by Cat Bauer
“No. Used.” Evan smiles, and in that moment he does look wise and weary, like he's all grown up. Then the moment is past and he is young and gorgeous and blond. I've never been this close to a blond boy before. I wish I could touch his hair. “I'm from Wynokie,” he says. “My folks got divorced and divided me in half. My dad just moved to Lenape and dragged me with him. So here I am. Weekdays, anyway.”
“That's sad. Not the you being here part, the part about your parents getting divorced.” I can't stop staring at his gray eyes. I wonder if everyone just stares at him when he talks, hypnotized by the color.
“Yeah. It was savage.” Evan throws down his cigarette and grinds it out with his boot. “You want a ride home?”
I'm impressed. “You have a car?” I'm nervous. I've never been alone in a boy's car before. But I stroll along beside him down into the Pond Hole like I do this every day. I hope no one sees me with this cigarette, but it is still too long to put out. If my parents find out I'm smoking, they'll kill me. Plus, I don't know if I want to get a smoking reputation. Then again, maybe I do. Maybe I'm just wild.
Hardly any of the high school kids have a car in Lenape. Just a few senior guys have some old clunkers they work on. The town is so small, you can get around the whole thing in less than an hour on a bicycle, though nobody would be caught dead riding one. Certainly no one has a car like the one we stop in front of.
It's blue. It's gleaming. It's a spaceship. It is the coolest car I've ever seen.
“Wow,” I say. “What is it?”
“A Camaro. My dad got it for my birthday.”
He opens the passenger door for me. I certainly am being squired around by polite boys. I toss the cigarette to the ground and scoot onto the white leather seat. The car smells like hours of Turtle Wax. I cannot believe I am doing this.
Evan slides in behind the wheel. He turns the key. The engine kicks over with a deep, quiet roar, like it's itching to go fast. I hope no one is home at my house. My parents will have a fit if they see me pull up in this car.
Evan eases out of the Pond Hole, all casual and confident with one hand on the wheel. “Where to?”
“Willoby Court.”
The blue Camaro thunders through town and everyone turns and looks at us. Evan's hair is golden silk fluttering out the window. My stomach trembles; it is so exciting to be riding next to a guy who is driving. I wish we could cruise past Johnny's house and give him a look, but that would be too crass.
Evan swings the Camaro down Willoby Court. We rumble right up in front of my house. My mother's car is not in the driveway. Thank you, God. I see Mrs. Perez across the street pull her curtains back. Get a good look, you old biddy.
I turn to Evan. “Thanks a lot.”
His gray eyes are so deep, they look like they can see all the way into outer space. “You're welcome,” he says. “Anytime.”
I hop out of the car and close the door. It is heavy, not tinny like the door on my father's pickup truck. The Camaro roars off down the street. I watch Mrs. Perez shake her head and drop the curtain as I waltz into the house.
“Please, Carla. If you guys go with me, then it won't be so obvious.” It is Tuesday night. I have to go to the coffeehouse.
“Me and Troy are going to the movies.”
“You can go to the movies anytime. The coffee-house is only tonight.”
“Come on, Harley. The way Johnny treated you last time … he totally ignored you.”
“I'm begging you on my hands and knees.” If I have to, I will go there alone, I swear.
“Let me ask Troy.”
“Thank you from the bottom of my heart.” I hang up.
I lay out my outfit. See-through black blouse over a tight black tee and tight black pants. Very nice. The phone rings. I answer it.
“Okay,” says Carla. “Troy will drive. Meet us over my house at seven-thirty.”
“I love you.”
“You owe me.”
Now the hard part. I walk downstairs to the Barcalounger. The ice cubes are tiny white islands floating in Roger's drink. He sips. The islands clink against each other. Wind chimes in a glass. “You need anything, Dad?” I approach with caution.
“What do you want, Harley?”
“I want to go to the coffeehouse over in Wynokie.”
“A coffeehouse? What's a coffeehouse?”
“A place to hang out and drink coffee.”
“No.”
“WHY?”
He punches the remote, but slowly, like it's a great effort. Ever since Granny's funeral, he seems tired all the time. “Since when do you drink coffee? I know what you're up to.”
