by Nikki Roman
What’s more rare, customers or finding out that Miemah has been stalking me? Customers. Miemah could have done any number of things under my nose while she was still alive. Besides, Thomas is right, she’s passed on now, maybe I should too.
I hear the bell ding and Spencer saying goodbye to the customers and my heart speeds up irrationally. I dread him coming to the back room the same way I dread my mother after she has drunken herself into oblivion.
“What couldn’t wait?” Spencer asks. He looks for me but cannot find my hiding place until I speak up.
“Miemah died,” I say my voice wavering.
“That’s great!” he cheers.
“No it’s not! Her dad beat her to death. Spencer, it’s horrible!”
“What does it fucking matter? The girl deserved it, about time she got a taste of her own medicine.”
“I wouldn’t wish that on anyone, not even my worst enemy,” I say.
“What’s the picture?” he says, not paying attention to the anger I’m swimming in.
“It’s of Miemah,” I say calming down. “She was watching me. Maybe she felt sorry for what she did. I think she’s the one who gave back my locket, that night on the beach, not Trenton.”
“Let me see,” he says.
I relinquish the photo.
“She’s dead and yet you still let her control your life. What’s wrong with you, Bailey? You should be celebrating, not clinging to a picture of her.”
“I feel sorry for her.” I press my chin in between my knees.
“You’re insane.”
“No, I’m not. You don’t know what it’s like to have your own mother or father strike you down,” I say in Miemah’s defense. “It’s the worst feeling in the world and he killed her.”
“I don’t care. I’m fed up with this—you constantly running back to those who hurt you. You need to stop; it’s going to tear us apart.” Spencer looks at the picture, down at me, then back at the picture. “I’m sorry,” he says, twisting it in his hands.
I hear it rip but can’t bear to watch it happen.
The picture, in thirty something pieces no bigger than a thumbnail, sprinkles to the floor. I’m like boiling water inside a kettle; I need to blow off steam. “You shouldn’t have done that,” I say, a warning tone to my voice. I unfold myself and stand up. Spencer is leaning against his worktable, his arms crossed in defiance.
“Why would you do that?” I ask, my voice denying me the evenness that I need to keep my body from acting out in rage.
“It’s better the picture be torn apart than our relationship,” he says, shrugging his empty palms. “You don’t have to worry about her, anymore.”
His demeanor nibbles at me, his coolness and complete disregard. My fists are already clenched when I swing my arm at him like a professional tennis player; it is the racket and Spencer’s face is the ball. I clock him hard in the chin and step off a little ways, knowing out of instinct he might strike back.
“Bitch,” he says, under his breath, rubbing his chin. He puts a hand to his lip and it comes back red.
I make a run for the door but his arm hooks around my waist and jerks me back. It’s a move that would normally be playful, like when he tosses me on the bed and tickles me. Except I know he isn’t playing this time.
“Let go of me!” I scream. “Spencer, take your hands off me!”
I struggle against his arm.
“This is the last time you hit me,” he says.
My skin crawls at the severity of his voice. I fear that pain is soon to follow.
“You ripped my picture!” I say to distract him from my mouth as it slowly moves toward his arm.
“You’re obsessed with Miemah—” he starts, his words morphing into a howl as I sink my teeth into his arm and break free. I bolt for the front of the store, not bothering to look behind me as Spencer’s footfalls land closer and closer.
“Bailey!” he screams as I push open the door. “I really have to tell you something.”
I turn for a second. The time is such a small window but it’s all it takes for Spencer to grab me again. He pushes me to the floor and straddles my stomach. There’s blood dripping down his arm and teeth marks. I can’t believe I’m the one who did that. Can’t believe it wasn’t a dog or a shark. I’m an animal.
“I love you, Bailey. I love you so much that it hurts. But you don’t want love, you’ve never wanted love, you only want pain!”
