Sally took another puff off her death-stick and ashed on the ground. “And you’re not hungry either, right?”
Marianne leaned her head back against the wall and closed her eyes. “Honestly,” she laughed, “I don’t know. I can’t really tell, anymore.”
She was hungry; she was hungry all the time, but she only wanted to eat every other day or so. If she’d learned anything over the last few weeks, it was that hunger is not the same as the desire to eat. Hunger isn’t anything other than an ache in the stomach, a twitch in the jaw, a slight burning in the throat. It is not, however, an unbearable pain if one thinks of it for what it is. Evidence that the body is reducing its mass. With the proper perspective, it is not only bearable, but almost enjoyable. Why is it okay for a runner to glory in the burning muscles of their legs, but wrong for Marianne to glory in the burning in her throat?
And it wasn’t as if she was starving herself, for goodness’ sake. She’d eat seven or eight hundred calories a day to keep steady. The only real problem with any of it came if she went under that; if she became so hungry that she lost control and overate. But, even then, it wasn’t a real problem in the medical sense. She was not anorexic, that was for sure. She’d looked up bulimia, though, just to be sure, but her behavior didn’t fit any of the molds on the web. She didn’t throw up often enough... She didn’t have feeding frenzies... She wasn’t fifteen percent below normal weight...
Marianne sat up, realizing how defensive her thoughts sounded. Sally was wrong about a lot of things, but labeling Marianne as anxious and stressed obviously wasn’t one of them. She reached down and picked up the lighter off the pavement. She put the clove in her mouth and relit it. Then she took the clove out again. “Does smoking make your teeth yellow?”
“Yes.”
Marianne nodded and smoked the clove.
15
First Loser
Marianne reached out blindly for more shampoo. What the hell had she been thinking? She wasn’t some cigarette-smoking loser. She was stronger than that. Cleaner than that. And Patrick would be home soon. She grated her teeth every time she thought about it. Marianne had every intention of letting him kiss her again tonight, but she’d smoked a frigging clove. Even though she had already brushed her teeth four times, she was still afraid that the smell might come up from her lungs or something. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.
By eleven o’clock, Marianne had her hair blown out and her makeup reapplied. She had just finished plucking her eyebrows when Dad came in. He leaned against the bedroom door. “You look dressed up.”
Was that supposed to be a question or something? “I am dressed up.”
“Are you going out?”
Marianne got her flip-flops out of the closet where she kept them. Not really—she grabbed one off the bed and one from under the window. “Patrick is coming home tonight.” She wiggled the shoes in between her toes. “But it’s too late to go anywhere. I’m just going to say hi and go to bed.”
Dad shook his head at her.
“What?”
“Nothing.” He shrugged his shoulders, looking mopey. “I just thought you were going out is all.”
“Aw... and now you don’t get to feel like Dick Tracy for catching me.” Marianne grabbed her new peach sweater. “But seriously, Dad, if I was going to sneak out, I wouldn’t let you see me getting ready.”
“Pathetic.” Dad shook his head again. “You know that it’s impossible for you to sneak anywhere, right? You’re a grownup.”
“You’re upset because I’m not going out?” Unbelievable. She’d thought all the comments he made about never getting any trouble from her had been praise. Guess not. Marianne suddenly sucked in a breath and pointed her finger at him. “You really do want me to get knocked up.”
Dad just stared. “I’m going to bed.”
“Bye,” she said as Dad left. Marianne sat down on her bed and then hopped right up again. She had breath issues to take care of. She went to the kitchen, downed a diet Snapple, and grabbed six Altoids out of her purse on the table. She turned off all the house lights, including the porch, and went outside. She sat on the front steps and flipped open her cell phone to play poker while she waited for the call from Patrick.
Thunk. Something hit the step on the other side of the porch and bounced away. Marianne stood up in fear of giant moths or flying cockroaches, but it couldn’t have been a bug. Too big. Maybe a seed had blown off the tree? She pocketed her phone and stalked carefully across the driveway to where the thing had rolled. The street lamp gave just enough light for her to see it shining on the edge of the grass.