“I drink a lot of coffee.” This is not true, but how can he know it? Does he know about Johnny? No, it is impossible. I have been very discreet. “Please, Dad?”
“Your mother says you didn't clean up your room.”
“I did! I spent hours. It's never clean according to her.” Peppy is not home tonight; my fate lies in Roger's hands.
“The answer is no.”
“Come on, Dad—”
“Keep asking and you'll be grounded for the rest of the week.”
“But why?”
“Because I said so.”
I feel the fuse ignite inside my stomach. The war has gone on too long. The conditions are too unfair. The fireball burns bigger and brighter until the words explode out of my mouth. “I HATE THIS HOUSE! I HATE THIS HOUSE, AND I HATE EVERYBODY IN IT!” I cry and run out of the family room. I stomp up the stairs. I slam my door. I open it and slam it again. Harder. I open it and slam it a third time as hard as I can. WHAM! It feels good. I throw myself onto the bed and wail.
I hear my father's cowboy boots pound up the steps. My door bursts open. He grabs my legs and flips me over. He is a dragon standing over me, breathing fire. He roars, “YOU ARE GROUNDED FOR A MONTH, YOUNG LADY. YOU COME STRAIGHT HOME FROM SCHOOL FOR A MONTH.”
I turn back onto my belly. I sob. I kick my feet. “I don't care,” I cry. “I don't CARE!”
“LOOK AT ME, HARLEY MARIE,” the dragon thunders.
“No.”
“TURN OVER AND LOOK AT ME WHEN I'M TALKING TO YOU!”
“NO.”
Roger yanks me backward off the bed. My hair rips through his claws. He spins me around and forces me to look at him. Flames shoot out of his mouth. “WHEN I TELL YOU TO LOOK AT ME, YOU LOOK AT ME, DO YOU UNDERSTAND?”
My mouth is frozen shut and I cannot answer. The dragon roars. “ANSWER ME!”
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. The dragon's claw rises high above his head and sweeps down toward my face. I try to duck, but the claw knocks me on the side of the head, and the world turns black and starry. I feel myself falling, falling onto the bed, falling into the quiet darkness.
Far away, I hear Roger's cowboy boots leave my room. He closes my door. I listen for his footsteps to go downstairs. I sniffle. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. I get up. I look at the clock. Six-thirty. One hour. I go in the bathroom and put water on my face. I look in the mirror. I open the cabinet and dig way in the back for my little plastic makeup bag. Zip. I fumble with Peppy's lipstick and eye shadow and blush. I make up my face with war paint.
I go back into my room. I take off my clothes and put on my coffeehouse outfit. I walk over to the window. I pop off the screen. I slide open the glass. I put a stool under the window. I step up. I put one leg over the ledge, then the other. I push myself out the window and onto the roof of the garage. I slide the window shut behind me. I shinny down the roof and hop onto the picnic table below. I jump off. My feet touch the ground. I am free.
Troy has a beat-up old station wagon. The three of us sit in the front seat. How cozy. Carla twines around Troy worse than a snake. I worry that she is going to put her foot on the gas by mistake and kill all of us.
I don't tell them I am an escapee because I don't want them to get weird and not go or something.
“Ya got enough room over there, Harley?” Troy seems to be a p
olite boy in addition to being gorgeous. Carla is practically sitting on his lap, so I have all the room in the world.
“Yeah.”
The coffeehouse turns out to be this little hole-in-the-wall in the center of Wynokie. I guess it's a step up from the bowling alley. We push our way through the crowd. I search for signs of Prudence Clarke, but the room appears to be diva-free. There is a table right up front.
“Let's sit there,” says Troy.
“No way!”
“Harley, if we're going to do this, let's do it right. Johnny can't ignore you if you're sitting in front of his face.” It's easy for Carla to talk when she has Troy the Magnificent dangling from her arm.
They pull me over to the table and push me down. A thin, wispy waitress comes by for our order. I try not to look at Johnny and Reed, but they are standing there, singing, only five feet away. Finally I sneak a peek. Johnny looks right at me and smiles and mouths the word “Hi!”
