by Lena Prodan
Sean hummed the ominous theme music from Jaws.
"Yeah, I was a little worried about sharks, but whatever works, right? So I swam away from shore to speed things up a little."
Eric handed the pipe to me. I passed it on to Sean.
"By then, the waves were really slamming me, and I kept thinking, next one, while I'm under, I'll just breathe in the water, fill my lungs. Only the next wave knocked me around, and no matter how hard I tried, my body would not let me open my mouth while my head was under. I was getting really pissed. And then, someone grabbed me."
On the screen, a mustachioed, hairy blond man threw off his jeans but kept on his cowboy hat. The scene had changed to a depressingly stark bedroom somewhere.
"It was this marine. Or so I'm guessing from the hazy green tattoo on his shoulder. Dark crew cut. Muscles forever. He didn't hold me the way you're supposed to hold a drowning person. He clutched me to his chest and swam hugging me. I would have tried to get away, but he kept babbling about how he almost didn't see me. He was so scared that I was gonna die. I knew that, if I tried to get away, he'd kill himself to save me, so I let him be the hero. We got close enough to wade through the surf, but he was still hanging on to me, like he knew. He kept asking if I was okay. I hung onto his neck. I could feel his dick. It was warm, even though he was soft. He kept saying that he almost didn't see me, if he'd looked the wrong way for a second, he would have missed me. That's what scared him the most, I think, what a quirk of fate it was that he saw my head bobbing between the swells. He still looked worried, and I couldn't bear it, so I hugged him harder and told him, ‘I'm okay now, I'm okay.’ We kind of held on to each other, and then the lifeguard went out on the balcony of the blue lifeguard stand and ran up the riptide flag and shouted for everyone to get out of the water. My marine burst out laughing, but then he was crying for real."
"Pussy,” Sean said.
"I dare you to say that to his face, douche bag. He could have flattened your scrawny ass."
The woman on screen was making oh-oh-oh sounds she didn't mean. The actors switched positions. The man with the moustache jerked his dick. The guys listened to me, but they watched the hazy outline of the movie through the fogged windshield. Sean wet his lips.
"We trudged through the deep sand back over to my parents. The marine tried to talk to them, but they blew him off. He squeezed my shoulder and left. They had no clue."
Eric nuzzled against my cheek. I hoped that meant we were getting along again. I was missing him even when he was around, because he kept a mental distance I didn't know how to get around. In the dark back seat of Tony's Impala, with our heads together, it felt like we were finally back to being friends.
Sean leaned across my lap, as if seeing what Eric was doing. I thought, if he tries to touch any girl parts of my body, I'll rip his fucking hand off. He kissed me, lightly, and then his lips slid off mine and onto Eric's mouth.
Eric went tense. He leaned closer to Sean. Their mouths were inches from mine. I tried to melt back into the seat. Sean put his hand on my thigh, but not as if I were there. I liked it that way, being invisible. He pushed up to Eric's mouth. Between my thighs was moist and hot, and I throbbed in places I refused to touch.
I'd never seen people kiss like that, not in movies, not even in the hallways between classes. They breathed hard through their noses. The crush of their lips was messy and wet and hard.
They sprang apart when we heard the door open.
"You guys gonna bogart that all night?” Tony asked. “We shared our pot."
"Sure.” Eric shoved the pipe at him.
Sean climbed clumsily out of the car. I could smell a scent coming off my body, thicker than hash smoke. Eric balled his hands into fists on his thighs, tugged on the legs of his jeans, and balled up his hands again. He couldn't hold still.
Tony gave us a look. “Whatever you two do, don't mess up my car.” He closed the door.
Eric exhaled.
Scenes flickered on the screen. Soft light alternated with flashes of dark.
"Did...” I had to say something. It was already unreal.
Eric bolted for the bathroom, leaving me alone in the back seat of the car. I didn't want the other guys to smell me and get ideas, so I climbed out and found an empty lawn chair.
