by M. C. Atwood
But so did my dad. So did Dylan.
Anger shoots through me and my legs are running faster. Running past statues that have begun to throw things at us. A tree branch flies at me from nowhere. A metal drinking cup. A tiara. Something I don’t see smacks me in the head and bounces off. Hoots and hollers echo through the room and a crow caws from somewhere up above.
“Run, humans, run. Run, humans, run,” I hear, and then it becomes a chant. A super creepy, dickish chant.
Every once in a while, I see doll faces peek out from behind things. But so far, nothing is actually chasing us. Progress.
We reach the door. Above it is another ram head and a deer head. The ram head says, “Oh, THOSE humans. I thought we’d gotten rid of those. Isn’t this game over already? Have some manners and just die.”
And then we’re through the door and running down a hall to the main café that is surprisingly modern looking, with white tables and chairs on a black and white floor, and a huge white sculpture in the middle of the room.
And wall-sized windows. Everywhere.
Windows that look to the outside.
Where our classmates are, standing on a ramp.
They are milling about and talking to each other and texting on their phones. They are right there, on the other side of the windows. Right there.
Without stopping, we all run to the windows and start pounding on them.
“Help, you motherfuckers!” Ashley screams, banging on the glass. Dylan throws his body against the glass, leaving grease and blood smudges; his arm has started bleeding again and I notice his face is super cut up. Violet pounds with her fists and then scratches at the windows, saying, “Please! Please, help us!” Paul uses flat palms to smack the window and yells a staccato, “Hey. Hey you. You!”
No one looks at us. Not one person. They should be able to hear us but they clearly can’t.
We are on the inside looking out. And no one can see us.
Violet turns around and slides down the glass, crying openly. Paul walks over to her and sits next to her, but doesn’t touch her. His arm has stopped bleeding and he can use it, I know. He just doesn’t.
Dylan stops throwing himself at the window and sits down at a table across from the windows. Ashley turns around, her face white and stricken, and sits down at a different table. I don’t say a word but just stare out the window for another second. Then I take a chair and put it between the two tables and sit down.
We hear panting, and the wizard comes into view: “Man, you guys run fast. Oh look! More humans!” He points outside, face lighting up with a smile. We all look at him and his face falls. “Okay. I’ll just . . . I’ll just let you have a minute or so,” and then he wanders off to the kitchen area of the café, the clicking of his staff on the tile the only sound besides our heavy breathing.
I put my face in my hands. No one speaks for a full five minutes.
After an eternity, Ashley clears her throat.
She says, “Listen. It’s pretty clear we’re all going to die in here. So. I just wanted to say I’m, you know. I’m super, um . . . I’m sorry.”
I look up at her. Tears are in her eyes and she says to me, “Gretchen, I know I have been horrible to you. Horrible. But, it’s because I’ve been jealous of you, that’s all. I’ve been jealous that you don’t give a shit what anyone else thinks and you wear awesome clothes, which I would never admit to anyone. And because . . .” She looks up and then down at her hands. “And because I have had a crush on you for a long time.”
I don’t know what to say. The words hit me in the chest, slide down into my stomach, and turn into butterflies.
And then the butterflies turn into angry caterpillars.
“Ashley, what are you talking about? You hate me. And now that you know . . . my thing . . . I’m sure it’s only worse.” I can’t look at her, but I feel tears in my eyes, too. The words “trailer trash” repeat themselves over and over and over again in my head.
After a few seconds, she says, “I’m trying to apologize here. And I don’t give a crap if you’re on food stamps.”
I wince. “Bullshit, you don’t care. That’s ALL you care about. You and your friends with your name brand shit and your complete and utter dedication to being assholes to people. That demon guy said it—you think I’m a mooch. You think my mom who can barely stand up but works twelve-hour shifts and STILL can’t afford to put food on the table is a mooch. Well, fuck you.” Now I look at her, wishing I could actually kill her with my eyes.
“That’s not fair,” she says. She’s shaking. “I didn’t know your situation. And anyway, I don’t see YOU trying to talk to me at school. I don’t see you trying.”
