by Delia Steele
After fifteen minutes of whining and throwing around everything I own, I get an idea. Grabbing a pair of jeans and my sewing kit, I flop down on the floor. It’s been forever since I used this kit, but it’s like riding a bike—I pick up that needle and fall right into step.
An hour later, I hear the front door shut, and Gran sticks her head in my door. “You OK?” I look up and smile a toothy grin. “Yes! I feel better right now than I have in forever, Gran. Not sure it’ll last, but I’m trying,” I say as I hold my creation up for her to see. “Well, that’s nice. Looks more like you than those wide leg, zigzag things you’ve been in or those skintight, uppity bitch pants. Don’t come out for a bit, though. I am working on something myself, and seeing as it’s my house, you need to listen. Give me an hour. I’m old and need extra time.” She walks out, shutting the door. It’s an odd request, but I don’t think much of it because I’m focused on finishing my outfit. I may not have any plans, but I will feel like myself again, and that’s a start. I grab the scissors and start snipping material in every direction. I dig around in my jewelry and fashion a few pieces together. It’s nothing I want, and it’s better than the normal way of using them.
I’ve been at this for a total of three hours, but now it’s all worth it. As I admire my work in the mirror, I smile. It’s genuine and ignites something deep inside me. It’s a small flicker, but it’s there. A reminder that I am somewhere deep inside of me still. I turn and flex my leg as I check everything out.
I ripped some old jeans and sewed the hem to make a denim skirt—I hadn’t even realized I didn’t own one anymore. It’s short, but that’s fine. I’ve worn shorter. I like the top; it’s an old concert tee of Clay’s. It keeps him close and helps me feel more like myself. It’s black but has these weird colorful bears on it. It has a rainbow effect, so it’s cool. I cut the sides out and tied them together, slit a few pieces in the back of it, and added some safety pins to the sleeves and neck to hold it together. I wrapped a thin lime green belt thrice around my neck to make a wild choker-style collar. I hooked a bunch of safety pins together and looped them through my belt loops. It’s slightly odd, but I needed a belt, and it works with the pins on my top. My earrings are plain Jane silver hoops, but they’re big. I slide on some shiny blue boy-cut style panties and give myself a hippy, head-wrap braid. I turn side to side to admire my hair; it’s longer than ever and full of bounce for the first time in days. Grabbing my electric blue heels with the lime green zippers on the back, I step into them, and I love what I see. It’s me. Given, I wouldn’t have worn heels regularly in school, but I have grown to love them over the years. They make me mean-looking, but with that pop of pizazz that is all mine.
“Gran, I need to leave. I have to come out. Are you decent?” I cringe with thoughts of her doing the downward dog with a fellow line dancer. I don’t want to see freaky old people bent up, doing the dirty sex. YUCK!
“I am. Come on out.” I make my way to the living room, stepping slowly. These heels are higher than I’m used to.
“THE FUCK?” I gasp when I walk into the living room. “Are you having a rave, Gran?” I ask, looking at everything. She has a strobe set up, and it’s flickering like crazy off the… “Gran, is that a disco ball?” She just smiles. “Why are there balloons and laser lights everywhere? And what is that noise?” I ask as I notice the fog rolling out from behind the counter that leads into the kitchen. “Fuckin’ A! Fog machines? Dude, I ain’t coming home if you and Mr. Leroy are about to do acid and fuck like rabbits all night in some weird animal costumes or some shit. You’re freaking me out.” I turn in a circle and examine the whole room. I see a cake and walk over to it, “Happy Poor me . . . Poor Amandolette,” I read aloud. “Is this a joke, Gran?” I look at her, confused. “I don’t get it.” She watches me for a minute and then walks to the cake.
“It’s for you, Amandolette Rosalie Riaz. It’s a poor me party for you. If I have to sit here and watch you feel sorry for yourself another day, I may kill myself. You are making me postal, you spoiled-ass, wish-you-were-rich-the-right-way brat. I know your life is hard, I know you are sad, and I know you are confused. Honey, I know you hurt. But you are causing yourself unnecessary pain, and I am drowning in your negativity. Therefore, if I must endure the bullshit you’re dropping all over my raunchy-ass trailer, I figure I will do it with balloons and cake. I went a little overboard with the strobe, I’ll admit, but I needed you to see how dramatic you are being. I can’t and won’t sit back a minute longer.”
