America

by E. R. Frank

  “Do you think Wick and Shiri are doing it right now?” I ask Marshall.

  “Probably,” Marshall says.

  I keep holding the paper clip in the flame. Marshall told me last night I had to do it for a long time, to get it good and sterilized. The oval is bigger than the flame, so I have to move the paper clip around a little, to get the whole thing heated.

  “She’s probably sucking him off,” Marshall says. Something about that and the fire makes me sweat. It makes my dick move around in my pants. I want to touch it, but my hands are full. And then I get this feeling that I know, that I hate, that makes me want to be dead.

  “Do it,” Marshall says. He puts his shoulder in front of me. I hold the paper clip, still in the flame, near his skin.

  “Here?” I go.

  “A little higher,” he says.

  “Here?”

  “Yeah.”

  I touch the paper clip to his skin, and it sinks fast. Smooth. Marshall screams, and I pull the paper clip out. It smells like shit all of a sudden. His skin, burned, smells like the nastiest shit, ever.

  “Ah, ah, ah, ah,” Marshall moans. He’s crying. I put the paper clip back in the flame.

  “You ready for the other one?” I go.

  “No way,” Marshall goes. “No fucking way.”

  I want to feel the paper clip sink in again. I want to smell that smell. It feels good, like something else I can’t remember, and then it feels bad for feeling so good, and I hate myself.

  * * *

  Wick tells us all about it at dinner.

  “She found a tour bus in the parking lot. Unlocked.” He pours ketchup on the side of his plate. “A bench seat in the back. Cushions and shit. Girls love cushions, man. It relaxes them.” He dips three fries into the ketchup pile and then shoves them into his mouth.

  “She was into it?” Marshall asks. He already showed everyone his new oval. It’s brown and red and smelly under his shirt.

  “She couldn’t get enough of it, man. She was so hot.”

  “How many times?” Marshall holds the edge of his sleeve off the brand. He tries to do it casual, so Tom and the other counselors won’t notice. He says his shoulder hurts like a motherfucker when his shirt rubs.

  “Three times,” Wick says. “No. Four.”

  “Did you use a condom?” Ernie asks. Everybody looks at him.

  Wick stops shoving fries into his mouth. “You’re such a goddamn pussy,” Wick says.

  “Well, did you? She could get pregnant if you didn’t. Then you’d be a father, and you’d have this baby, and you might have to marry her.”

  “He’s unbelievable,” Wick says to Marshall and me. “Un-fucking-believable.”

  “I’m just saying,” Ernie says.

  “How were her tits?” Marshall says.

  “How do you think?” Wick says.

  “Man,” Marshall says.

  “That’s right,” Wick says. “I’m getting a hard-on just thinking about them.”

  “Are you listening to this, Shoelace?” Marshall asks me. “Are you getting this, man?”

  My dick is hard, only I’m not just seeing Shiri’s tits. I’m seeing Wick’s dick, too, and I hate myself.

  * * *

  BC7 gets a black kid. Some other kid calls him a nigger, and the black kid knocks out three of the first kid’s teeth before they get him to the cool down room.

  “Aren’t you going to buddy up with your brother?” Marshall asks me.

  “What?” I go.

  “The black kid,” Marshall says. He keeps his towel hung across his neck, dangling down over his shoulders, so if Tom walks by, he won’t see the oval brand, which doesn’t smell anymore but still looks raw. “Don’t you people stick together?”

  “You are so stupid,” Ernie tells Marshall. “I can’t believe how stupid you are. America’s not black.”

  “Bullshit,” Marshall says.

  “The Muppet’s right this time,” Wick says. “Shoelace isn’t black. He’s Arab. You know. From camel land.”

  “No way,” Marshall says. He looks at me. “I thought you were black.”

  “Retard,” Wick says. “You’re as dumb as Fish.”

  “You’re the retards,” Ernie tells them both. “First of all, his name is America. And second of all, he’s Indian, not Arab.”

  They all look at me.

  “Right, America?” Ernie says.

  “Eat me,” I tell him.