"That was quick,” Tony smirked.
Eric came back, but sat next to Lane. I stared up at the screen and wondered why they didn't ever show something really hot in those movies, like two boys kissing, instead of all that boring fucking. Sean took sips of Southern Comfort that made him wince and passed out before the last movie ended.
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Chapter 5
Mom's interest in me came in unpredictable waves. For long periods, I could have been a ghost in the house. Then she'd stare as if I'd popped in from another dimension. Being ignored had advantages. Invisibility was safe. Nothing good ever came from having her attention.
It was the middle of the night when she shook me awake. Time meant nothing if she had something on her mind.
"Are you taking typing this semester?"
"Typing?” In my groggy state, I wondered if she meant a section from my biology class, but I took that my sophomore year.
"I told you to take typing."
It was the first I heard of it. I rubbed my eyes against the harsh halo of light and tried to shake off sleep. “No. I mean, I didn't know I was supposed to sign up for it."
"Everyone needs to know how to type. Do you think you can just run around doing anything you want?"
Did she dream things and think they were real? I honestly thought so sometimes.
She paced my small bedroom. “Who told you that you could put posters on the walls?"
"Um."
She yanked down my David Bowie poster. “Do you see that? Do you see?” I squinted at the wall. A patch of paint pulled free with the tape, but if she'd eased it down instead of yanking, that probably wouldn't have happened. “Now we'll have to paint this entire room."
"I'll do it."
"Yes, you will."
Her fingers extended to pull up the poster inch by inch until it waded under her curved talons. She glanced around my room. It wasn't a mess, but it wasn't clean either.
She paced more, turning tight circles between the dresser and my bed. Her lips moved, but I didn't hear words. Her knuckles were white, as if she feared Bowie could fly out of her hands.
"This is unacceptable. Unacceptable,” she said. “Why do you insist on making everything so difficult?"
I got out of bed, ready to do anything she wanted if only she'd stop.
She pulled open the top drawer of my dresser and scooped my notebooks into it. It took a couple good slams to get the notebooks and pens to settle enough to close the drawer.
My flannel shirt was on the floor. I hung it up. School books went into my backpack. Boots into my closet.
Her lips trembled. “I can't stand it,” she whispered. “You torment me like this. You have no heart."
"Mom."
"Heartless. So focused on yourself. Do you ever think of other people? Ever?"
"Yes. Please, Mom, it's the middle of the night."
"All you do is use people.” She sat on my bed, the poster still clamped in her hand. “I'm concerned about you. You're too fat. You'll never get a decent job. People will think you're stupid. They'll see you as a slob, and you're too smart for that, honey."
I couldn't keep up. Her night talks were always like that, jumping from one topic to another. Her thoughts were as unfocused as her eyes. By then, I was so raw that I just wanted it to stop.
She shook her head. “I love you. I'm just trying to help."
"I know.” I sat beside her and tried to put my arms around her but she leaned away until only my fingertips could reach her. “I love you too,” I told her. That was the horrible part—I meant it.
"Oh, never mind.” She pulled away from me and dropped my mangled Bowie poster on the floor. �
��Well, it's late. I'm going back to bed."
The blitzkrieg attack was over. As always, it hit suddenly, left me in shock, and ended before my mind even registered the devastation. She went to sleep. I spent the night sitting on the edge of my bed, reliving every word.
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Chapter 6
I missed the first week of school. There was no way I could leave my bedroom. It started the way it always did—with me admitting I was a hopeless fuck-up. I couldn't stand to be inside my fat body, but I was trapped in there with my thoughts, and my thoughts wouldn't shut down long enough to let me sleep. I was exhausted. It was as if a gray film coated the world and muted everything that was interesting or good or meaningful, and I would never connect to them again. For that week, I didn't eat, didn't bathe, didn't do anything. Just thinking about getting out of bed made me cover my face and cry.