I swell up like a puffer fish and release the air. As it moves past my parted lips, I understand her point. “So the strobe was overboard, but not the fog machine?” I point towards the fog rolling towards us, causing the room to get hazy.
“No, Mr. Leroy and I can’t afford a cruise, but if I turn that thing on and we put on our swimsuits, I think we could fake it well enough to believe we are on a balcony of a cruise ship while we get our freak on. Don’t you?” Sorry I even asked.
“You know Mr. Leroy isn’t divorced, right?” I smile because we both know what’s coming.
“Potato, tomato. Dead, divorced. It’s all the same.” I giggle.
“You know that’s not the saying, right?”
“I do, but no matter; you can eat them both. I plan to do . . . well, get my share of the all-you-can-eat buffet. If you catch my drift.” I gag.
“Fuck, Gran, I just puked in my own mouth.” I fight the regurgitation. “I’ll see you later. I’m going to Shooters for a bit.” I hear her say something ugly about Chico, but I don’t listen. He’s all I have now. He’s my only friend. #pathetic
I decide to play a game of pool when I walk in. There aren’t many people here, but there are enough. I grab a beer from the bar and pay for the tray of balls. I don’t have a problem playing alone. I drop a few dollars in the jukebox and start a random mix so it’s not so quiet. I see a few regulars looking at me curiously. They aren’t used to seeing me this way. I am usually untouchable in my overpriced Dior or Vera Wang, but tonight, I’m just me. Well… me plus these killer heels.
I rack the balls to the best of my ability and ram the stick down the table at them. They don’t fly across the felt like when Chico hits them, but they move. I make my way around the table, bending and turning my body for the best angle. I’m submerged in the game and how well I am actually sinking the balls when a hand touches me, and I stand up straight. Chico is smiling as he kisses my cheek. “You look good like this,” he says, smiling at me.
“Thank you, Chico. Wish I could say the same about you.” I’m not being mean, just honest. Chico could use a little weight and a set of dentures. He is a picture perfect druglord’s minion. He doesn’t care about hygiene or fitted clothing. He cares about his cell phone, the next deal, and fast girls.
“You shouldn’t bend over like that in here all alone. Your ass cheeks are showing, and that jerk over there in the corner—he just got released off rape charges.” He cuts his eyes, and I see the guy he’s talking about.
“I wasn’t aware pool halls had a dress code.” I motion to the variety of people walking around. Some are in pajamas, others are in hooker attire, and a few are in items off the Halloween clearance racks. There are even a couple of kids in the corner going at it like it’s a motel and they are the stars of the next up-and-coming, low budget porn. That boy is about to devour her whole boob. NASTY!
I don’t know why Chico stays around me. He loves my father, and he has a decent bank account because of him. I kind of wonder if he is narking on me to Balt. “Why are we friends, Chico? We fight and cuss each other, we can’t stand each other, and we don’t even have anything in common,” I point out, but I don’t get a response. I pull the stick back and slide it forward with a power I wasn’t aware I had. I watch the cue ball fly down the table, hit the yellow ball, ricochet off it, and slam into another, knocking both in before slamming into the third, which follows suit. I jump up and down and squeal in excitement. “Maybe I should become a
shark,” I say jokingly. We start playing a game together, but it is a pointless endeavor. Every other shot, Chico has to stop and walk off with a guy or girl. I take his shots and we laugh about the bad positions I leave him in. Even though we’re playing around, he still takes the game seriously. It’s nice to know he cares about something besides drugs.
I’m about to make the last play of the game when I hear a girl whining. I turn to see she is hanging all over Chico. He doesn’t seem to enjoy it, but he isn’t pushing her off either. I’ve had more than my share of beer, and with my brain-to-mouth filter already faulty, I can’t control myself. I walk over and shove her off him. “Can’t you see he doesn’t want you hanging on him? Catch some class, chica.” I put my pool stick back in the holder attached to the wall. “Who’s this slut, Chico?” the girl asks. “She looks cleaner than most of the girls you mess with.” Leaning in, she attempts to whisper, “I bet her pussy is just as worn out as the rest, though, if not worse. Does she have hers pierced like me? We know you like that. I love the way you pull at it with your teeth.” I don’t care what this busted-up gutter bitch thinks about me, but drunk be damned if I will sit back and listen to her mouth.
