Sykosa, Part I: Junior Year

by Justin Ordoñez

  Good.

  She’d continue watching, but she cannot. Clyde’s sat beside her, his dirty hand brushing her knee. She pulls back, taken aback and frankly tired of his frankness. His response is to smile that smile that’s bound to work on some girl tonight. For his sake, she hopes said girl is over eighteen.

  He persists. “Are you drunk?”

  “No.”

  “I thought Niko and you might have started early.”

  “No.”

  “Is that what you guys usually do for parties?”

  “No.”

  He sits back nervously. “Well, I just finished putting stuff away for the party.”

  That is true.

  The cleared out bookshelves are two shades of exposed and dusty brown, the priceless art is stored, and large furniture blockades certain sectors of the cottage. It’s left her feeling slimy. She doesn’t know why. No wait. I do. Niko’s parties are better described as mini-riots, and while she’s accustomed to Niko closing off her mansion in Seattle, she’s unaccustomed to the sight of it here.

  “This party sounds big, even for Niko’s standards.”

  “Sure, of course.”

  “Sometimes Niko gets caught up in this stuff, and she doesn’t think straight, ya know?”

  “Don’t worry, it’s taken care of, everything’s gonna be fine.” He looks at her eyes and finds himself hypnotized by her concern. “I think I’ve figured it out!”

  “What?”

  “You’re, like, Niko’s conscience!”

  Lord knows, Niko needs one—pronto. Not to say she doesn’t trust Niko—of course, she trusts Niko, she just doesn’t trust Niko. She doesn’t trust Clyde either; however, he isn’t privileged enough to know what, or what not, to lie about. He has also adjusted in his chair as if her tits were in his face. For good reason, she adjusted in her chair, cause her tits were in his face. She leans back, then she blinks below, to see what she never considered. The chain of her necklace also forms a v and the rock is centered just above her nipples. She looks to his eyes to see him in a panning stare of her crotch, then her legs, then her breasts.

  It’s awkward.

  She waits anyhow, until he has finished undressing her.

  Any second now.

  Annnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnny second now…

  There.

  “Clyde, I need to ask you something.”

  His responses are delayed. “Yes?”

  “Do you know this guy Timmy was talking to last night? The one Niko got pissed at?”

  “Oh yeah, that guy. What was his name?”

  “Scott.”

  “Yeah, I had just met him, so did Timmy.”

  “You guys don’t know him?”

  “No, but he and Timmy were really hitting it off.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I teased the faggot about it.”

  “How so?”

  “Well, here we are at this great party with all these beautiful girls and he’s trading digits with another dude.”

  “What did Niko say about him doing that?”

  “She was pissed! I tell you what, you know Timmy, he’s so full of shit—he’s so crazy for Niko, she’s all he can think about. He had no idea that Niko knew that guy.”

  Alright. Niko’s story checks out.

  Speak of the devil, Niko plops herself into a low back chair, trimmed and legged in the same mahogany and the same textured fabric. She’s bored, so she’ll fidget until the party starts. “I’m drained and this party hasn’t even started. All the swimming and the walking, I have no energy left. No energy. No energy. No energy. That could be a song, don’t you think?” No one responds. “Forget you guys.”

  “Ya know, the party, it…” Clyde chokes up on the sofa and produces a few tablets, pharmaceutical in appearance, from his pocket. “…hasn’t started yet.”

  She has done this once.

  Niko’s done it more. “No shit, I knew you guys could score some! Please, can I have one?”

  “Shh, I took these from Timmy’s stash. He’s been guarding the shit like gold. I only have the three, the third one I was gonna give to him, but I’m gonna let you have it, Sykosa. You tell him and he’s gonna get seriously pissed at me.”

  Niko has already swallowed.

  It pressures her. “When we’re high, he’s gonna notice, no?”

  “Yeah, but I won’t care then.”