I try to get a grip on the carpet with my boots but as I push my feet against it, I remember how little friction the soles have. I am slipping my feet out of them when Spencer forces my head straight and drives his fist into my nose. The punch is driven up, as if he had been aiming for my chin, but I pushed my head down as soon as I saw his fist coming, to refract the hit.
I find my hands from beneath his body and cover my face. His weight shifts on me so I am no longer pinned. I bring me knees to my chest and turn on my side, away from him.
“Damnit,” he says, punching the ground. “Fuck.”
“Spencer,” I cry, “you really hurt me!” I bring my bloody hands away from my face and show him. I am not a strong, forbearing girl, who can fight off men with teeth and fist. I am a whimpering, cowering, little girl in the fetal position.
“I know,” he croaks.
Should I really be angry that he fought back? I mean, what was he to do? I fucking bit his arm.
Something feels right about this pain, if pain can be right. Deserved pain, unlike Mom’s senseless abuse. Well-earned pain.
Spencer crouches over me. He pushes back my hair so he can see my face. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m really sorry; I should never lay my hands on you.”
I’m surprised to see tears in his eyes, too. He lays his head on my collar bone and weeps. I comb my fingers through his hair. “I’m just like my dad,” he blubbers, “he used to hit my mom. He had problems controlling his anger and I thought it was you. But it’s not you at all. I’m just like him. And I hate myself for it.”
“You’re not like him,” I console. “You know what sets you two apart?”
“What?” he asks lifting his face that glistens with tears. “How is this any different from my father?”
“Love,” I say.
“How does love make up for any of this?”
“Love conquers all pain.”
Spencer rolls me onto my back and pushes his hands under my head. “Love,” he says, “you silly girl, is what causes the pain.”
“It is its own antidote.”
He raises my face to his lips, and opens his mouth, inhaling my scent. We share bloody lips like Chap Stick, his saliva diluting the taste of metal in my mouth. Hands work at the wooden discs that hold my sweater closed, hands work at pulling my shirt over my head.
I push Spencer’s arms and we roll together until I am the one on top. Our lips don’t leave each other the whole time. His hand crawls along my back, unhooking my bra and sliding down my spine.
“Can we do it?” he asks.
“Spencer, I’m not about to lose my virginity in a thrift store.” I laugh in disbelief. I stare at him, smeared with my blood, his wide smile cut into his face like the Joker from Batman.
“You’re a temptress if I ever knew one.” He chuckles.
“And you,” I say wiping the blood from his lips, “are a vampire, if I ever knew one.”
“Touché. Now shut up and kiss me, already.”
I wonder if the Joker kisses this good. I keep my lips pressed against his for the longest time, like I’m waiting for something to happen. Then I realize I am. I’m waiting for that surge of electricity, that bolt of energy that stopped my heart every time I kissed Clad. “Clad would never hit me.” I meant to think it not say it.
“And he would have never gotten your shirt off either,” Spencer says smugly. “Feel better now?”
“All better.” I sigh and fall onto his stomach. He gathers the cardigan around my shoulders and pulls it up to my neck.
<
br /> “Never felt better,” he says kissing the top of my head. “Go to sleep, I’m comfortable this way, with you pressed against me.”
“What if we get customers?”
“Are you serious?”
“Just kidding,” I say.
My old friend silence returns. The sun beats through the glass doors and windows of the store and it heats my back. It makes me sleepy and relaxed. “Spencer, what do you think happens to these moments? Do they last only now, or do they go on past their time, past us walking out of them?”
“I like to think they stay behind, like pictures or temple rubble, so we can look back on them and remember the exact feeling they gave us.”
I have many more memories similar to this one. Ones with feelings so strong they are forever engrained in my soul, my bones, my flesh.
Moments with Spencer. Moments with Clad. I would be forever torn between the two, if I had to choose which to live in.
Chapter 27
Our hands clasped, like two children running from their parents to have more play time, we slip into the guest bedroom and hide in a fortress of covers and pillows.