She picked up the little transparent ball and turned it over in her hand. Embedded in the rubber was the hideous face of Jar Jar Binks. Marianne clutched the ball to her chin and whipped her head up.
Patrick stood on the edge of Danielle’s lawn, smiling at her. He snapped his cell phone shut. “I didn’t want to sneak up on you again.”
Marianne walked slowly over to the tree in the middle of her yard and leaned against the trunk. It was a nice marker; it stopped her from running over to him like a fool. “So, you thought you’d risk pegging me, instead?”
Patrick tilted his head; obviously curious about why she had stopped walking. “I have better aim than that.”
No doubt. Marianne stayed by the tree with her little ball. “You’ll have to prove it to me sometime.”
Patrick put his hands in his pockets. “Yeah, we should plan it.”
“Absolutely.” Marianne was safely in the shadow, where he couldn’t see her smile. What the hell was she doing right now?
“So...” Patrick rocked back on his heels. “How’ve you been?” he asked, casually.
“Great, great.” Marianne squeezed the ball to keep from laughing. “How about you? Read any good books lately?”
Patrick shook his head. “Chuck Norris doesn’t read books, Marianne. He just stares them down until he gets the information he wants.”
Marianne shifted her weight from one foot to the other. “Is your name Chuck Norris?”
“No, I just heard that joke on the radio tonight and thought it was funny.”
“It is funny.” Marianne didn’t know how much more of this weird distance she could stand. It was hilarious and killer painful at the same time. “It’s a very funny joke.”
Patrick took his hand out of his pocket and held his palm out. “If you like, I can let you know about any other ones I learn.”
“That’d be great.” Marianne pushed off the tree and pretended to stretch. “Just call me, you know, whenever you’ve got one.”
“Will do,” he nodded. Then he took a step back. “I should let you get to bed. You look really tired.”
“Okay.” Whoops, she’d let the laugh show on that one. She cleared her throat. “See you later.” Marianne turned and started crossing the lawn toward her front door. Her muscles were so tense that she could hardly walk. It was coming... any second now... She couldn’t handle the suspense and started to sprint. She heard Patrick’s running footsteps then and screamed before he even caught her. He snatched her up from behind by the waist and spun her around in the air. Marianne had to tuck into a little ball to keep from screaming while he whipped her around and around in the yard. Even so, she still thought she sounded like an ambulance or something.
Patrick finally slowed down and set her on the grass in front of him. He bent down and put his face to the side of hers. “You are rotten.”
Marianne turned around and let herself be drawn forward to his chest, her arms tucked up between them. He held her tightly, and she felt like some parasite that wanted to fuse itself to him. “I am rotten,” she said into his t-shirt, “and yet, you can’t get enough of me. Like meth.”
“Exactly like meth.”
She lifted her head up to look at him and reached up hesitantly to touch his three-day stubble with her fingertips. “Growing a beard?” she said.
Patrick closed his eyes for a second while she touched
his face and then opened them again. “Sorry,” he said. “I meant to get a haircut and get all put together before I came home, but I chose to look like trash so I could see you sooner.”
“That was very wise. And in case you forgot—” Marianne pulled her hand back from his face. “I cut hair, in addition to my meth-like qualities. You get both.”
“That’s nice, but I only need the one.”
“Certainly. I can get my scissors right now if you want,” she said innocently. She smiled and drew back a step—she couldn’t stop drawing back. What was wrong with her?
Patrick inhaled through his teeth. “Um... are you qualified for that? I’ve heard bad stories about beauty student haircuts.”
“You doubt me?” She pointed at him. “Meet me in your backyard in five minutes.”
Marianne fetched all her gear from her room and entered the backyard next door by the side gate. It was past midnight, and everyone in both houses was asleep.