  He said it directly to her breasts. Never even started at her eyes, or anywhere in the facial region, so while she wants the pill, and what she expects will also be its effective usage as a blackness inhibitor, she ponders its true cost. That word “cost” spikes the blackness momentarily. It curls up her throat like vomit. Maybe I shouldn’t. Besides, in wake of her concern for the house and Scott, drugs seem irresponsible. It feels like a solid decision, but then her nerves, already fired up over Tom and what might happen tonight, what should happen tonight, what will happen tonight, what happened last year, urge her forward. If she swallows it, things’ll be less intense—both now and later, when they’re alone.

  She makes a deal.

  “I only want half, not the whole thing.”

  Clyde seems happy. “Cool, more for me.”

  The pill is split. By chance, it went 70/30.

  She took the 30.

  Neither here or there

  It’s sped up or it’s slowed down.

  She’s at a loss for when these people arrived.

  They’re in the pool, the lagoon, the hot tubs—some are even on dry land. Leeching on each other’s shoulders and pocketbooks. Bumping into her, stabilizing her, handing her drinks, then telling her to take shots. Never mind, she knows these people. They’re the Sluts. We’re such better friends when we’re wasted. And none of it comes close to the translucence behind her closed eyes, when her inner-ears skew her balance or whatshit—anatomy, you suck!—and she flies, spins, rides, and the world is the tortoise and her heart races like the…the…rabbit—hare, see here, hare, she meant hare! Damnit, she lost, the tortoise beat her, and the floor beats hip-hop that blares! All them bitches. All them hoes. As she hums like a homie and sings like a deaf! She finds this song’s message disconcerning, but she’s no more concerned than to favor her disconcern over her originally conceived concern of humming, you know, like a hummingbird, breathing the smoky air, and at night, without streetlamps, neon store signs or car headlights, the sky is the darkest shade of black.

  Clyde finds her. His eyes are red. “Everything sucks?”

  Her foot stomps on the diagonal deck boards. “Everything does! I’ve never found anything I enjoy! I get up every morning and dread my day. And my dad’s an asshole. A major asshole, but my mom’s worse.”

  She bulldozes through topics and he yawns internally. It kills him how girls like Sykosa’s tight ass have to be talkative and bitchy like Niko’s juicy cunt, and not just Niko, this Asian jailbait—they all come with baggage and it drives him insane! He has pledged such an allegiance, one that says if he were not so damn horny, he’d swear off women, but he is horny and, be it as such, (her legs in that skirt, her breasts in that shirt, they do not bore him) these moments have become his favorites. A development in his loins telling him he will sleep with a girl, or at least she’ll suck his dick—it’s a matter of listening long enough, caring enough, and watching her succumb.

  God, he can’t wait till he’s pile driving her.

  The bitch is really asking for it.

  He grips her hand and pulls her inside, and she slips through the crowd until she’s ordered to sit on a beanbag. She pulls her skirt forward and delicately lays her legs. He has his guitar. What a cool magic trick! The case is a worn thing with threads sticking out of it and some bumper stickers that are stuck to it. They read, “Eat Shit” and “Socialism Now!” He sits Indian-style with his instrument (ah, double entendre!) in the hammock of his thighs as he toils with his hair between strummed notes and delicate adjustments to the silver tabs.

  His hand is
blurry across the strings.

  Gray skies in my silver tongue

  Feeling young in my run with my rum

  Over green hills, I see the sun

  Believed I was right

  Believed you might…

  Don’t ever think you’ve got me now

  Don’t ever think you know me now

  Don’t ever think you’ll win this war

  Cause I’m in love and it’s just too much

  Overcome by rage, I surrender amongst the sage

  Feeling of birth, while coasting onto the earth

  Rejuvenation comes from an unknown

  And I see through the trees

  That you still know me

  There is nothing we won’t do

  Nothing we won’t say

  Darling, ain’t it funny

  How things end up this way?