  * * *

  I hate lights out now because my dick has a mind of its own and my brain has a mind of its own. My dick gets hard and my brain thinks about tits and dicks, and I don’t want to touch it, but then I do, anyway, and then I’m hotter than anything, burning up, and I hate myself and I wish I was dead.

  “Finally,” Wick says, before visiting hours.

  “Finally what?” Marshall asks.

  “Shoelace is finally choking his chicken,” Wick says.

  “His name’s America,” Ernie mutters.

  “Whatever,” Wick says.

  “You saw him?” Marshall asks. His arm doesn’t hurt anymore. The oval is black now. Not red. It looks pretty good. Marshall loves it. He’s always pushing up his sleeve and checking it out when he thinks nobody’s looking.

  “Didn’t see him,” Wick goes. “Heard him.”

  “When?” Marshall goes.

  “Last night,” Wick goes. “Couldn’t you hear his bed? Squeaks like a motherfucker.”

  “Was it good, Shoelace?” Wick asks me. “Did you mess up your sheets?”

  “Shut up,” I tell him.

  “Shower’s the best place,” Marshall tells me. “More private. It all goes down the drain. No mess, no fuss. Right, Ernie?” He slaps Ernie on the back.

  Ernie’s face is pink as anything. “I don’t do that,” Ernie says. Wick and Marshall crack up.

  “I don’t,” Ernie says. You can tell he’s lying.

  “Nothing to be ashamed of,” Marshall says. “Only means you’re a man. Right, Shoelace?”

  “I told you to shut the fuck up,” I tell him.

  “Who do you picture, man?” Wick says. “Shiri?”

  “We know she’s off-limits, man,” Marshall says to Wick. “Even for jerking off.”

  “You can’t put limits on imagination,” Ernie goes. Wick and Marshall smack him across the top of his head.

  “So who are you giving it to?” Wick asks me. He leans in close and grabs his pants. “Who do you picture, man?”

  Tits and dicks, you son-of-a-bitch motherfucker, I think. I picture tits and dicks, and then I hit him as hard as any goddamn thing I ever hit in my life.

  * * *

  I hate the cool down room. I hate the way you can hear people coming from a mile away, so you know you can touch yourself all you want without anybody walking in on you. I hate how it’s so boring and quiet that when your dick has a mind of its own and your brain has a mind of its own, all you end up doing in there is grabbing yourself and thinking about tits and dicks until you’re too tired to do it anymore and then all you picture is Mrs. Harper turning her back on you, and you hate yourself and want to die.

  * * *

  I’m at the top of Mount Everest, and it’s right where I’m supposed to be. I’m looking out at the clouds and the sky and the snow, and everything is white and icicles, and nothing is burning up or even warm. Everything is the way it’s supposed to be, and I know my whole life was just a TV show I saw once and not even real, and I can’t remember what it all was anymore, and then somebody is there, pulling at me with a string, or a rope, and it hurts, and I hear rumbling, and there’s an avalanche coming right for me, and the rope hurts, and I’m smothered, and I can’t breathe.

  “America!” Tom’s going. “America!” He’s shaking me, and the lights are on, and Ernie and Wick and Marshall are sitting up in their beds, and they’re real quiet for once, and Tom is shaking me and going, “America! America!”

  * * *

  The kid was nine, and he killed a
man. He shot the man right in the chest. Then he threw the gun into a vacant lot and went to a baseball game with a friend and the friend’s father, and he bought a hot dog, and he ate it, and then he won the class spelling bee the next day, and then he took the same friend to the place where the dead man was, and he showed the body to the friend, and he said he found it. Then the friend told his father, and the cops caught the kid.

  Everybody’s talking about it. Is he going to get tried as a kid or as an adult? Does a nine-year-old know what he’s doing when he shoots a man? Is it the kid’s fault, or is it the kid’s parents’ fault?

  They make us talk about it in group. We have group now, until they hire another therapist. Tennis Ball left after I messed him up. What a pussy.

  “What I want to know,” Ernie says, “is why the kid shot the man in the first place.”

  “Would that affect how you’d think about it, then?” Tom asks.

