Sykosa, Part I: Junior Year

by Justin Ordoñez

  It’s for the betterment of the species or something.

  It’s… There’s something about white people. She hates to sound racist, but…

  She ignores it. “Mackenzie is pretty insistent, huh?”

  He looks like he noticed something that he wasn’t supposed to notice. “What do you mean?”

  “Nothing, I suppose.”

  He believes her and forgets it, which mildly annoys her, but she ignores that since he is talking. His voice is calm, like he were asking her if it were raining outside. “I really came here cause I wanted to ask you something. Do you remember what Niko was talking about in class?” Like I could forget! And like she doesn’t know exactly what he implies. She knows it like she knows every American knows two things: OJ Simpson is guilty and Bill Clinton had his dick sucked. Like he wants her to go to his bedroom after school, of course he wants to go to Niko’s cottage. To *. He continues on as if this isn’t a big deal. “Are you really asking your parents if you can go? Because I’ll have my mom talk to Niko.”

  While she needs to address the sex thing, the hallway isn’t the ideal place. Also, it’d be nice if they could discuss it on a day not so steeped in blackness. Like maybe next week, after this one-year anniversary is over! She wants it to pass as if it never happened. Fortunately, one topic commands that type of attention. She has to be careful how she brings it up—if Niko finds out, she’ll be pissed. She knows I committed to Ass Girl’s party without telling her, she probably thinks I’m lying about other stuff. “What makes you think your mom will say yes?”

  He’s confused. “What?”

  “Your mother is gonna let you go for a weekend by yourself with Niko’s mother?”

  He gets it.

  His body gets tense, and his expression is disappointment, yet he looks off, clearly scheming. “That might be a problem.”

  “My parents don’t trust Kana, specially since the ‘incident.’”

  “I remember that.” His face’s still disappointed. And he still carries the same will to ignore it. It’s amassed itself in his shoulders, which seem to be holding back lots of energy. She’s seen him like this before. He gets an idea in his head and he can’t let it go. “But we could be alone together.”

  Like she said, this isn’t the place. “I know.”

  “Will you try? Just ask?”

  It’s a split-second decision she doesn’t think about.

  My parents are gonna say no. They say no to everything.

  “Okay, I’ll ask.”

  At the dinner table, things are right on schedule. Her father is behind the newspaper, and her mother has sat down late, as she’s always forgotten something for the meal that must draw everyone’s attention to how tireless her work is. A bunch of nothing talk about everyone’s day leads to nothing talk about the day to come—where she mentions Coeur d’Alene.

  Her parents don’t know everything about last year. Only a few choice people—Tom, Donna, Mike, herself—know it one hundred percent, but her parents do know it was connected to Niko’s Coeur d’Alene party. It’s probably why her father finds himself struck with indigestion, reaching into his breast pocket for antacids. “You ask us this question every year, and every year you get the same answer.”

  Like she said, exactly on schedule.

  My daddy’s saving me like a daddy should!

  “I know, Dad.”

  “Based on what your teachers say tonight, you may go for the weekend. I won’t reward bad grades. You must get an A on this American history test.”

  She has heard her parents say “no” so many times, she just shuts off while they do it. It hurts less that way. Besides, her eyes have been distracted all afternoon anyhow. She keeps peeking down to see her boobs in her old summer-camp tee-shirt from fifth grade Girl Scouts. She loves how tee-shirts for little girls are cut with no regard for boobs, so when she wears them now, her breasts look about twice their size and her tummy looks about half and…

  Did he say what I think he did?

  “What?”

  He looks okay with his decision. “You’re almost seventeen, and Niko’s invited you up there for years. I think now that the situation with her mother has settled, and you’re older, you can handle a trip like this.”

  Okay, that was out of nowhere.

  And what is it about my life this last year?