“Hi!” I mouth back. Good. He knows I'm alive.
The wispy girl comes back with three coffees. She sets two mugs in front of Troy and Carla. She turns to me. “Johnny in the band says to tell you this is on him.” She places the steaming mug in front of me. I am amazed. I look up at Johnny. He is grinning. “Thank you,” I mouth. He winks. I wrap my fingers around the mug and feel the heat soak into my hands. I put the edge against my lips and sip. Mmmm. Molten java.
“Well, what do you know,” says Carla, who has watched the transaction with an impressed look on her face. “The boy has some class after all.”
I am too happy to be smug. I sit there and beam and sip. Johnny and Reed finish their song. The room applauds.
“Thanks,” Johnny says as he steps up to the mike. “And now we'd like to do one more tune before our break. This one goes out to Harley.” My mouth falls open. Johnny nods at Reed. He strums a chord, and Johnny joins in. They harmonize about a guy who wants this girl to run away with him. I am riveted. I can't believe Johnny is singing me a song. I look at Carla. Her eyes are enormous, like she can't believe it, either.
Then it's over and the room is clapping. Johnny and Reed set down their guitars. Johnny strolls over to our table and sits next to me. He throws his arm around me and gives me a long, soggy kiss. He pulls back and looks into my eyes.
“Did you like the song?”
“Loved it,” I whisper.
Reed pulls up a chair. “Hey, you two, knock it off.”
I giggle. “Reed, Johnny, do you know Troy? You know Carla, right, Reed? Carla's my best friend.”
“And I'm her father,” says a voice like whiskey and ice behind me. Oh my God. Oh my GOD. Roger the Fire-Breathing Dragon, is making his first public appearance.
“Dad, what are you doing here?” My face gets red and my breath is quick. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. I look at Carla. She is in shock.
“No, Harley Marie. What are you doing here?” Roger's voice is quiet, but it roars.
Johnny and Reed scramble up from the table like a cartoon in fast motion. “Well, we'd better get back to work. Nice to meet you, Mr. Columba,” says Johnny with a grin, pretending everything is normal. I am dying.
“Who the hell are you?” I swear, Roger is all charm.
“I'm a friend of your daughter's, and we're just hanging out, singing some tunes.” Johnny is not thrown. “We know each other from church.” Good pitch, Johnny, but Roger isn't swinging.
“Harley does not have permission to be here. Get your jacket, young lady, and let's go.” My father grabs my arm.
“Oh, come on, Mr. Columba,” Carla tries. “Me and Troy will take her home.”
“Harley is going nowhere with you, Carla,” Roger the Dragon snarls. “And if your mother cared about you, she wouldn't let you run around town like a tramp. She should learn from her own mistakes. You can tell her I said so.”
“What …” This is the first time Carla has felt the full force of a Roger attack, and she is speechless.
My father yanks me away from the table. “I'll call you,” I tell Carla.
“Oh, no, you won't,” growls Roger. “You are grounded to eternity.”
It is hell being inside this house full-time. I have no privileges: no phone, no dessert, no television. As if I care. People talk to me, but I do not answer them. I walk about the house in silence. I go to school, come home, and shut myself in my room. I listen to dead John Lennon and dead Kurt Cobain and dead Janis Joplin because I want to hear the music of people with tragic endings. I stand at my easel and paint a screaming girl diving off a cliff. I paint like dead Vincent van Gogh, thick, gobby, furious strokes. Red, orange, purple, black. Maybe I should cut off a chunk of my ear.
I write a poem: “Escape,” by Harley Columba.
I hide away
here, alone,
separate from the rest of you.
In my heart
a candle is still burning,
a tiny light still burning.
You cannot put out my fire.
I am drained. All I want to do is sleep. I carry my harlequin clown into bed with me. Papa loves you, forever and a day. I take his hand with the wooden baton and jab it into my pillow. I pretend my pillow is Roger. I close my eyes and drift to the place right before sleep….
I am in a dark theater. I am the only one in the audience. I wait for the show to begin. The curtain rises. My harlequin, now as big as a man, comes onstage. He waves his wooden baton. He shouts, “En garde!”
