by Tawni Waters
“No.”
“You’ll love it. It makes you feel so small, but in a good way.” Xylia stares out the window.
“I thought you wanted to leave without me,” I confess.
“No way, José. When we leave this place, we’re leaving together. Maybe I’ll be the train conductor, and you can sleep in one of those rich-people cars. First class. I’ll make sure you have clean sheets.”
My head feels light at the thought of leaving this town. For a second I think about Iggy, how he’ll feel if I leave him behind, but I push it out of my head. Him and Momma were ready to leave me, after all, even if it wasn’t exactly Iggy’s fault. “And we’ll stop to live where there’s an ocean nearby. Maybe California. I’ll fish every morning, make us fillets for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.”
“I might get sick of seafood,” Xylia warns.
“Not the way I make it, you won’t. You should taste my pan-fried trout.”
Xylia’s whole face gets pink. “I’ll wear flowers. Wreaths and wreaths of them. And when we get tired of the ocean, we’ll hop another train and keep on going, all the way to Mexico.”
“We’ll cut open cactuses and drink the water from them. You can learn to do that fancy Mexico dancing with wild-colored dresses, and I’ll buy a sombrero.”
She points at my hair. “I don’t think a sombrero would fit over that mess.”
I feel close to Xylia, our hearts pounding out the same train-whistle song. I feel like I can tell her anything.
“You ever wanna die?” As soon as I say it, the pictures of Mexico evaporate.
Xylia breathes deep, and the train whistle blows again, far away now. I imagine myself jumping onto the tracks just before the sharp wheels cut me in half.
“Yeah,” she says finally, squeezing my hand. “Sometimes I do.”
“Me too.”
When you strip your heart naked in front of someone, it’s the same as wading to the middle of the river and getting caught in a strong current. You can’t go back, so you keep on going forward. “I’m scared,” I whisper. “I thought my momma was gonna die.” I lean my head on her shoulder.
“I’m scared too,” she says, pressing her head against mine. “Life can be hard.”
“It was harder before I met you.” I stare at the lines of purple throbbing beneath my skin, my own little rivers of life. The train is gone now, and it is quiet. Somewhere a crow caws.
“Henry says crows are pieces of God,” I say.
“Of course they are.”
The heat of her skin leaks into mine. I start to feel like I’m on fire. I never want this moment to end, and I’m afraid if I don’t say something soon, it will, so I ask, “What kind of house will we have in Mexico?”
“A mansion!” she says. “Duh.”
We talk about running away some more and decide that we should have purple carpet, and one of those big couches with only one arm, so we can lie down on it and eat grapes. We also decide to have a pool inside, so we can swim even when it’s raining and not worry about being hit by lightning. Xylia wants a glass shower, but we disagree on that subject. I’d rather have a shower with some privacy, just in case someone walks in. She says we will have a lock on the door, but that’s not much of a consolation. What if the pool cleaner is coming by but I’m in a hurry to shower, so I forget to lock the door, and what if he needs to talk to me, because there’s dog hair stuck in the pool drain, and he thinks the neighbor’s golden retriever may have found a way to sneak in to take a swim, and he bursts in on me? I wouldn’t be able to handle that. We need a private shower.
When I say that last part, Xylia does something I will never forget. She leans right over and kisses me. Soft. On the lips. Her lips taste like strawberry lip gloss. I almost faint. Then I kiss her back. I’ve never felt anything like what I feel when I’m kissing Xylia. I feel perfect. Whole. I feel like I could die, and it would be okay. I feel hot everywhere. Her hands travel to my face, holding it gently as she continues to kiss me. Then all the sudden she stops and pulls away.
“Sorry,” she whispers.
“No need to be sorry.” I take her hand. We don’t say anything for a minute, but the memory of our kiss hangs in the air, hot and thick. “My daddy would kill me if he knew I just did that.”
“I’m sorry,” she says again.
“No.” I squeeze her hand. “I liked it. A lot.” We lie there feeling all warm, like someone has spilled hot cocoa right inside us. I want to say, “I’ve loved you since the first time I saw you,” but I don’t. Still, I think she knows. Love is zinging all around us. How could she not know?