  Don’t ever think you’ve got me now

  Don’t every think you know me now

  Don’t ever think you’ll win this war

  Cause I’m in love and it’s just too much

  Because my life you see

  Is meant to be, atop a bounty

  Of a world brand new

  Beyond all constraints…

  And in celebration of the one…

  Who comes to learn

  And to be

  Cause I’m in love and it’s just too much

  I’m in love and it’s just too much

  In love and it’s just too much

  It’s just too much

  Too much

  Her mouth’s without adjective. Truly one of the most overly stupid tunes. He’s possibly the worst songwriter whoever lived and… Who cares about that, it’s being sung to. It’s having a boy sing to her such gentle words. Like being in the middle of class and receiving a dozen of the reddest roses from Tom…

  Tom?

  Come to think of it, she hasn’t seen him in a while.

  Clyde strums his next tune over the synthesized music from a spy video game. The British assassin (under Tom’s control and beer-glazed pupils) kills enemy agents with his snappy handgun. Tom cannot concentrate with that moron’s guitar playing and his eyes loom from the TV to the beanbags, at a Sykosa ready to fall out of her skirt. He wants the assassin to jump out of the TV screen and shoot Clyde…or at least punch him. He tries not to be jealous like this afternoon when he grabbed her and she got pissed.

  It’s hard cause he feels…

  The assassin bleeds on the television screen.

  He throws the controller. “I’m taking a break.”

  Mackenzie follows him. “Lost your concentration there?”

  “Yeah, I guess.”

  “Well, let’s go to the kitchen, get some pizza, and I’ll drink beer! Then you’ll have three of your favorite things.”

  “M, you’re the greatest.”

  She spins round, then flings her hair like girls in shampoo commercials do, ready to hang out, but his attention is absent. He watches Sykosa. How she smiles and giggles, how her shirt, at the right angle, partially exposes her breast, but especially at how her mysterious eyes lie beyond her mess of lashes.

  Mackenzie is worried. “Are you coming?”

  “Uh, yeah, I am.” He stops. “Actually, I don’t know.”

  “Tom, about what you said earlier—”

  He interrupts. “Can we talk about that tomorrow?”

  Tomorrow? “Sure.”

  He turns towards Sykosa. “Okay.”

  “Tom!”

  He turns towards Mackenzie. “What?”

  Mackenzie stares at him, thinking, She acts different around you. She’s too chicken to say it. “Nothing.”

  He says a quick goodbye, forgetting how it was he who asked Mackenzie to come when she got pouty about not going, and now he’s ditching her as he crosses the room, coming up on Sykosa’s rear, aware by her demeanor that she is on more than alcohol. He heard her mumble about ecstasy once.

  He stutters, one hand in his pocket. “Sykosa?”

  “Oh, Tom, where’ve you been?”

  “Around. Listen, I thought we could hang out.”

  “Yeah, sure!” She hurries to her feet, then balances against his arm. “Clyde, don’t go pass out while I’m gone!”

  “I won’t.”

  They end up by a gray post of deck railing, beyond the reach of the wall lanterns, where her free hand desperately clings to his belt loop while she chats him up like a girl. “My God, Tom, there was this girl and she’s somewhere at this party, but I swear she looks like garbage. She’s got a low-cut shirt, but her boobs are all floppy and under her armpits!” She covers her mouth as if she were surprised at her supreme diss! Returning her hand to the place of origin, his belt loop. “Anyways she’s one of those girls who thinks she’s so hot and she’s totally not. Don’t you hate girls like that? But, like, right, she was doing something, what was it?” She stops. And then gives up. “Hm, I don’t remember, isn’t that funny?”

  “What’re you on?”

  She talks like a doll. “Nooooth-ing.”

  He whispers. “What did you take?”

  “A happy pill.”

  His fingers play with the edge of her skirt. “Does your happy pill make you happy?”

  She recognizes this part. It’s when they play. “Yes.”

  “How happy do you want to get?” He intended that to be a euphemism for sex, so he should seem cool and experienced. He pinches her stomach, so she understands. “Huh?”

  She frowns. “Don’t do that.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I’m not supposed to have any fat there.”

  “It’s called skin.”