I can’t help it, I snort loud. “Why in all that is holy would I want to talk to you? You wouldn’t give me the time of day!”
Ashley stands up, too, the tears gone now. “Oh, please. As if you don’t know this is how the world works. Can you blame me for being what I’m supposed to be? Do you think I have a choice? If you were in my situation, you’re telling me you’d act differently. No fucking way. You’d be wearing Prada like a champ.”
Anger is full-on raging in me now. “Of course you have a choice! I would NEVER be like you. If it were me, I would grow some fucking courage and actually, oh, I don’t know, come out? Maybe talk to other people at school?”
Ashley hobbles closer to me, “As if! What is this the fucking Breakfast Club now? I didn’t make these rules! And me, coming out? That’s laughable. My family has made an empire on family values. Do you know what that means? I’d ruin my family, Gretchen. Try living with that. This world is harsh and I’m a goddamn realist—I am surviving. And you survive the best way you know how, too.”
Paul’s voice rings out from by the window, quiet. “No. The Breakfast Club is for white people.” His brown eyes are hard. “I don’t think either of you get to talk about how hard you have it. Try being the only black guy in Aryan Fucking Nation, Wisconsin. Or, you know, anywhere in this country.”
Ashley rolls her eyes and sits down again, “Oh, please. People worship you. Everybody at school thinks you’re cool—you don’t even have to try. Because you are black.”
Paul stands up, shaking. He raises his voice louder than I’ve ever heard him. “Yeah, they worship me. Because what white person doesn’t love black people? White people love us so much they kill us, am I right? I am a 4.0 student and have done NOTHING wrong EVER and still I’m followed around by fucking mall security cops. And real cops. Or just guys on the streets with their white daughters. And if I want to live, god fucking forbid I wear a hoodie! Or play music. Or drive a car. Or walk on the streets! There is no safe place for me, none. No safe place because of the skin I live in. But that’s all right because I’m cool. Lucky fucking me.” And then tears start streaming down his face. “You have no idea, Ashley. You never will. You and people like you . . . you can just fuck off.”
I can’t help it, I feel triumphant. I look at Ashley with my eyebrows up. Check and mate, you hot bitch, you.
But Paul says, “I don’t know why you look so smug, Gretchen. It’s not like you’re any better.”
I start. “Excuse me?” I flip around to Paul.
“Like you aren’t a hypocrite. Ashley’s right. All of us survive the best we can.”
Anger shoots through me again. “Fuck you, Paul. You don’t know me.”
He laughs and shakes his head. “First, don’t try to pretend you don’t have it easy by being white, okay? Don’t act like you don’t get a pass because of that.”
Now, I’m pissed. “Fucking duh. Yeah, it’s true. I’ve got white privilege. I never said I didn’t. And I can’t help it—I didn’t ask for it.”
Paul laughs. “Yeah, poor you.”
Ashley says, snorting, “Well, by that logic, can I help it if I have a leg up? Where’s the fucking understanding for me
?”
I flip around to her but then turn back around to Paul. “Tell me, Paul and Ashley, how often do you guys have to choose between paying the electric bill or the heat? How often do you cook for your mom? Huh? How often do you worry if you can eat that day? If your mom will have to go to the hospital and if she does, how you’ll fucking pay for it? Ashley, when you’re meeting your sex toys do you have to set it up at the library because you don’t have a computer or Internet? And when you’re dressing up in your little tights, Paul, are you thinking about how much they cost? What are your hard choices, you two, I want to hear. Steak or ribs? Mercedes or Lexus?” Tears are threatening my eyes and are about to spill over.
Paul shakes his head. “You want to talk about making choices? Would you be dating John over there if you knew his parents were religious freaks?”
Dylan backs up like he’s been hit. “Yo, dude. Not cool. My parents aren’t freaks.”
Ashley laughs a mean laugh. “Right. When is the rapture, John Luke?”
Dylan’s face is getting beet red. “My name is Dylan, yo. But you guys, I think we should stop fighting. This isn’t doing any good. We’re playing right into that demon dude’s hands.”