That night I dream I’m on a train with Xylia. The whistle is calling our names. We have hay in our hair, and Daddy’s running behind the train, trying to catch us, his face all wrinkled and mad. But we only laugh, because he could never run that fast. We hop off in a place that has cactuses and colors and showers made of glass.
We never go home again.
CHAPTER 16
MOMMA COMES HOME FROM THE hospital, and everything is like a Hallmark movie for a while. Daddy picks her flowers and even buys her a pretty necklace that must have cost tons of money, because it has a little heart-shaped diamond pendant. When Momma sees it, she smiles and says, “Oh, Russ.” And I might forget all about what Daddy did if it wasn’t for the fact that her smile is crooked now.
Daddy can only keep up the nice-guy routine for so long, and soon he’s drinking and yelling and calling Momma names again. Momma doesn’t even cry when he does it anymore. She just stares, the way Iggy did that morning after Daddy broke his brain. I imagine she’s remembering that day she won Miss Teenage New Mexico. I bet she’s picturing herself all covered in sequins and dancing. Or maybe she is thinking of Willy. Maybe he was handsome. Who knows? Probably was, to get someone as pretty as Momma to fall in love with him.
Daddy was handsome too, believe it or not. I see it when I look at old pictures. But now it’s like all the ugly in his soul has made its way to his face. He looks kinda apeish, and it doesn’t help that he doesn’t take care of his teeth. Half of the ones in back have been pulled, so when he smiles, you see the gap right away. Anyway, things have gotten so bad around our house, I’d way rather be at school, mostly because Xylia’s there, but partly because anything is better than being near Daddy.
So even though Mr. Farley’s droning on and on, I’d rather be here than home. He pronounces “mummified” funny, enunciating each syllable. We’re discussing different cultural perspectives, examining the ways in which they fall short of God’s commandments.
Elijah snorts when Mr. Farley talks about the Egyptians pulling a person’s brains out through his nose and says, “Brain donors.” Everyone laughs. Everyone but me.
If I spoke out of turn in class, I’d be in the principal’s office in two seconds flat, but Mr. Farley keeps talking like nothing happened. He calls the Egyptians fools and begins to speak of all the lies, apostasies, and half truths that have sprung from that particular part of the world. He walks to his desk and melodramatically spins the globe as he says this, trying, I guess, to make an impression. No one seems particularly impressed. A fly buzzes behind the window blinds.
Mr. Farley’s undaunted. He starts to talk about Islam. He reminds us of the World Trade Center and the way it crumbled. Then he says, “This, boys and girls, this is the goal of Islam. It is a belief system based on violence. Murder in the name of Allah.” I think about Daddy talking about stoning the fags and dykes and wonder how murder in the name of Jesus is any different. Islam doesn’t have a corner on violence.
When class is over, the students cluster and migrate toward the cafeteria. I meet up with Henry and Xylia, and we walk together. Xylia is wearing a purple paper flower in her hair, and I reach out and touch it, just so I can touch a part of her. “That’s pretty.”
She smiles, and her dark eyes flash. “Thank you,” she says. “How was class?”
I groan.
“That bad, huh?”
“Yeah, Mr
. Farley was doing his best Reverend Winchell impression. Talking about how pissed off God is at people.”
“Awesome,” she says. Even when she’s rolling her eyes, she’s pretty.
I never want to look away from her, but I have to because Henry starts talking. “God isn’t pissed off at anyone,” he says, speaking in that strange way of his. “I think God’s all the mystery and beauty in the universe rolled up into one word.” I think about what he’s saying, wishing I could feel that way too. I want to believe in that kind of God, but Reverend Winchell’s pissed-off one is always in the back of my head, wanting to kill me.
The cafeteria smells like grease and bleach and dirty kids. A lot of students are already sitting at the metal tables, eating mushy peas from trays or sandwiches from baggies. We walk to the back of the line that winds through the cafeteria like a snake.