  “Not me,” Marshall says. “Murder is murder, no matter how you slice it. You’re not supposed to take another person’s life. That’s up to God.”

  “Since when are you such a Jesus freak?” Wick says.

  “I’m not a Jesus freak,” Marshall says. “You just shouldn’t go around killing people.”

  “I’m going to kill somebody someday,” Wick says. “I’m going to blow somebody away.”

  “Don’t hang with me, then,” Marshall says. “Because I don’t hang with murderers.”

  “I’m just kidding, man,” Wick goes. “Shit.”

  “Well, maybe you’re kidding about the doing,” Tom says. “But maybe not about the feeling.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Marshall says.

  “It means,” Tom says, “that it’s okay to feel like killing someone sometimes. It’s just not okay to actually do it.”

  “What if I feel like killing you?” Wick says.

  “What if you do?” Tom says.

  “What about Shoelace?” Marshall says.

  “His name’s America,” Ernie says.

  “What about him?” Wick says.

  “Did you ever feel like killing somebody?” Marshall goes.

  “Yeah,” I tell him.

  “So what did you do instead?” Tom asks.

  “I didn’t do anything instead,” I tell them. They don’t get it, except for maybe Ernie. He looks at me funny.

  “What about the nine-year-old?” Tom asks me. “Would you want to know why he did it?”

  “I don’t care,” I say.

  “You must have an opinion,” Tom says.

  “I don’t care,” I tell him. Ernie’s still looking at me funny.

  “Shut the fuck up,” I tell him.

  “He didn’t say anything,” Marshall goes.

  * * *

  I’m tired. I’m too tired to need the cool down room. I don’t get points, though, because I’m too tired to get out of bed, and I miss class and chores a lot of the time. They send me to the doctor, but I’m not sick. I’m just tired.

  “Get out of bed, Shoelace,” Marshall says.

  “Come on,” Ernie says. “Get up.”

  “Move your ass,” Wick goes.

  I’m so tired, I almost don’t even hear them. I’m too tired to hear anything. I’m too tired to eat, and I’m too tired to dream. My dick is too tired and my brain is too tired.

  “He doesn’t even jerk off anymore,” Wick says.

  Tom sits at the side of my bed a lot. “If you don’t get up, we’re going to have to send you to a hospital,” he tells me.

  “So?” I say. But I drag myself up. I don’t want a hospital. I just want to sleep.

  Now

  “TIRED,” I GO.

  “Yes.”

  “How come you don’t care when I sleep in here?”

  “I don’t care?” Dr. B. goes.

  “Nah.”

  “Maybe it’s more that while I do care, I don’t mind.”

  “Whatever.”

  “Do you feel like sleeping today?”

  “In here?”

  “Yes.”

  “Nah.”

  We’re quiet.

  “You want to hear how it happened?”

  “How what happened?”

  “I had this dream.”

  “A dream.”

  “I’m in the bathtub with my brother, and the water’s green. He’s trying to wake me up. He’s all, Yo, man. You going to drown in here. I’m telling him, Get off me, and he’s going, What happened to you, anyway, man? I’m all wet and cold, and I’m telling him, We did okay, right? and he goes, You ought to come around more. I tell him how I’ve been real tired lately, and he’s all, No shit. You almost asleep now. You best not drown in my tub, little brother. Then I tell how I killed Browning. How I burned him up. My brother goes, You hated that motherfucker, yo? Then the bathtub gets deeper, and I start sinking. Nah, I’m going. He was real kind. I’m sinking fast. Grab my hand, I’m saying, I can’t swim. My brother’s all, What? looking at me like he can’t tell I’m drowning. I’m yelling for him to grab my hand, but the water gets up my nose. Gets in my mouth.”

  Dr. B. is looking at me. He’s looking at me with his elbows on the desk. He’s real still.