Now it’s my time to get mad. “Now you believe in demons, huh? Really? Really. Maybe you should talk to your pal, white Jesus—you know, the same guy who gives a shit who wins at football but thinks poor people should just starve and women should be, you know, submissive and shit—and pray real hard to have your name changed for real. Poor, abused guy with the two rich, hallelujah parents.”
The tears start flowing freely now. Dylan takes a step closer to me and I yell, “Don’t come near me!” I wipe at my eyes but start sobbing, and before I can stop myself, I get real. “I trusted you, Dylan. I trusted you! You’ve made a fool out of me. For four years!” My voice breaks at the end.
And now Dylan is crying. “Gretch, babe, I didn’t want you to know. I just didn’t want . . .”
He paces in the middle of the room, wiping his eyes. “I don’t believe what my parents believe, okay? I mean, I’m Christian, but not that bullshit Christian that asstrolls turn into their own excuse for being dicks. That’s not the life I want to lead. Like,” he looks at Ashley, “I don’t think gay people are going to burn in hell,” looks back to me, “and I don’t think, like, God made women, you know, subservient. I mean, holy fuck-grenades, Gretch, I’ve been dating you, right? I don’t believe in most of what my church says—they have a fucking agenda, what they want you to be. My parents, yo . . . They don’t know me and they don’t want to. Not the real me. And I don’t want to hurt their feelings so I go along, you know? I survive. And with you, I didn’t want you to feel bad and hate me for where I come from. My parents and their whole worldview . . . they’re just terrified. They are terrified of this world they, like, don’t know anymore, you know? They hold onto this rigid way of thinking because . . . loving different people like Jesus told people to is too hard sometimes. Because love doesn’t fit in neat boxes.” He stops and his voice turns into a hiccup. “Like how we love each other.”
I put my head in my hands and sob. I can’t breathe.
He goes on, kneeling beside me. “You know the real me, Gretch. I swear. But my parents would die if they knew who I am—who I REALLY am—or what I believe. They’d fucking hate me, yo. I’m talking disowned. You have it hard, Gretch, but your mom loves you just the way you are. I would love that. Try to understand, baby. I wanted to be loved by you for who I am, too.”
My heart breaks in two, but I can’t bring myself to say anything.
Paul walks over to the window and slides down it again. “Let’s face it. We’re all a bunch of hypocrites. We’re all pretending.”
All the fight leaves me and I look up and stare out the window. He’s right. Only here, in this fucked up House, are we exactly who we are.
From across the way, Violet’s voice rings out. “I have something to say.”
VIOLET
Dylan, Gretchen, and Ashley turn to look at me, almost like they forgot I was here. Paul turns his face toward mine—I can feel his gaze like it’s a physical touch. Now that all the attention is on me, I have a hard time starting. Blood crawls to my face. My ear throbs. My hands hurt. A scrape on my side starts stinging. And that’s just the physical hurt. The emotional pain is way worse.
“I want to say, that I’m sorry. For . . .” But I’m not sure what I’m sorry for. For being an idiot?
“I’m sorry because I guess I’m the biggest liar of all. Because I kept what I did with . . . Mr. Rhinehart . . . a secret. I’m sorry for being such an idiot and for doing something so gross.” I put my head down. A wave of shame crashes on me so hard I am pulled under and for a minute I can’t get air in my lungs. I want to disappear. I wish I’d never brought it up. Especially because no one says anything.
And then Gretchen’s voice breaks through, loud and angry. She is definitely not crying now. “Why in the holy hell are YOU sorry? That asshole is a predator. That son of a bitch is a sex offender!”
Her words are like smelling salts. I snap my head up. “Oh, no. No, that’s not it. I agreed to it. I mean, we waited until I was eighteen to, um . . . you know.” I feel Paul shift next to me and I’m hoping against hope that a doll comes and kills me right then and there.
But then, after a beat, Ashley says, “So let me get this straight. That disgusting dickmunch hit on you when you were seventeen, but KNEW he shouldn’t be doing that, and so he waited until your eighteenth birthday so you couldn’t press charges?”
