Where the Staircase Ends

by Stacy A. Stokes

  Me: He heard Justin say he was going … do i really?

  Sunny: !!! No was just F ing w you. U deserve it for holding out.

  Sunny: Justin is going to be at the Fields??? HFS need to go shopping.

  Sunny: Want to go shopping Saturday?

  Me: Can’t. Have to study.

  That wasn’t entirely true. My mom would probably tether me to my books for at least a few hours, but I didn’t have anything due the next week. Even she couldn’t force me to do work when there wasn’t any work to do. But I would rather spend the afternoon reading encyclopedias for my mother’s benefit than helping Sunny find and squeeze into some slutty H&M dress she bought for Justin’s visual benefit. No thank you.

  Sunny: Ur mom is a slave driver. Pre-party @ my house?

  Me: k. Will come over after dinner.

  Sunny: Amber and Jenny r coming so you can prob come later if you need. Those bitches r always late.

  Me: Good point

  * * *

  After school we made our usual trip out to the water tower, nodding at all the familiars and adding to the growing cloud of smoke that hovered over the area like a fog. The water tower was located right off school grounds, far enough from the prying eyes of teachers to make it interesting and close enough to school to make it convenient. We had to crawl through a rip in the chain-link fence surrounding the school parking lot to get to it, which was annoying because only one person could crawl through at a time, and a line started to form shortly after the final bell rang.

  We missed the line that day, thank God, because it was totally embarrassing when I had to shimmy through the small space while an impatient line of people watched from behind. There was no way to do it gracefully, and God forbid you should decide to wear a skirt the way I happened to do on that particular day.

  “So, what gives?” asked Sunny, leaning into one of the surrounding hedges so she could light her cigarette without interference from the wind. She exhaled through her nose, and the smoke swirling out of her nostrils made her look like an angry bull getting ready to charge. “Why were you and Logan fighting before class?”

  I was surprised it took Sunny so long to ask me. I’d waited for the question since leaving class. As a general rule, Sunny didn’t like not knowing things, and when said things involved a guy she was interested in (namely Justin) she really didn’t like not knowing the details.

  “We weren’t fighting,” I said, taking the cigarette from her when she passed it to me. I tried to make my eyes big and innocent the way I did when my mom caught me in a lie, but Sunny knew me too well to fall for my act.

  She rolled her eyes and ran a hand through her hair, surveying the growing crowd to see if there was anyone worth talking to. I did the same so I wouldn’t have to look at her.

  “You were fighting, don’t lie.” She snatched the cigarette back from me and took another drag. “Why did Logan care so much that Justin asked you about The Fields?”

  I could tell by the way she blew her smoke in my direction she was only getting warmed up. And I also knew she didn’t give a crap about Logan. What she was really asking me was, “What did Justin do that made Logan so jealous?” Sunny might have acted stupid sometimes, but she was far from it.

  “He was just making conversation. God, you sound like Logan.”

  I didn’t think about what I was saying, and if I had any hope of holding something back from Sunny, I blew it with that one sentence.

  “I knew you were fighting,” she said, her voice turning all know-it-all as she blew another puff of smoke toward my face. She tried to make it look like an accident, but there was nothing accidental in the motion. Classic Sunny.

  I opened my mouth to say something back, but in that moment I saw Justin crawl through the hole in the fence, and I forgot whatever it was I planned to say. It was as if the air softened and the fog of secondhand smoke lifted to let the sun shine down on the patch of grass below the water tower. Even the plastic bottles and discarded cigarette packs littering the ground seemed to twinkle with new light at the sight of him. Maybe that made me sound like a cheesy Hallmark card, but I swore the earth heated up fifteen degrees when he came through the fence.

  “Jeez, Taylor, put your tongue back in your mouth,” said Sunny, dropping her Camel to the ground and crunching it under the toe of her shoe. She narrowed her eyes at me as if to say, “Game on, bitch,” and gave me final a smirk before heading in Justin’s direction, her hips swinging the way they did when she wanted something.