  It’s almost like her life were a TV show—her own little TV show with her own modest, yet significant TV ratings. Then, she turned fifteen and the “male, 18-49” demographic tuned in, and with them came the big advertisers, focus groups, and execs “retooling” her show, which’s become a bunch of sex and tiny outfits and a father who turns her over to a teenage boy. She almost wishes he said, “No” and then said it was, “for her own good.” Actually, that’s what I was counting on. Those days are apparently done. At some point, some public service announcement or random article, who knows, convinced him teenage girls are more mature than teenage boys. They perform better in athletics, possess greater pain thresholds, higher GPAs, and in general, know what they’re doing.

  The problem was that no one called on them in class.

  It’s been fixed now.

  Her mother knows that nothing’s fixed. She’s not as easily deceived by fancy language, maybe because her own English is as spackled as the walls. “Your teacher grades during fifth-hour free period. You call here with that grade before you leave, understand?” Then, her mother glares at her father. Oh my, the folks are gonna have issues tonight. Her mother leaves it. “Just because Niko’s mother is there doesn’t mean you can do whatever you want.”

  She’s a tad deer-in-headlights. “Okay.”

  “You need to make better choices than her.”

  “Okay.”

  “And you’re to behave as if we were there, no exceptions.”

  “Okay.”

  Dinner is awkward thereon. She retreats to her head where she tries to figure out her feelings on this. The blackness has no problem with this weekend. She breathes fine, sees fine, but she doesn’t want to think about it. Once the food is finished, she goes to her bedroom, where she doesn’t have to think about it. Her TV plays a syndicated episode of Friends. That numbs her. Ah, it’s so good! Six people who sit around and talk about nothing, deal with nothing, fight about nothing, and have a wedding every season or so. Oh, to have situational problems! Real is overrated. She wants to be fake—fake and transparent and to never worry again.

  And there is something wrong.

  It involves her underwear, all of them lying in a pile by her cabinet door. This pair is pink. That pair is white. Those pairs are stolen. These pairs are not. She’s worn them all, but somethings’s still wrong. It’s the blackness. She thought it was fine, but no, it wants another go. It wants… Like, when Niko went to Coeur d’Alene last year, Niko left as Niko2.0, when Niko returned, she was Niko3.0, and Niko3.0 led a charge against Donna that… Relax. The best way to relax is to think about boys. Mike Holler comes to mind. Wrong boy to think about. She changes panties and thinks of anyone but Mike—maybe Tom or Hazu or Lonny—the male, in general. She looks at Fievel, atop her bedspread, with that same deceptive eye under his hat brim, watching her butt like it was bacon.

  She calls Niko on the phone.

  “He said I could go if my conferences aren’t too bad, and I ace my test tomorrow.” It never occurs to her that lying would get her out of this. She sounds unenthusiastic. “It shouldn’t be any trouble. I’ll study after we get off the phone.”

  Niko chews gum. It sounds like two people sucking face. “None of your teachers are gonna be mean, right?”

  “I’ve been good lately, for the most part.”

  “This means you get to tell Ass Girl to fuck off about her party! You’re going to mine!”

  This part over joys Niko.

  She just stares at her reflection, currently donning a pair of boy-cut low-risers. She looks at her butt like Fievel did. It looks… She can’t think of a word. Not like
my butt, I guess. She takes care in the panties she buys. She thinks they often speak to her core or they have a greater meaning, so to have so many that look so wrong on her is… Relax. She puts her thighs together and her free hand pushes them down past her knees. “I think she’ll understand. There’s a big difference between partying here and doing it at your cottage.”

  “No shit, there is. This is exciting! Have you told Tom yet?”

  I guess I should. “No, not yet.” She wiggles a purple thong up her ass cheeks, then pulls it until it lays symmetrically on her body. What’s wrong? Not to sound like a vein princess or anything, but usually when she finds something she thinks she looks good in, it improves her mood. She persists. Taking off the purple thong, then feeling at her tar-black pubic hairs. She should shave. Everything he has seen of her has been trim and tidy, and her twat should have a similar effect. Where did that thought come from? “We don’t talk on the phone together.”

  “You know Tom is coming, right?”

  She puts her hand in her hair, shocked. “How do you know he’s coming? I don’t even know that! How does everyone know more about my boyfriend than me?”

  “Your boyfriend?”