My parents never knocked on my door. Some days, they'd yell out that dinner was ready, but they never demanded I join them. Only the dog would have anything to do with me. She perched at the foot of my bed and watched me with worried eyes. When a new gush of warm tears trickled down my face, she crept up to lick my hand.
When I finally forced myself to leave my bedroom on Sunday, the first thing I did was take a shower. Using my fingernails, I scraped the gray off my skin until the pink tracks merged into a solid burn.
Eight days without being brushed did a number on my hair. The sweat and oil made it look wet at the scalp, but the ends were dry and wild. No matter how much conditioner I poured on it, the huge tangle at the nape of my neck wouldn't brush out, so I gathered it into a ponytail and cut as close to my skull as I could, sawing through my hair with the dulled scissor blades.
Electric guitar chords whaa-whaaed and drumbeats bounced off the houses, so I knew the guys were hanging out next door. It was an effort to drag myself that far, but I had to get away from my stinking room.
Tony saw me first. He laughed. “Oh man."
I seriously did not give a shit. At least I could feel air on my neck.
Eric sat on the washer. Sean was in my place on the dryer, his bass in his lap. I wasn't sure where to go. Every other inch of the garage was stuffed with boxes, bikes, and abandoned sporting equipment.
My legs were too weak to hold me up much longer. That was the part I hated most, how the weakness lingered after I scraped off the gray.
Mrs. Foster brought cold drinks out to the guys. She wore the collar of her pink Izod shirt up, just like the guys did, but she was sorority girl perfect enough to pull off that look. I must have looked really bad, because she came right over to me. “Are you okay?” She reached for me with both hands. “You're so pale. Oh!” She'd touched the back of my head, where my hair bristled. “What happened to your beautiful hair?"
"Cut it."
"Well, yes, but honey! Why?"
"I couldn't get the knots out."
She pulled me into the house. “Let's see if we can just trim it up a bit, okay? I cut Tony's hair, so I know what I'm doing."
As if that was a concern.
I didn't know why, but I let her put me in a kitchen chair and drape a towel around my shoulders. I clutched the ends in a fist.
"Would you like a soda?"
"No thank you, ma'am."
"Sweetie, sweetie, sweetie.” She bent down to look into my eyes. “How about an otter pop?” She wasn't going to give up until I accepted something from her.
"Sure."
She rummaged through the freezer. “Oh, those boys ... They leave empty boxes in the freezer. It would take them all of two seconds to—oh, here's one. Is blue okay?"
I had no idea what flavor blue was, but I said, “Yes. Thank you,” and tried to sound like I meant it.
She frowned and stared at my hair. “I'm sorry. I can't save much of the length here."
"I don't care.” The otter pop had an odd chemical flavor. So that's what blue tasted like. I sucked on the tip, the cold numbing my tongue until I could stand it.
"Oh dear.” Another dark lock dropped on the linoleum. “I'm afraid ... I hate to do this, but do you mind if I use the razor? It's so short here in the back, and I can't cover it, so all I can do is even it out."
"Shave it all off.” I wanted to look like I was fresh from basic training.
Her laugh was nervous. “I won't have to go that far."
I tipped the otter pop's plastic sleeve and sucked the blue syrup from the bottom.
When she stopped cutting, I had a close buzz to the top of my ears, and thick, layered hair above that.
"You look like a punker,” Tony said when he came into the kitchen from the garage. “Nice blue lips."
His mom fussed with my bangs. “Be nice. She looks cute. It was the best I could do."
Tony picked up the otter pop box from the top of the trash can. “We're out? Mom,” he whined.
I checked my hair in the mirror behind their dining table.
"It'll grow out,” she assured me as she fluffed my bangs some more.
My lips were blue like a corpse's. I stuck my tongue out at my reflection, first just the tip, and then like Gene Simmons of Kiss. I kept staring, because it was the first time I'd seen anything that looked like real me in a mirror.
"Is it okay?” Mrs. Foster fluffed my bangs again.
"It's wonderful,” I told her. “I love it.” And I meant it, too. I looked like a boy.