Another man, in a black cape, leaps out of the wings. He charges the harlequin with a lance. He spears the harlequin in the heart. I scream, “No!” and jump onstage. The harlequin lies on his back, dying. I try to pull the mask off his face, but it does not budge. I turn, crying for help, to the man in the cape, but he has disappeared. I take the wooden baton from the harlequin's hand and raise it above my head. Now there is an audience, and they applaud.
I am about to go into Honors English when I see Johnny and Reed walking down the hall. I run up to them. “Hey,” I say.
Johnny doesn't stop. “What's up?” he says, like he really doesn't want to know.
“Hey, Harley,” says Reed. “You still grounded to eternity?”
My face gets red. “My father is a jerk.”
Johnny walks faster. I stumble along next to him.
He talks without looking at me. “You're … you're a good kid, Harley, but …”
Kid. The way he says it makes me feel five years old. He tosses Reed one of those guy looks.
Reed pats me on the head like an older brother. He grins down at me. “You hang in there, kid.” He slaps Johnny on the back. Together they haul off down the hall. I am numb. I stand there, eating their dust. I think this kid has just been dumped.
No one is home. My mother and father are at work. My brother is over at Earl's. My sister is with my mother. I am a leper. I am in solitary confinement. I inhale the stillness. It smells good.
There is a scream in my belly that does not go away. I can't remember what my body feels like without it. It is part of me now, like another organ. My liver, my heart, and my scream.
I go to my father's liquor cabinet. Once before, Carla and I each drank three of Ronnie's beers from the refrigerator and threw up. Now I uncork the decanter of vodka. I pick up a glass and pour in the clear liquid. Glub, glub, glub. I take a sip. Fire. It tastes like fire. I drink the firewater. It burns down my throat and washes into my belly. It splashes over my scream and douses it with a hiss. The scream is still there but it feels cooler now, less red and raw. I take another sip of vodka. And another. I take three big gulps and empty the glass. I extinguish my scream.
I pour water into the decanter so the level of the liquid is the same as before I started. I rinse out my glass. Inside, I can no longer feel my scream. It is not peace, but it is something.
I wobble into my parents' bedroom. The curtains are drawn and it is dark and cool. The room spins. I lean against the wall and take a breath.
I open the door to their
closet. I reach up to the top shelf and feel for a key. It is there, next to a pile of winter sweaters. I push their clothes on the hangers aside and pull out the steel safety box where they keep their important papers. I insert the key into the lock. If Peppy has my original birth certificate, she would stash it here. I turn the key and the lid pops open.
Roger is in charge of the box, so it is neat and orderly, with clear printing on the file labels. I flip to the file marked “Certificates.” I rifle through the papers and stop. My birth certificate is in here. It's exactly the same as the one that came in the mail, only it's the original, not a copy. Why would Peppy tell me she lost it when they moved?
I glance at Peppy and Roger's marriage certificate. The words on the second line stop me. “Bride's Occupation: Secretary. Groom's Occupation: Factory foreman.” Wait a second. Factory foreman. So I'm not crazy. How come my birth certificate says he owns a service station? It makes no sense.
“Harley Marie, what are you doing?”
I jump. My mother stands behind me. I drop the marriage certificate. “You scared me!”
“What are you doing in my bedroom?” Peppy is fuming.
“Nothing.” I swear, my mother is a stealth bomber.
“I don't want you snooping around my room, Harley Marie!”
“Why not? You're always snooping around mine. It's the only way to get information around this house.” The room is spinning. I think I might be really drunk.
“Watch your mouth, young lady.” Peppy's lips are white. “Are you looking for something?”
“You know I am.” The liquor makes me daring. “Why did you tell me you lost my birth certificate when it's right here?”
Peppy looks away from me. She bends down and picks the marriage certificate up off the floor. She places it back in the file and closes the box. “Not this again, Harley.”
“How old was I when Dad bought the gas station?”
“Why do you want to know? Is there something wrong with you? You look funny.” Peppy is staring at me like I just crawled out of a hole.
“You told me you lost it because you didn't want me to see that it said he owned a service station, right? Because he was a foreman when I was born, right?” I have to watch it. I'm starting to slur my words.