  Now, I’m going to get it. “I mean…”

  Niko sings in her horrid voice. “Sykosa and Tom sittin’ in a tree, kay-eye-ess-ess-eye-en-ge! First comes love, then—”

  “Shut up!”

  “Then comes the baby in the baby carriage!”

  “Seriously, I don’t love him. It’s not like that.”

  “Alright, why you gotta take all the fun outta everything?”

  Actually, he takes the damn fun out of everything—by being so fucking confusing that he…

  Relax.

  Some turquoise string panties are applied to her personals. They swoop low and make her belly look washboard flat. They also show a bit of toe, and since showing toe is slutty, Tom will like it. Tom liking it gives her some relief. She’s worried about that. Whenever she feels the need to be attractive for him, it’s usually a sign he’s about to get his way.

  “Do you think I love him?”

  The gum pauses. “I was kidding.”

  “Alright, I was just making sure.”

  She will believe this lie. In these turquoise panties, she will believe anything. Except she clearly needs to lose five pounds. If he sees her naked like this, she will die of embarrassment. She frowns. Ugh. This is bigger than wanting to be attractive for him. Somehow, her underwear have come to symbolize her cherry. It’s hard. Like, I know Tom and I have the chemistry to get me to that place. She looks at her vagina again. Her chest wants to rip. It took a long time to attain what fragile confidence she has in her looks. Mostly it’s due to all his lavish attention, but if she picks the wrong panties and her vagina looks ugly, then she’ll…

  I’m sensitive about my genitals. Let’s leave it at that, okay?

  Niko’s dismissive. “Chill! I know he’s coming because his mom called my mom—or me—and I said that I was coming.”

  Her massive bottom’s in the mirror again. Her lips scrunch. The blackness makes it difficult to think coherently. All these different thoughts are competing for space in her brain, but one eventually wins. Wait, I don’t even want to have sex with Tom! It’s true. She doesn’t. If she did, she’d have started going back to his bedroom. This realization only makes things worse. He hasn’t mentioned sex; only “time alone,” and she assumed sex all by herself. Now, she’s trying on panties, every single pair she has, not because he plans on having sex with her, but because she expects to sleep with him. She’s not stupid. That means she’s going to * him. Her mind has already made the decision and this is the part where she freaks out.

  She guesses sex could be nice.

  I’ll give him my virginity as a gift for his sacrifice.

  On the one-year anniversary of it, no less.

  [BLACKNESS].

  She struggles to see. “He’s coming for sure?”

  “For sure. I mean, don’t get me wrong, it took some time.”

  “It did?”

  “His mom was worried there would be shenanigans.”

  “Cause of what happened last year with Kana?”

  “Yeah.” Niko moves on. She dislikes talking about it. “And it’s gonna be the best bash I’ve ever had! I’m going out with Timmy tonight to get alcohol and stuff. He called me and cried about his grandmother dying again.”

  Timmy crying? I don’t believe it. “Who’s coming with us?”

  Niko sits up in bed! That’s the best part! “Tom, Mackenzie, Timmy, Timmy’s friend and major hottie, Clyde. He plays in some band. He’s the lead guitarist. Oh, and all of us Queens! We’re probably all going to drive up in Timmy’s van, and when we get up there and word gets out about the party, a bunch of other people will show.”

  What a crew! Niko’s so proud. Hazu’ll be so jealous when he hears about it!

  While she’s happy for Niko, she’s concerned for herself.

  “Why’s Mackenzie coming?”

  Niko smacks her gum. “Tom asked if she could go, and she came last year, so it’s kinda hard to say no.”

  “Is she bringing the Bitches with her?”

  “No.”

  Odd. “She’s going out there by herself—with us Queens?”

  “Yep, it’s just her.”

  Just Mackenzie. Just him. And me.

  She can’t ignore this anymore. He apparently wants to sleep with her, or maybe Mackenzie, and she will apparently sleep with him, assuming Mackenzie doesn’t, and, as much as she may want to, it shouldn’t be free, for her or Mackenzie. Well, Mackenzie can get JBF’d by whatever guy is not Tom. I don’t give a shit. However, before she gets JBF’d by Tom, she wants to be sweet-talked, taken to the movies, hold hands, kiss and be his girl without fear that she’s an insurance policy in case Mackenzie won’t put out.