* * * *
Monday morning, even though the temperature was in the high eighties, I dressed in jeans, hiking boots with red laces left untied, a Blue Oyster Cult concert t-shirt, and an unbuttoned flannel shirt. They cranked up the air conditioning so high in the school building that everyone got sinus headaches. Anyone wearing shorts risked pneumonia.
Eric and I usually shared a seat on the bus, but he pushed me back when I tried to sit next to him.
"What the fuck is your problem?” He knew I didn't like being touched. All he had to do was say something.
Sean shoved me from behind into the seat and slid in next to me so that the three of us were crammed together. Eric kept pushing at my shoulder.
I smacked him. “Knock it off.” The year before, Eric sprawled across the seat to save room for me. I missed one week of school and suddenly he couldn't stand to have me near. Or maybe ... I glanced from Sean to Eric. I'd never seen two people working so hard not to look at each other. Oh. It was suddenly so obvious. Man, was I being slow. “Switch places with me,” I said to Sean. Eric looked hopeful.
"Naw. Fine where I am,” Sean said.
"Come on, switch.” I shoved him toward the aisle so that I could slide over.
The bus driver shut the door and stomped back toward us. “If you boys don't stop horsing around, I'll make you walk to school. Got it?"
Sean said, “Yes."
Eric huffed and turned to the window.
"What about you?” The driver scowled down at me.
"Yes, sir,” I whispered. He thought I was a boy. I touched my hair for good luck.
* * * *
Unlike every other year of school, I knew which bus to ride, where the classrooms were, what to wear, and how the school functioned. I almost—almost—dared to feel as if it was my school, but that was dangerous. Nothing provoked the wrath of the fates like thinking of a place as home, so I tried to fool them by pretending I had a case of really strong déjà vu.
Like me, a lot of kids missed the first days of school. Teachers didn't want to be there that week and administration was overwhelmed, so I didn't miss anything important. They tried to make up for it all on Monday though, so by lunch, I was exhausted.
Bulletin boards around the cafeteria announced the first dance of the year, a band competition, class elections, and, almost apologetically, a football game on Friday night.
When I came out of the lunch line, I couldn't see the guys. About thirty tables were set in a grid under sputtering florescent lights. The socials, an elite mix of class presidents, cheerleaders, a
nd the popular, were in their usual spot. The grits, poor kids who were destined to drop out or head for vocational school, clung tight to their little slice of territory. Between chorus and marching band, almost half the student body was in the music program, and they owned the center block of the cafeteria. The remainders, like the drama club and military kids, staked out space where they could.
Finally, I spotted Mark at the back corner table, a spot highly coveted for its easy access to the smoke hole, and for anyone ditching class, the woods.
I plopped down at the table across from Sean and Eric. Sean stole tater tots from my tray and popped them in his mouth with a big grin. I sneered at him.
"The bus driver called you a boy,” he snickered.
"Bite my cock."
He jerked back, eyes wide.
That cracked up Lane. “One thing you gotta get used to, man, we don't party with girls. She can put a world of hurt on you, so don't fuck with her."
That was a big, fat lie, but I liked it, so I showed Sean an evil grin. Amazingly, he dropped eye contact. Eric's glare slid from Sean to me and back again.
"Great table,” I said. “Who'd you have to kill?"
Mark and Tony giggled. “The football team."
Sure enough, the football team huddled at a table near the center of the cafeteria. The drummers from the marching band taunted them about the score of last Friday's game.
I didn't want to dig in my backpack for my schedule, so I asked Eric, “What classroom is World Lit in?” It was a weird little fart in my otherwise phenomenal memory, but I couldn't remember the classroom numbers from my schedule no matter how long I stared at the sheet. Phone numbers and street names were also elusive. I could describe the entire drive from the school to our house in detail, give every landmark, warn where the cops hid with radar guns, detail every turn, but I couldn't tell anyone the names of the streets, or even my address.