  I turned away from her so I wouldn’t have to watch her flirt with him. I didn’t want to see his reaction in case he decided to flirt back. And really, why wouldn’t he? What was there to stop him? She was a pretty girl, and boys liked pretty girls. It made me feel silly for getting so excited about his invitation to The Fields, or for thinking there was some deeper meaning behind the way he stood up for me in English class. What was I to him besides just another girl in the crowd of girls hovering around the base of the water tower waiting for someone to notice her? Suddenly my inkling that his stares were a sign that he might like me seemed an ocean away from one hundred percent certainty. And that made me feel pretty crappy.

  I wandered over to the far edge of the fence, where people were busy admiring Jenny Schlitz’s arm cast. She had wrapped a multi-colored scarf across the sling and pinned little rhinestones all over the fabric so it twinkled and shone in the late afternoon light. People were oohing and ahhing like it was the cleverest thing they had ever seen. I oohed and ahhed with them, even though I didn’t really see what the big deal was. Granted I felt a little crabby about the whole Justin/Sunny thing, but whatever. Anything was better than watching Sunny lean in close and whisper in Justin’s ear, her long lashes fluttering against his cheek the way they were probably doing at that very moment.

  Instead of thinking about Justin/Sunny, I talked to Amber about her spring formal dress, Lindsay about what a perv Mr. Thomas was, Mark about why he smoked Marlboros instead of Camels, Sara about the upcoming pre-calc test (although I did this at a whisper so no one would hear), and eventually I forgot about where Sunny was. I even smiled a bit when Logan’s wet lips pressed against my cheek. When Sunny finally came back to join the rest of the circle, I didn’t pause to think about where she’d been or why she was gone so long. I didn’t ask myself why she had that stupid grin on her face; the grin she only got when she’d gotten her way. I let her link her arm through mine and laughed with everyone else when she told Jenny Schlitz how stupid the rhinestone-covered scarf looked wrapped around her cast.

  I didn’t know that Justin would still be standing by the rip in the fence when I finally turned around to look for him, but I’ll admit I was curious. Not because I only pretended not to be bothered that he’d been engaged in a half-hour long tête-à-tête with Sunny, but because I was curious to see if he’d stuck around. Really, there was no other ulterior motive behind my decision to turn around and look for him. But I’ll be damned if he wasn’t staring right at me with that is-he-or-isn’t-he-grinning look, like he’d been staring at me the whole time. He didn’t break his gaze when he saw me, even though Logan had his arm around my shoulders and Sunny stood in plain sight. It was ballsy, like he couldn’t give a crap who saw him or what people thought. I added that to the growing list of things I loved about him, because really, who was I kidding? There was no getting over Justin Cobb. Not for me.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  ALANA JAMES AND WHY I MAY BE GOING TO HELL

  My mind turned to dark things, but it was hard to stay positive when my backdrop was a sea of unending blue and gray, the two colors blending together until I could barely tell the difference between them anymore. For one crazy moment I imagined the sky was an ocean and the stairs a rock tied to my foot, pulling me down into an empty sea where no one would ever find me. Maybe I was being pulled into the cold, steely fingers of hell, and hell was a lonely creature waiting to slide its arms around me in an icy greeting. Maybe hell was not a place
where fire burned after all.

  Then I imagined the staircase was not a staircase at all, but rather my tombstone—a bleak monolith marking my ending. I was six feet below the ground, my fingers curling into the dirt as I tried to dig my way out, as I opened my mouth and screamed an earthy, silent scream.

  Here lies Taylor Anderson, dead. Dead like a fly under a swatter. Dead like a fish in a toxic lake. Dead like a Thanksgiving turkey. Dead, dead, dead.

  But I didn’t feel dead. That was the horrible thing.

  I shook my head, trying to clear away the dark thoughts before they consumed me. Instead I tried to see the sky for what it was—a perfect blue heaven marking a beautiful, clear day. It was the kind of day when the parks would have been filled with sunbathers and the sidewalks filled with people pushing strollers and holding hands. The kind of day when Sunny and I would’ve slathered on baby oil and stretched out on the green-and-white striped lounge chairs circling the pool behind her house. I wondered if she was out there now, staring at the same cornflower sky and feeling guilty about what she’d done to me. Or maybe word about the car crash reached her, and she felt guilty and sad. That is, assuming she could feel anything at all. Maybe she wouldn’t give a crap that I’d been hit by a car. Maybe she’d feel relieved, because her secret died with me.