  Maybe I can just do BJS.

  Maybe. That makes her feel worse. Besides, it’s not his fault. There’re good reasons why they’ve kept their relationship on the down-low. You saw how my parents responded yesterday after he called. Their love is probably a bad idea, and maybe a disaster in wait, but she can’t stop feeling for him, nor can she help her desire for him to feel, so she’d prefer to do it where people who don’t understand the situation can’t judge it.

  I just thought we’d have more figured out by now.

  “Do you think he wants to sleep with me?”

  “Has he said he wants to?”

  “He said he wanted to be alone, but I think he does.”

  “What do you want to do?”

  Sleep with him. “I don’t know.”

  Niko sounds resigned. “He’ll beg for it. Guys do that.”

  He’s a guy. He’ll beg for it. Maybe he’ll make the decision for her. No, he can’t do that for me. She has to know when she leaves if she will or will not, even though she already knows she will. She lowers the turquoise. She feels fatter, filthier, and her hairy pussy keeps being her hairy pussy. She knows. If she is to do something so bold, then these turquoise panties are her only option. Call it ditzy. She’ll call it a rabbit’s foot. “Promise me something, okay? If I don’t want to, can I stick by you?”

  “Isn’t that sorta the point? We’re gonna hang out together.”

  Relax. “Okay.”

  “Hey, I gotta jet. Call me when the new Friends starts.”

  “Sure, I’ll study until then.”

  VI.

  Pencil writes across her American history review assignment, then stops as her fingers rub eraser until the page is rollings of Pepto pink and shots of gray that dust her skin silver. Normal dust agitates her nose. Achoo! It’s funny. Her nostrils affect her more than most people and people have names, so she should name her nostrils. Name the President. Name the General. Name the date. The place. The reason. The result. Three pages of questions remain, answers laid in fifty-five dog-eared pages of underlined passages. Remember this! Don’t forget that!

  A
ll this history makes her feel like she is dying.

  She needs a break.

  On her bay window, she wraps herself in her fleece blanket, and bends to cover her toes. That quasi panic attack knocked her out. She thinks that’s the medical definition of the black- ness. She’s never consulted anyone about it, but she heard a daytime TV personality talking about it once and all the hairs stood on up on her neck and she thought, That’s me. The TV personality said that trauma can play a significant role. That made her feel broken, so she decided not to listen anymore and to pretend like wrong. That’s why no one knows about the blackness—her pretending won’t let them. As she knows if her mother, Mother Superior, or the Administration knew about it, they’d try to fix it and she doesn’t think they can, nor does she trust them anymore. Thus, she fights it by her lonesome—and, trust her, it does fight, and fight, and like a wildfire, it exhausts her until even it can no longer self-sustain.

  That’s where she’s at right now.

  She cannot be sick any longer. She cannot worry any more.

  The same compulsion that drives her to panic is driving her to rest. In fact, it’s like the street lamp down the road, a post surrounded by indistinguishable insects. It gets blurry, then

  splits into a transparent twin that reforms after every long blink before it splits…again…and…she…

  Is asleep. And dreaming.

  About sock-hops and ice cream socials. About prom dances and prom dresses. About those cute twins next door and being taken away in the Nautilus to meet a cute French boy who likes to build airplanes. About being a television actress who makes a million dollars an episode, walks red carpets, wears fancy jewelry, looks into the camera, and talks about how fame has not changed her. Bullshit. She sought fame so it could change her.

  Change her now.

  The phone rings.

  She sniffles as she depresses the green button. “Hello?”

  “Hey.”

  “Who’s this?”

  “It’s Tom.”

  She jars, stuck in sleepiness. She thinks that this is when he dumps her. He called the other night, says her father, and it must have been to dump her. The handjob was the last hurrah. But, he needs to understand that her parents are crazy and he shouldn’t dump her, not if he is worried about…