  “Then I wake up, and it’s dark and way quiet except for Ernie. He’s making some messed-up whistling sound, and I’ve got this hard-on and dicks are flashing through my head. Man hands and a man mouth and a man’s body is all over my brain and on my dick and everywhere and I don’t want to touch myself because I’m some goddamn motherfucking freak murderer and I’m so tired of that feeling good and that feeling bad like some kind of crazy trip Marshall had on some shit he got from the tie man and I just don’t want it anymore and if you kill you should die because you’re worse than bad and you’re bad, anyway, for liking it before it hurt and you take the shoelaces you’ve been collecting for fucking ever and you think they won’t work but then you think they might because there’s so damn many and you can braid them together and make you up a rope the way those dudes do it in prison, so I take the flashlight off the common shelf and I go quiet behind the cool down room to the tree in that field, and I climb it and work on the rope while the sun comes up, and I work on it fast and good, and figure out the slipknot and how to twist off this branch, and I’m thinking, I’ll never see Mrs. Harper again and Liza will hate me worse than she ever hated anything before, but who the fuck cares because I won’t be around to care and that’s the fucking point, and then you want to cry like a motherfucking baby, but you can’t because you can’t even breathe, and you think, Real meaning is in the smaller things, and then you’re done.”

  Then

  ERNIE IS YELLING, and Marshall is crying, and Wick has my head in his lap under that tree.

  “You stupid moron!” Ernie’s hollering. “You stupid jerk moron!” When I look up at his face, I’m real surprised I’ve forgotten about his one brown eye and one blue.

  “Shut the hell up, Ernie,” Marshall keeps trying to say, only he’s crying too hard.

  My neck hurts and my throat hurts, and Wick, somewhere right over me is going, “It’s going to be okay, man. It’s going to be okay, America.”

  Now

  DR. B.’S THERE looking at me, and he’s all quiet, and he stays quiet for a long time, and I stay quiet, and he stays more quiet, and we’re real quiet. I think about hanging my head back to stare up at his ceiling or to check out those sand soldiers, but I don’t, and it’s still quiet, and then Dr. B. leans up out of his chair from over there behind his desk, and he reaches his hand out, and he’s touching my shoulder, and I’m gone.

  “America.”

  No.

  “America.”

  No.

  “America?”

  It’s high and clean and snow everywhere.

  “America!”

  No goddamn way.

  “America!”

  “What the fuck do you want, man!” I fall back down to standing on the other side of his office, and he’s looking at me
.

  “I’m sorry. I upset you, and you went up to Everest.”

  “Shut up.”

  “I did the wrong thing when I touched you, and I apolo—”

  “I told you to shut up!” I go.

  He shuts up, and leans back, and I’m still standing, and then he opens his goddamn mouth again. “I’ll sorry, America, if I . . .”

  I grab four soldiers off his stupid-ass shelf, and he ducks, and they hit the wall behind him and smash into bits. Good.

  “Okay, America,” he goes. “It’s okay to be upset.” I grab a whole handful more, and he keeps on, like it’s nothing. “But I’m not going to let you distract us. I know this is difficult. Still, I think you can handle it. Drop those and tell me what just happened.”

  “I’ll tell you what’s going to happen,” I tell him, “if you don’t shut the fuck up.”

  “You’re threatening me because you’re afraid and angry, America,” Dr. B. says. “I don’t believe you want to hurt me.”

  I throw hard and straight, and they crash against his desk. He doesn’t even jump.

  “You don’t know shit, man, because I’ve done it before, and I’ll do it again!”

  “What have you done before?” he goes.

  “It’s in the damn file,” I tell him. “Don’t you read your goddamn files?”

  “I’ve read every word,” he tells me.

  “You haven’t read shit,” I tell him. “If you had, you wouldn’t be talking to me so nice all the time. So motherfucking comfortable all the motherfucking time!”

  “You don’t like feeling comfortable because before, when you felt comfortable with somebody, that person hurt you.”

  “I’m going to mess you up.”

  “Sit down, America.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “I’m not going to be like that person, America.”

  “Fuck you straight up the ass.”

  Dr. B. looks at me, and he sees me, and he knows something, like he knows every damn thing, and I want to get back to Everest and I can’t because he’s looking at me. He’s seeing me, and I can’t go.

  “I’m not going to be like him,” Dr. B. says. “It might be difficult for you to trust that, but I’m not going to be like him.”