend over to inspect the imperfection. With cold hands, I reach down to lift the stone. Perhaps I’ll find a colony of earthworms for my efforts.

  But instead, I discover treasure: a white bag with the initials LX in gold thread.

  I reach inside the bag with trembling fingers.

  And find a silver key.

  In the nakedness of the shower, I contemplate my prize, the soap suds slipping down me in clean white bubbles. The key feels sharp in my hand, but also small and fragile. How long has it been in the courtyard? Did Ms. Lydia want me to find it? It would be so easy to lose.

  It was so easy to hide.

  I know Ms. Lydia had secrets. But I don’t know if she meant for me to discover them or not.

  Suddenly there is a rap on my bathroom door. “Blanca?” Seth calls. “Can I come in?”

  “Give me a minute!” I shut off the faucet and scramble for a towel. I hurriedly dry myself off, slip into my fluffy bathrobe, and pocket the key. When I open the door for Seth, I’m still damp.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “What do you mean?” asks Seth. “Of course I’d be here.”

  “You’re all done with Tiffany then?” I march out of the bathroom into my dressing room.

  “Blanca.”

  I open the middle drawer of my dresser and dig for flannel pajamas.

  “Come here.” Seth reaches for my shoulder. “Let me hold you. This day has been horrible.”

  I allow myself to be enveloped in his arms. Unlike me, Seth still hasn’t showered. His taunt body reeks of sweat. It’s probably making my clean hair stinky.

  I press him away and turn back to my dresser. “Are your eyes okay?”

  “Yeah. I’ll be all right.”

  “You’re lucky Tiffany was there to take you to the doctor. I’m not sure if Cal and I could have managed.” I wrestle out the flannel and slam the drawer shut.

  “Look,” Seth crosses his arms, “I’m sorry you had to meet Tiffany that way. She’s just my lawyer! We’ve been friends for years. She’s really good with Internet piracy law. And with Veritas Rex, I need all the help I can get without somebody being all judgy about it.” Seth talks so fast he babbles.

  I pull on my pajama bottoms underneath my robe. “That’s okay.” My voice is curt. “You don’t need to explain your private business to me.”

  “But it’s not private. I don’t want to have secrets from you.”

  I feel Ms. Lydia’s key in my pocket. I’m not sure I can believe him.

  Everybody has secrets.

  “So now it’s your turn,” says Seth.

  “What?” I jerk my hand away from the key.

  “How do you know Keung?”

  “I told you. He was my language lab partner.”

  Seth takes a step closer and leans against the dresser with his elbow. We’re mere inches apart. “Why’d he call you his angel?”

  My shoulders jerk. “What do you mean?”

  “His ‘tiānshĭ.’ I looked it up.”

  “Oh.” I adjust the collar of my bathrobe. “It’s been a long day. Maybe we should talk about this tomorrow.”

  “I watched him kill a man for you. I lied about it to the FBI!”

  “That’s not true! You and I, we didn’t see anything. We were in the back of the car almost the whole time. You didn’t tell anything to Agents Plunkett and Marlow that wasn’t true.”

  Seth reaches out and touches my shoulder. “But we didn’t tell them everything, did we? We didn’t tell them about what we think happened. Or about the explosion.”

  “That bomb would have gone off no matter what. We don’t know who or what it hurt.” I rush into my bedroom and pull the top of my pajamas over my head so fast that all Seth sees is a fleeting glance of my back as the flannel falls down.

  He stands in the doorway and watches. “Why do you trust him? Why not give Keung over to the FBI and let him face the justice a vigilante like him deserves?”

  “Because,” I begin, still facing away from him. I can’t quite say it, but I know the time has come.

  I slowly turn around and walk over to Seth. I take my hand and slide it down his chest. Then, when it reaches his left side, I stop. Even with his shirt on I know exactly what the tattoos say underneath.

  I trace the word “Tiffany.”

  Seth catches my wrist in a grip like iron. Then he releases me and turns away. “Oh,” he says again.

  “Seth—”

  “No, I—” But Seth doesn’t finish his sentence. He paces the room like his feet have springs.

  “I never said I was a virgin.” My voice is weak.

  Seth runs his fingers through his hair, lifting it up like spikes.

  “No. It’s cool. It’s just that … I thought we were waiting because … because … Shoot, Blanca. It’s really late.” Seth’s words sputter out. He lifts his arm and smells an armpit. “Hell, I stink. I better go home and get cleaned up.”

  “Seth, wait.” I rush toward him.

  He leans down and kisses me on the cheek. “See you tomorrow. Okay? I’ll pick you up from the photo shoot.”

  I nod and lean against the doorway. I watch him stalk down the hall and think about following him but choose exhaustion instead.

  Sleep calls to me like a siren. I crash into bed and pull back the coverlet, stretching my legs into silky cotton sheets. But my cheek brushes something scratchy against my pillow. I lift my head up, annoyed at the intrusion, and discover a note written on ecru parchment.

  Human beings want two things: relationships and a feeling of importance. Vestals deserve both.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The deep bass of the music pulses like blood. Partygoers in silk and spandex intertwine up and down the grand staircase. Their gleaming white outfits reflect in the light. Giant masks covered with feathers and sequins obscure every face. In this masquerade of Vestals, the only woman easy to spot is Fatima. Her pregnant figure totters on four-inch heels. Fatima’s parents, Pilar and Alberto, stand next to her, supporting her elbows.

  Suddenly the music cuts off.

  Pilar
removes her mask and shows off dangly gold earrings with the emblem of her fashion house. Fatima takes off her mask too and reveals smoky eyes wide with surprise.

  Everywhere Vestals squirm and gasp until a sexy voice fills the soundstage.

  I practiced that voice for days.

  “On a night as important as this,” I say, “don’t let our competitors leave you hanging.”

  All eyes turn to see me perched at the top of the stairs. I wear satin pants, a lace halter, and stilettos. One hand wields an orange extension cord like a bull whip. With a silent prayer to the universe that I won’t slip, I strut down the stairs straight to a handsome figure in white. It’s Trevor, with his jaw dropped.

  I plug the cord into the outlet next to him, brushing my arm against his silk shirt. “I rely on McNeal Solar Energy to heat things up,” I say suggestively. Then I turn and look straight at the camera. “Don’t you?” The music blares.

  We’ve shot this scene twenty times since breakfast. This was a final take to make sure things were perfect.

  Only for some reason, on this last try, Trevor does something stupid.

  He scoops me around the waist and nuzzles my neck.

  “Cut!” Jeremy yells. “What the hell was that?”

  Trevor shrugs. “Improv. I thought I’d spice things up.”

  “We don’t need your creative brilliance,” snarls Jeremy. “Save it for soap carving. Stick to the plan.”

  “But the plan sucks!” argues Trevor. “The whole world thinks Blanca dumped me for a Virus.”

  “His name’s Seth.” I contemplate smacking Trevor with the extension cord. “And you’re lucky that Seth hasn’t said anything about you and—” But I stop myself in time.

  “About what?” asks Jeremy.

  “Nothing,” Trevor and I both say together.

  Fatima and Pilar climb down the stairs with small, pinched steps. Alberto strides behind them. “What’s going on?” Fatima asks. “I can’t breathe in this dress.”

  “It’ll be okay, mijiha. Sit down while I deal with this bozo.” Pilar glares at Jeremy. “I thought you were the director!”