  A few times I tried to trick the stairs. The first time, I raised my foot and acted like I was going to keep moving forward, and at the last second I tried to jerk it back and turn around. Then I attempted to walk backwards, thinking maybe I could make it back down to the bottom and away from the steps that way. But no matter how hard I tried, I simply couldn’t do it. I was stuck facing forward with only two choices: climb the stairs or stand still, and I was too ramped up about everything that had happened to stand still.

  It was hard not to think about where the steps might really be taking me. I joked about the hell thing, but I had to admit it was a real possibility. Not that I was some terrible person—I hadn’t killed anybody or anything. But I wasn’t exactly perfect, either.

  Like church. I only went to church on the big holidays or when my grandmother came to visit and insisted the whole family attend mass with her. I grumbled about it the whole time, complaining that I didn’t even think I was Catholic and it wasn’t fair to make me go against my will. It just seemed like if God really wanted us to all go to church, he would have found a way to make it more entertaining instead of all sad and somber. Or at least picked some better music or something, right? But what if I was wrong? What if God was mad at me for not going to church?

  Then there was the other stuff you’re not supposed to do, like coveting. I totally coveted. Like the time Sunny got two pairs of those amazing jeans that make everyone’s butt look fantastic, or when her dad caved and bought her the black bag we’d both drooled over for months. I was so jealous I could’ve spit green right then and there.

  And I lied from time to time, and I had improper thoughts and what not, although anyone would after seeing Justin Cobb. If that kind of thing sent people to the boiling flames of Hades, then the entire female population of Morris High would have been right there next to me walking up the stairs to hell.

  But mostly what I thought about was Alana James. I hadn’t forgiven myself for that one, so how could I expect God to?

  Alana ranked right up there with Sunny on the list of things I wanted to forget, but her ghost kept popping up in front of me on the stairs, forcing the memories forward no matter how hard I tried to push them back. And I wanted to push them back more than anything—they were the kind of memories that deserved body bags and cement feet.

  This time she stood smack in the middle of the steps, making it nearly impossible for me to pretend she wasn’t there. Her eyes were somber, boring into me.

  Remember, her eyes said. Remember what you did to me.

  I opened my mouth to shout her away, but nothing came out. The sight of her unsmiling face knocked the wind out of me, replacing the air in my lungs with the thick feeling of regret.

  Her chubby cheeks glistened in the afternoon light, but she didn’t bother to reach a hand up and wipe the wetness away. Instead she stood there watching me, still as a statue, her dark hair tangling around her in a gusting wind I could not feel. Her hands clutched a birthday present, wrapped carefully in pink-and-purple lined paper and topped with a glittering silver bow.

  She held it out to me. My guilty hands reached for it, and I felt the slickness of the paper beneath my fingers. It was clear a lot of time had gone into wrapping the gift—the stripes were lined up perfectly so that you had to lean in close to find where the paper had been cut, and the tape was trimmed into tiny, barely visible strips.

  I knew what it was Alana wanted to show me. I knew what she wanted me to relive, and no matter how hard I tried to fight it, I knew she would make me remember. The present was an unwanted souvenir.

  History was my least favorite subject but my most favorite class, because Sunny was always in full entertainment mode. We spent class time passing notes back and forth with crazy games and drawings scrawled across them. Sunny’s favorite class-time activity was hangman. I’d show up to history and a note would be sitting on my desk, folded meticulously into one of Sunny’s signature origami flowers or cranes. I’d keep it hidden under my desk so Mr. Montgomery couldn’t see what I was doing. Not that it mattered; between his coke-bottle glasses and general lack of interest in his classroom we were usually in the clear. She loved to design lengthy, complex puzzles that would take most of class to work through. The notebook page would be filled with blank spaces, and I’d pass my guesses back and forth to her while we fought to cover up our laughter. Alana James was one of her favorite puzzle subjects.