“There were some interesting parts in class,” I tell Xylia. “We talked about mummies and stuff.” The clattering of silverware on the tables and the chattering of voices is so loud, I wonder if she’ll hear me.
“Mummies are cool,” she says. “The King Tut display came to the museum in San Francisco when I was a kid. It was amazing.”
“Seems crazy to go through so much trouble for a corpse, though,” I say. “Dead is dead.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure,” Henry says.
“Why wouldn’t you be?” I ask.
“Well, you never know until you get there, now do you?” Xylia says. She winks. Her eyelids are painted blue and sparkly. I want to touch them.
I shove my hands into my pockets and mull it over. “Well, no, you never do,” I finally admit. “I’m not saying that people’s souls don’t go on living. I just think it’s stupid to go through so much trouble trying to keep the body, well, human. I mean, dust to dust and all that. Someday we’re all going to turn into dirt. Then we’ll be something else. Trees. Worms. Whatever.”
“You’re smart, Mara,” Henry says.
“She is,” Xylia says, and she smiles at me.
I’m trying to think of the perfect words to say when Hannah and Keisha saunter over.
“How!” they say to Henry in unison, raising their hands in salute.
“Piss off,” Xylia says.
Hannah and Keisha don’t. “Do you do rain dances?” Hannah asks, like she thinks that’s clever.
I’m about to say something in Henry’s defense when he surprises us all by saying, “This is how I dance.” Then he moonwalks halfway across the cafeteria. Xylia starts to clap, and I join her.
“Woo, Henry!” we chorus.
“Who knew Henry could fucking dance like that?” Xylia says, laughing.
Some of the other kids start clapping too, and Henry glows, like maybe this is the best day of his whole life.
“You go, boy!” Xylia shouts, and she snaps high in the air.
After Henry moonwalks back over to us, we grab our trays and head toward a table in the corner.
“That was so cool,” Xylia tells Henry.
“Thanks.”
“Cool as shit,” I say. I’ve picked up on Xylia’s cussing more and more. I like it. It makes me feel strong. I don’t notice Elijah walking over until he’s standing right there, looking at me. His eyes are ablaze with those hell flames he always talks about.
“Mara Stonebrook, swearing is a sin.”
“Yeah?” I say. “I’m pretty sure I’ve heard you cuss before, preacher boy.”
“Me too,” Henry says.
“Me three,” Xylia says, yawning like Elijah is the most boring thing she has ever seen.
“So, let me get this straight.” I glare at Elijah. “I can’t say ‘shit,’ but you can stand behind me on the bus and make comments about my ass?”
“I can pretty much do whatever I want to you,” Elijah says. “You’re a slut.”
Xylia gets mad. “Are you fucking serious? You can do anything you want to her because she’s a ‘slut’? What century is this anyway?”
“You’re going to hell. All three of you,” Elijah says.
Before I can think of an answer, Henry says, “I don’t think God burns us, but if he did, I think we would be the last people he would burn.”
“Sure as shit,” Xylia says. “Did you see the way Henry moonwalked? You think God’s gonna destroy someone who can dance like that?”
Elijah turns his angry eyes on Henry. “God doesn’t base his judgments on whether or not people can moonwalk.”
“How do you know?” I ask. “Does it specifically reference moonwalking in the Bible?”
Elijah snorts, turning his attention back to me. “I’d watch my mouth if I were you. God isn’t real partial to women. I doubt he’s going to cut you any breaks.” He stares at me with milky-blue eyes, letting his words go one at a time like arrows.
I stand up and look straight into his ugly eyes. “How would you know?”
“My daddy says. And even if he didn’t, I can read. It says right there in the Bible, woman was taken from man and is good for nothing more than being his helpmeet.”
My fingers ball themselves into fists, but I hold back. Instead of punching him, I say, “Preacher boy, I’ve read that book you keep talking about from cover to cover. As far as I can tell, Jesus didn’t have much use for hypocrites. You’re a hypocrite if I ever saw one. I’m pretty sure Jesus and me would get along just fine. Let he who is without sin cast the first stone. Remember that part?”