Patrick stood under the patio, leaning on the aluminum support post. He’d shaved already and changed his clothes. He wore a white t-shirt, black Dickies, and socks. That was super fast—Marianne didn’t know that there were any telephone booths nearby.
She set her canvas bag down on the patio table and pulled the sleeves of her peach sweater down into her palms. She was fairly confident in her skills, but she was getting nervous, anyway. Patrick walked over and sat in the chair in front of her. She pulled out her cape and put it over his shoulders.
Patrick looked questioningly at her as she tied her apron. “We don’t have to do this now. I’m happy just to sit and talk with you.”
Marianne smiled and misted him in the face with her spray bottle. “I can talk and work. So, just a little shorter? Or do you want something different?”
“I couldn’t care less. You’re the one who has to look at me.”
Marianne wet his hair all over and got out her scissors. She stood behind him and started. “Should I feel guilty for horking someone else’s client, eh?”
“Yeah, you’re a real hoser.”
Marianne snipped away at the top and then pushed Patrick’s head forward to get the back. “Who usually cuts your hair? They did a good job.”
“Some girl from the place I used to live.”
Marianne tried not to accidentally stab him in the neck. “You lived with a girl?”
“And a host of other losers.” Patrick brushed away the hair that had fallen on the cape. “We used to rent a house in Huntington Beach, till I couldn’t handle all the drama anymore and moved out.”
Okay, that situation was mildly better. “Like a soap opera or what?”
“Yeah, except rated R,” said Patrick. “I had my own apartment for a few months after that, but Danielle got so irritated that I would waste my money on myself, that I moved in here.”
Marianne trimmed around the sides. “Well, I’m glad you gave in to her selfish demands.” She leaned down to get a better angle.
Patrick reached back and grabbed her upper arm. He pulled her forward. “Are you?”
Marianne stood at his side and blinked down at him. “Of course.”
He studied her face closely. “Then why are you being so standoffish?”
Marianne rolled the shears off her fingers and into her palm. He was right, but she’d been hoping he hadn’t really noticed. She’d even maneuvered Patrick into a midnight haircut so she would have something to focus on other than him. She was being stupid. But what was she supposed to do, make a move or something?
Marianne smiled sideways at him; it was the best she could do. “I haven’t finished the front, yet.” She brushed his hair forward with her fingers and continued to cut, hardly caring about all the hair getting stuck in the soft yarn of her sweater. It was hard to focus with him watching her face as intently as he did, but she managed to finish.
Marianne tossed her scissors onto the canvas bag, and then fiddled with his damp hair in the front, pushing it to the side. Patrick smiled at her, and whispered, “How did you do?”
She pushed his hair to the right, where she thought it looked best, and then focused on his face. “You look fantastic.” More than fantastic, and the cut didn’t have a dang thing to do with it. “I’m so glad you’re back,” she whispered. There. That was open, right? Now he could take the initiative and she would follow and not draw back this time.
Patrick leaned away a little. “Yeah? Did you miss me or something?” he asked.
Oh, now who was playing hard to get? Punk. He never stopped trying to pry her deepest feelings out into the light. It seemed like he was going to force her to make the first move. Good luck with that.
Marianne reached behind his head and snapped the cape off from around his neck and pulled it slowly forward. “I suppose,” she said breezily.
Patrick stood up and took a step forward, placing himself inches from her. He leaned his head down toward her upturned face, but not far enough. “It’s too bad I got home so late. You look tired.”
Marianne smiled and looked down. “I am a bit tired, actually. I should go get some coffee.” She untied her apron and started gathering her things.
Patrick took the cape from her and shook it out. He walked up right behind her and reached around her to put it in the bag. “Where are you going to get coffee at this time of night?” He leaned even farther over her to put away the spray bottle, hardly touching her.
Marianne had to fight very hard not to lean back a little. “I was thinking Denny’s. But I don’t have my car keys with me,” she said, sighing.