  Like this one:

  _ _ _ _ _ / _ _ / _ / _ _ _ _ /_ _ _ _ _ _ / _ _ _ / _ _ _ _ _ _ _ / _ _ / _ / _ _ _ _ _ _.

  Which meant: Alana is a butt monkey who belongs in a circus.

  Or this one:

  _ _ _ _ _/ _ _ _ _ _ _ / _ _ _ _ / _ _ _ _ _ / _ _ _ _ _ ?

  / _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ . _ _ _ _ / _ _ _ _ _ _.

  Which meant: What’s better than Alana James? Anything. Even cancer.

  They were a little juvenile, but that was what made them so funny. Plus they made the droning sound of Mr. Montgomery’s voice more palatable. If I had to sit through that class without Sunny’s notes to get me through the hour-and-fifteen-minute period, I would have impaled myself on Mr. Montgomery’s laser pointer, he was that boring.

  One day I showed up to class as usual and found one of Sunny’s paper cranes waiting for me. I grinned the way I always did when I saw a note sitting on my desk and raised my eyebrow when I saw Sunny bouncing up and down in her chair, biting her lip to suppress a smirk.

  I took my time opening it, dramatizing each movement because it drove her crazy. She almost fell out of her seat trying to get me to open it faster, her red head bobbing up and down with excitement as she motioned for me to hurry up.

  This particular day she drew a picture, the detailed shading a dead giveaway that she’d worked on it all afternoon. I smoothed the paper against my desk to get a better look while Sunny leaned over my shoulder to admire her handiwork. The grin on her face was enormous.

  I knew immediately that it was a drawing of Alana, not because Sunny was an especially good artist, but because I’d seen enough of her artwork to know what her Alanas looked like. This Alana had her back to me and her face turned to the side. The main focus was on her naked butt, which Sunny exaggerated so that it took up half of the page. She’d drawn dimples and pockmarks all over the Alana’s enormous butt cheeks, with arrows pointing to each dimple and the word “seats” scribbled next to the arrows. At the bottom of the page there was a row of tiny stick people gathering at the Alana’s feet, with a little stand labeled “ticket booth” and “$2 per ride” next to the Alana’s gigantic big toe. Above the whole thing were the words:

  Ride Inside Alana James’s Butt Dimples!

  Feel Them Jiggle and Sha
ke!

  The Scariest Ride in the History of Rides!

  Sunny clapped her hand over her mouth after I’d taken it all in, her face red from holding in her laughter. Usually I was right there with her, but something was off that day. Something about the picture made me feel a little sick, like she’d gone too far even though I’d seen Sunny draw crueler pictures and use meaner words to describe people.

  I should have told her I thought it was mean. I should have said something to let her know I didn’t think it was very funny. But I didn’t. Instead I grabbed my pencil and drew a stick person into one of the dimples, passing it back to Sunny with a note reading, “It’s more realistic if you show someone riding inside one of her butt dimples.”

  This made Sunny really happy, and she started to draw more stick people, all of them with wide open mouths, screaming in terror as they bumped and jiggled inside the Alana’s terrifying dimples.

  Sunny wanted her artwork to get the attention it deserved, so she passed it to Mark Schroen who passed it to Tracey Allen who passed it to the girl with braces whose name I could never remember. I turned around and faced forward, pretending to be engrossed in the list of historical dates Mr. Montgomery scrawled on the board so I wouldn’t have to hear the snickers and titters filling the classroom. When the picture made its way back to my desk, I glanced at it long enough to see there were smudges and finger prints around the butt dimples, the paper sticky from all the fingers touching it. Sunny snatched it from my hands and sent it around the other side of the classroom before I could protest.

  Sometime during lunch I noticed Alana occupying her usual spot in the cafeteria, sitting on the floor away from the other tables with her books spread out around her. She held a piece of notebook paper in her shaking hands, and even through the dim florescent lighting of the cafeteria I could make out the words “Butt Dimples” from where the black ink had bled through to the other side of the page.