Elijah gets all red around his mouth. He says something about me being of the devil and idle hands being the devil’s workshop. I’m really confused, trying to follow his logic, until it occurs to me that he’s crazy. Like, certifiably insane, which makes a lot of sense to me. Before I can tell him so, he stomps away.
I sink back onto the bench. “I hate him. I hate his guts.”
“Who gives a fuck what he thinks?” Xylia says. “Do you really believe someone so full of hate knows anything about God?”
“No,” I say, but I’m not sure.
Maybe Elijah does know about God. If he’s right, I’m bound for hell, and that scares the living shit out of me.
I think about it all day, so much that by the time I get home, I’m not in the mood to talk to anyone. The house is dead quiet, which means Daddy’s not home yet, and Momma’s sleeping. She always naps these days.
“Want a snack?” I ask Iggy.
He roars in response. He’s wearing a lion mask he made from a paper plate in art class. His eyes show through two lopsided holes.
“Is that a yes?”
Iggy roars again. I’m not amused. “Whatever.” I grab an apple from the fridge. “Here. Eat this.”
Iggy growls and then tries to figure out how to eat his snack without moving the mask. He realizes it’s impossible and lifts the plate. The sight of his freckles makes me feel guilty. I’ve been so busy with my new friends, I haven’t had much time for him. It used to be just me and my brother. Now it’s my brother and no one. “How’ve you been?” I ask.
Iggy takes a bite of the apple. “We made masks.”
“I saw that. It’s awesome.”
“Mine’s a lion.” He plays with a piece of orange yarn, part of the lion’s markedly sparse mane.
“I could tell.” Iggy was always a loud chewer, but since Daddy broke him, it’s ten times as bad. I fight the urge to scold him.
“What was your mask?” he asks me.
“I didn’t make one, Iggy.”
He scrunches up his face. It’s like he almost remembers what school used to be like. “In your class, you listen to stories, right?” he asks.
“Yeah. Something like that.” I’m exhausted. I want to go to my room and shut the door behind me, but Iggy practically oozes loneliness. “Hey, you wanna listen to some music?” I offer, even though the last thing I feel like doing is hanging out with my brother.
Iggy beams like I invited him to Paris. “Yes! And you know what else?”
“What?”
“We could mak
e masks.” He points to the pantry. “The plates are in there.”
“All right, sport.” I retrieve a stack of plates.
“We’re going to make lots of masks?” Iggy asks.
“Maybe. I don’t know,” I say. “We’ll see where the muses lead us.”
“What are muses?”
“People who inspire you,” I tell him. “People who make you so happy, you just have to make art to express it.”
“Muses are coming over?”
I think about Xylia being my muse and mutter, “I wish.”
“What?” Iggy asks.
“Nothing.”
As Iggy follows me upstairs, he roars repeatedly. I try not to complain, but after roar five, it gets to me. “Iggy, quit. You’re giving me a headache.”
He roars again.
“Iggy!” I warn, turning to glare at him.
He brings his face close to mine and roars, sonic-boom loud this time.
“Damn it, Iggy!” I shout. The second I say it, I wish I could take it back. Behind the mask, his eyes get wet. “I’m sorry, Iggy. I just had the day from hell, you know?”
“I’m gonna go to my room.” He pushes past me.
“Iggy!”
His door slams.
Staring down at the plates in my hands, I curse myself. “Mara, you bitch,” I whisper. I go to Iggy’s door and knock. “Iggy?” I press my ear against the door.
“Leave me alone,” he sobs.
“Iggy, I’m sorry. Would you please help me with my mask?”
“No.”
“Iggy, I need you. I don’t even know how.”
“You cut eyeholes.”
“I don’t know where they go.”
Iggy rustles around in his room, and then the door swings open. His mask is perched on top of his head, and his face is red. “In the middle,” he says, pointing to the plate. “So you can see.”
“Can you come show me?”
“This is ridiculous,” he snorts.
I almost laugh. Momma says that sometimes when she’s frustrated.
“You’re right,” I say. “Still, I could use your help. Will you?”
“One minute,” Iggy sighs. He goes into his room and returns carrying a giant box of crayons. “You need these.”