“We’re not in a thrift store, anymore,” Spencer says. And those moments—the ones that I could never choose over his—bring me feelings.
I am on the couch with Clad; his hands are in my hair, not Spencer’s. His lips are on mine, not Spencer’s. Everything I’m feeling is suddenly a lie. Caught in a black swan effect, I know I will not give over to either side.
“I need to take a shower,” I say, leaving Spencer on the bed, grabbing air where my body was.
“Now?”
“I’m covered in blood! For Christ’s sake, Spencer!”
“Does your nose still hurt?”
It’s the loophole I need to escape. “A lot,” I say, pouting. “Maybe the hot water will help.”
“Okay, honey, I’ll wait for you here,” he says with sympathy.
•••
I wrap the shower curtain around me as I soak in the tub. My thoughts escape me like the blood dripping from my nose and mix with the water. For once, just once, I would like to be able to have a moment with Spencer and not feel guilty about it. But Clad is my knight in shining armor, he’s come to my rescue many times over, and I don’t know how Spencer can compete with that.
I’m beginning to think that I’ll never fully be happy with Spencer; because Clad has given me extra lives, and like a video game character I have lived more than once, died more than once. My dad might be right, I owe Clad for the very air I breathe. I owe him for the pain I feel in my bruised nose and the heat of the water against my skin.
Spencer knocks on the door and I moan internally.
“Can I get you something?”
“Some clothes, please.”
“Be right back,” he says.
I push my head under and scream. The bubbles trap my scream and carry it to the surface. We had a date planned tonight, at the Coconut Festival; it’ll just be another opportunity for me to be struck with guilt for choosing Spencer over Clad.
“Got them,” Spencer says knuckling the door again.
“Come in.” I’m really too tired to be ashamed of my naked body.
“What are you doing? You’re so funny,” he says pushing the curtain from me.
“I feel miserable,” I say. “Maybe we shouldn’t go out.”
His eyes skate all over my body, my moving mouth the last thing he sees. “Spencer!” I pull the curtain around me again. “Just listen to me. Stop looking and listen!”
“What? I’m sorry, I was distracted,” he says coming out of it.
“This is never going to work if you keep staring at me like that,” I say exasperated.
“Like what?”
“Like you want to put me between two pieces of bread and eat me!”
“You’re so delectable,” he says licking his chops. “I can’t help but look at you that way.”
“Well, you have to help it, if we’re ever going to do it. I feel like you’re scrutinizing me and it makes me uncomfortable.” I test him by drawing back the curtain, his eyes stay locked on my face.
“Are we having a staring contest?”
“Forget it, where are my clothes?”
I stand up, and keeping his eyes on my face Spencer wraps me in a towel and helps me out. His arms around me and my hands holding up the towel, we stare at our reflection in the steamed up mirror. Spencer’s eyes glow like they have been replaced with lightning bugs. I can’t seem to make my mouth change from its rigid frown.
“You aren’t happy,” he says, the lightning bugs flying from his eyes.
“It’s nothing.”
“You’re mad at me for hitting you.”
“Furious,” I say. “Let’s go.”
“Is that sarcasm?”
“It’s whatever you want it to be.”
His hands leave my shoulders. He makes a show of placing a folded hoodie on the counter and then walks out. I dress quickly so I won’t have time to think.
When I come out of the guest bedroom, Sarah is whispering something to Spencer in the hallway.
“Oh, hi, Spencer was just telling me that you guys are going out tonight. Have fun!” Sarah says, in the fakest voice I think I have ever heard.
“Are you ready yet?” Spencer asks.
“Ready.” I sigh.
He grabs my hand and pulls me out of the hallway. “Are we okay?”
“We’re just fine.”
He doesn’t say anything more. I follow him out the door to his truck. I sit in the backseat and he tilts the rearview mirror to see me, his eyes rolling up to his brows and mouth tightening into a thin line.