“Mmm... that’s tough.” Patrick brushed her hair off her neck. “I guess I could lend you my truck.”
“Thanks,” she said, swallowing. “But I don’t know how to drive a... truck.” Ah, stupid. She blew that one.
Patrick laughed once and then caught himself. He said softly, “Yeah, they can be tricky. I’ll drive you, but it won’t be free.”
Marianne turned toward him slightly. “What did you have in mind?”
“Well...” Patrick moved his face down to hers. He stared at her mouth for a second, and then whispered, “I can’t think of anything right now. I’ll get back to you.”
Marianne turned away and grinned. “No rush.”
Patrick stepped away and walked over to the back door. He held it open for her, and Marianne walked into the dark kitchen. He shut the door softly behind them. Marianne walked slowly across the room, trying not to stiffen up too much. She felt like she was in a horror movie with her enemy about to pounce out at her from the blackness. She started slightly when Patrick put his hand on the small of her back. “Wait a moment, Marianne,” he said in a low voice.
She turned and put her hand on his forearm. “Yes, Patrick?”
Patrick left one hand on her back and cupped her face with the other. He stepped up closer to her and leaned down. His nose nearly brushed against hers.
Marianne closed her eyes.
Patrick sucked in a breath and said, “I was just thinking that you should wait here while I get my keys. I wouldn’t want you to trip in the dark.”
That bastard. Marianne started laughing, and Patrick put his forehead against hers. “Shh. I’m serious, Marianne. You’re very clumsy.”
“How considerate of you,” she whispered. “I should probably go wait outside, then.”
He let her go and walked out of the room. “Wait wherever you like. I don’t really care.”
Wow. He was hell-bent on having his way with this. Marianne would make the first move, or nothing would happen. And he was really good at making her want to lose the game. Sure, she could go home without kissing him herself, but the only way to really win would be to get him to do it. That was looking pretty bleak. He was more stubborn than she thought. He held all the power in this relationship.
Patrick met her on the driveway a moment later, shoes on, keys in hand. He unlocked the truck and opened the door for her. She climbed into her awkward spot in the front seat, and they drove
off. Patrick stopped at a light and pulled his visor down, revealing the CDs stashed there. “I can offer you Modest Mouse or U2.”
Marianne thought for a moment and said, “Weezer.”
He turned and looked at her sternly. “Is that right?”
Marianne unbuttoned and re-buttoned the bottom of her sweater. “I want what I want.” Let him pull that one out of his stack of four discs.
“Okay. Easier for me.” Patrick flicked the power button on the radio and rested his hand on the back of the seat between them.
“Say It Ain’t So” drifted out of the speaker behind her head. Foiled! She should just give up now. He had a supernatural gift for never losing on any front. Marianne worked her brain the rest of the drive for the perfect plan. Short of taking off choice items of clothing, she didn’t think any of her ideas would work. And no, she wasn’t serious about that one. Not really.
Marianne and Patrick went inside the diner and sat in a sticky red booth across from each other. Patrick ordered two cups of coffee from the harassed-looking waiter. He leaned back in his seat and put his arm up on the back. “So, what did you do tonight?”
Nothing! I stayed home. What?
Marianne exhaled. “I went out with my heartbroken girlfriend.” She leaned forward over the table. “Do you have a gun I could borrow? I only need it for fifteen minutes or so.”
“That bad?” He looked genuinely concerned.
Marianne bared her teeth and choked an imaginary Victor in front of her. “Sally’s boyfriend cheated on her.”
“Sally, the Goth girl from school?”
Marianne nodded. Why’d he have to bring up the Goth part? It made her feel close to a cliff.
“You said that she’s full-on crazy Goth, like Dark Lord Alvin, right?”
Marianne nodded again.
Patrick laughed. “That must have been interesting; having to walk around with someone who looks like that.”
Marianne nodded one more time, hoping that she wasn’t blushing.
Marianne Page 17