  “No, it’s fat, but thanks anyway.” She shakes her hair and her eyesight gets dizzy. “Wanna kiss?”

  He leans in to kiss and kiss and kiss!

  (She cannot feel the blackness anymore).

  His hands reach to her hips and instruct her off her heels. Stronger. Tighter. To give in and disappear, and she wants to meet her soul mate and love him always. Also play games like these. What’re they called? Foreplay. I’m having foreplay. Little old me, having foreplay. It sounds strange, but it feels right. And she starts to think devilish thoughts. Like how far could she take him? How many times could she look into him? How often could she smile before his eyes get hungry and his mouth quivers and he breaks down (and he takes her)?

  When he will confess such wonderful feelings!

  She thinks she better scrunch his shirt and she better play.

  Boys are fun. “Say something!”

  “I want you.”

  “What would you give to have me?”

  He stutters. “Anything, take it.”

  “Anything?”

  Girls are fun. “Anything.”

  Oh, that makes her wilt. “What else?”

  “I told Mackenzie you’re my girlfriend.”

  She skips a second. Her hair feels fried. “You did?”

  “Yeah.”

  Then, that means that he’s made a decision.

  She sounds very girly and raspy. “When?”

  “Before the party, when we were outside together.”

  That’s what he was doing? “You really did that?”

  “I don’t want to lose you.” To Clyde.

  “I don’t want to lose you either.” To Mackenzie.

  It’s finally fair.

  He needs the security she needed all along.

  It’s left her short of what to do. She no longer feels playful, but she doesn’t feel bad. She needs a minute to collect herself. Yep. A minute—during such he holds her. At first, she doesn’t comply, standing stiff, but soon his tenderness gets to her. Like, it’s been hard. Ignoring some of the careless things he says, or some of his thoughtless behaviors—occasionally, she thought she had hardened to him, that she would never truly feel for him. And like she said, it does take a while, but her arms hold him back, and her shoulders change so that he can position her into his chest. So
mehow his heartbeat sounds in rhythm with the music she barely hears. When he separates, her breaths are staggered and her cheeks are bright red.

  “I love you.”

  It’s hard to repeat that. It also reminds her of the blackness.

  The pill has done its job. She feels it, but doesn’t. Maybe I should use them more often. Wow, that’s a dangerous thought. “You’re too nice.”

  It doesn’t detour him. He’s looking into her eyes.

  “You’re gonna be beautiful at Prom.”

  She hopes so. “We’ll see.”

  “You’re so…beautiful. Even now, you’re beautiful.”

  “Oh.”

  He puts her hair behind her ear, then runs his thumbnail back along her cheek. “I mean it, you’re beauti…” He struggles. “I can’t think of another word.”

  She smiles like a goofball.

  Translation: You’re really beautiful, too.

  And he is! Something about how the shadows lie along him has turned an already attractive boy to near perfection. I can’t believe I got a hot boyfriend. None of the Sluts—or Niko—have ever dated anyone as cute as Tom. It’s something she fails to notice about him often enough.

  “It’s okay.”

  He’s cupped both her cheeks. He seems really nervous.

  “Will you follow me some place?”

  “Yeah, where?”

  “It’s a place for you and me.”

  “Okay.”

  He’s less nervous now, and holding her hand as they go.

  On the way, she looks back to see that the cottage, save window slits of manufactured yellow, has disappeared into the night. Her heels are stuck in the soft ground and her ankle rolls onto its side. She tells him they should go back. She’ll sprain her ankle. “We should go back. I feel like I’m going to sprain my ankle.” “We can’t.” She wonders why not. “Why not? Let’s go to the room.” “The hallway’s blocked.” That’s true. He insists they’re close. “We’re close, it’s there.” He stops at some equally spaced trees, which means they haven’t left Niko’s property. He already has a blanket hidden and, before he unfolds the sea green fleece, he tosses aside what rocks and woodchips are on the ground. After he assists her to her ass, and she is busy verifying all her parts are covered, he gets a small cooler.

  There’s beer inside.