Is this what ‘just fine’ feels like? Spencer’s face repeatedly pulls itself together, like clothes drawn on a line. I put my hand on top of his and he grimaces. Careful, you wouldn’t want your face to get stuck like that, I think .
“Your nose is bleeding again,” he says, handing me a napkin.
I tilt my head back, gravity pushing the blood and tears back inside of me, where they belong. We aren’t okay. We aren’t just fine. We’re on rocky ground.
•••
The sky is a starless plum color when we finally reach the festival, ending our seemingly infinite voiceless drive. I hop out of the truck and stretch my arms over my head, I point my feet and twirl. Spencer slides out of his seat like a greasy slice of pizza sliding off a plate. He has a deep-rooted scowl on his face.
“Come on let’s go ride the Ferris Wheel. And get cotton candy!” I take his hand and drag him and I’m met with a resistance, like he has dug his heels into the dirt. My nose is throbbing and my nostrils are blocked with blood, but I’m willing to ignore it for a chance of happiness with Spencer. After all, it is our first date.
When we get to the front of the festival we are met by a block of teenagers and families. Spencer and I join the disorderly line to buy tickets for the rides.
“What do you want to go on first?” he asks, his scowl receding.
“Maybe the flying pirate ship or teacups…”
“We have to go on the Ferris Wheel, it’s the most romantic ride here.”
“Yeah…what’s more romantic than spinning in a circle?”
“I don’t know,” he says, holding my hand up for me to spin. “When your hair is flying from your head and you’re smiling so wide and breathless, I think spinning in circles could possibly be the most romantic thing ever.”
When he says this, I realize how much I feel that I’m lost in the middle of a spin. Stuck in that breathless moment of dizziness, as I try to choose between him and Clad.
It’s not really a choice, Bailey, my internal dialogue says. Clad’s in prison but Spencer- he is here, right now.
Spencer smiles at me and coils his fingers around mine; I smile back, my thoughts so secret to his mind. He purchases two bracelets—the plastic kind that takes a chainsaw just to remove. And after we’ve been tagged, we’re permitted to en
joy ourselves in the cage of flashing popcorn lights, greasy foods, and screams of laughter.
Red lights, green lights, blue lights, yellow lights. I’m a hamster in a maze who has just met a piece of cheese; awe and pleasure cross my face.
“Let’s go on the boats!” Spencer says, pulling me behind him. I stumble over my boots, giggling at the disorienting run we have broken into. Boats float in the water, move slowly against the surface, but at the festival they bounce in the air and spin at high speeds.
We flash our bracelets and are shown to our own galloping boat. I start out sitting with space between Spencer and I, but as the ride picks up speed the ventricle force pushes us together. He puts his arm around me and I laugh a shaky ‘I-don’t-know-if-I should-be-scared-or- thrilled’ laugh.
The ride slows down and my hair falls back into place on my head, I unglue myself from Spencer. “That was intense!” he yowls, throwing his fists in the air.
“Yeah… intense…” I say, trying to hold back vomit and walk off the ride with wobbling legs.
He points out the next ride and I shake my head at the sight of the Mega Drop. “Why not something easy, like the Ferris Wheel?” I say, trying to steer him away from the heart pounding drop.
“We can go on that after, baby. I want to go on this one!”
“But we just went on your ride! That’s not how taking turns work,” I say.
“Please, please, pretty please?” he begs.
“Oh, all right,” I heave. “Ferris Wheel after this, promise?”
“Sure, sure, whatever—hurry up, the line is getting long!” He takes my wrist and tugs me. I let him pull me along because running is out of the question- I have yet to rid myself of my sea legs from the Spinning Ships.
The gate opens and the riders flood to seats that look like infant car seats. Spencer pushes me into one and pulls a bar over my head. I snap my harness. The ride starts with a jerk and we are sent into the air with a view of the entire festival. My nerves kick in. The bright lights and carnival music are a trick to make me think it’s all fun and games, but I know that the only thing keeping us from plummeting to our death are a few wire cables and a safety bar.