I wrinkle my eyebrows. I’d never thought of it that way. I say, “Kind of? Well, yeah. Yes. But, I mean, I agreed to it.”
Dylan jumps in. His eyes are red from crying but otherwise he actually looks mad, too. “But, dudette. That asstroll is a teacher. A teacher. A really fucking bad one, too, yo, but whatevs. Anyway, he totally sought you out and preyed on you. This is some Dateline shit right here.”
Confusion swamps over me. It appears that this group of people that two seconds ago could barely stand in the same room together feel the exact same way about this. But no. I shake my head. “No. I have to take responsibility for this. I had an affair with him. I said yes. I never stopped it.”
I lean my head back against the window and let the tears stream down. I am a disgusting human being. I feel someone sit down next to me. It’s Ashley.
“Girl. Look. I’m totally confused about a lot of things right now. Clearly. But I know this: there’s a power dynamic here, you see? There’s this thing that happens when some dickmunch in a power position uses that to get some. Do you understand? Asshole used his stupid teacher position over you. That’s, like, totally predator shit, like Dylan said.”
I let that soak in for a minute. Then I whisper, “But I liked the attention. I did. I liked that he chose me.”
Gretchen says softly, “Of course you did. That’s normal. But he chose you because he knew that he could manipulate you. Because you’re nice. I’m not saying you aren’t gorgeous, but . . . people like him. They do this on purpose. They pick people they know won’t say no. And he’s crazy manipulative because he waited until you were eighteen to do the deed. That’s hella shitty in about eight different ways. This is not your fault.”
Dylan bends down and takes my hand. I can feel the kindness radiating off of him. He says, “Seriously, yo. You’ve never seen Dateline?”
Shame flushes through me, but I look up. Ashley, Gretchen, and Dylan stare at me, all with kindness. With kindness, not disgust. I start to feel a little lighter. I start to feel . . . a little mad. I remember the ways Mr. Rhinehart would make me feel bad, how he would guilt me into being with him, make sure I didn’t look at anyone else. I remember trying to break it off with him and his temper tantrum. I remember at the same time him talking to another, younger girl with that same look he did with me.
I remember. This n
ever felt right. It never did feel like something I wanted to do. It felt like something I had to do. Because I was chosen.
But I still did it.
I swallow. “If I wasn’t such a pushover, maybe this wouldn’t have happened. If I had some sort of backbone. If I had just said no that first time, or told someone. If I hadn’t been such a . . .” I hang my head down. “A slut.” My body hiccups with another sob, totally against my permission.
A soft but dry hand holds on to mine and warms me through. Paul uses his other hand to turn my face toward him and I feel the air shift as the rest of them back up. His eyes are level and kind. Serious and believable.
“You had a bad man manipulate some of the best things about you—your sweetness and trust. He is the asshole here. Not you. NOT you. You, Violet, you—are perfect.”
I can’t speak. I stare back with my mouth wide open. I whisper, “You don’t hate me?”
Tears come to his eyes again and he shakes his head, his eyebrows crossed in confusion. “I would never hate you, Violet. Never.” And then he uses the back of his hand to wipe his eyes. “Besides,” he sniffs, “you want to talk bad choices? Did you hear us talking? This is the room of bad choices. And no one manipulated me into tights and a cape.”
I bark out a laugh and a snot bubble comes out again.
I will always and forever have a snot bubble form around the man of my dreams.
Everyone else laughs, too, and with that, the tension breaks in the room. Dylan says to Paul, “Dude, you were fierce with that sword! Whatever the SVA is, it gave you some mad fucking skills!” He winks at me and I know he’s getting the attention off of me. And I am so so so grateful for the rest of my life to Dylan for changing the subject. Dylan/John, whatever. He is the kindest freak I’ve ever met.
Paul says, “SCA. And it is dorky. But you know what? I don’t care. I do have some mad skills. And I do look pretty good in tights.”
I hope to see that one day. But I look at him and say what I’ve been thinking this whole time, “The way you rushed in at the carousel . . . Paul, you are one of the bravest people I’ve ever met.”