“Look here, you little bitch. I may like to fuck, but it doesn’t mean I’m a whore. I ain’t running around stained up in nut juice like you. You’re just a crack head with a big mouth. Fucking tracks on your arms and shit. You think you can talk smack about me when you’re hiding out behind the dumpster shooting Krispy-fried McDrano in your veins. Bitch, you best watch your fucking ass, talking trash to me. Throwing fucking stones won’t get you shit but busted in the fucking mouth with one, you ratchet-ass, cunt-wrinkled, pus-infested herpemite.” I move to walk off, and as always, Chico’s just looking at me. “I didn’t cause that, and you know it. I did nothing to her except tell her to get off you. You didn’t even want her touching you. ” I jab him with my finger in the chest. “You think you’re a player, don’t you, Charlie White Boy Wilson? You couldn’t handle a real woman if she sat on your face and directed you like the spokesman at a fucking Nascar race! It’s one fucking direction, CHARLIE! ONE!”
As I walk off, I hear him mumble, “Poor little Mando. Lived a rich bitch lifestyle but still thinks she knows something about my world.” He is following me out the door, so I stop him in his path. I stick my hand in his face.
“I’m just a trashy girl in rich bitch clothing.” I turn to leave but then pause, looking back at him. “We both know that, and I’m sort of sick of you pointing it out. Trust me, I know better than anyone. I’m just a fake fuck.” I go out the door and get in my car. I would die without this thing. All I seem to do is run from shit these days. #keepsrunningrunning #fuckmylife
I go back into my room at Gran’s and finish off the vodka sitting by my bed. My thoughts incoherent, I pull out my cell phone and see that Clay’s face is shining on the screen. The timer shows it’s been on for about forty-four minutes. I hold the phone to my ear.
“Hello, Clay?” I wait. I haven’t spoken to him since the night I stormed out in a fit of rage.
“Baby, are you OK?”
I break down. His voice is the most perfect sound to ever touch my ears. My mind may be fooled into thinking I don’t miss him, but my heart is dying without him. “Baby.Are.You.OK?” I hear him ask again.
“Yes…right now…hearing you… Yes.” I cry out, heaving frantically. “How are you on the phone right now?” I try to formulate the right words but it comes out jumbled and crazy.
“Mando, you called me. I think it was a butt dial, but I heard you screaming about being trashy and crying. I couldn’t force myself to hang up. Not when I could hear your voice. Even in pain, you still sound like an angel to me. And it’s been too long since I’ve heard my angel.” I sob harder.
“Why are you so nice to me, Clay? After everything I’ve done to you over the years, you are still so good to me.” I wipe my nose on my pillow, not giving two shits about the smeared snot. I still have Clay. That’s what matters. “I just want to be free. I want to fly high and feel no pain. I am so sick of being someone I’m not, trying to please people who don’t even matter. I can’t stand who I am anymore. Everything I do is to please someone else. Who is supposed to please me, Clay? I want to move far away. Maybe live in a jungle, and run naked. I want to be away from electronics and filtered water. I want to wake up and smile and be content. Every day of my life is a hustle, and I am just so tired of it all. I can’t compare to you or Rory. I can’t even compete with my self-image. I lose.”
He says nothing, so I check the connection. When he does speak, it’s choppy and full of static.
“Are you driving, Clay? I didn’t mean to interrupt your night.” I cry even more, thinking he has moved on. He gave up on me, and I can’t blame him. I gave up on myself.
“They’re right; I don’t deserve to be loved. I’m soulless and useless.” I cry so hard I throw myself into a coughing fit, sucking in deep to try to catch my breath.
“You are not useless or soulless. And you deserve more love than anyone I know, Mando. I love you and so do Rory and Gran. Your parents are different. They love you, but they are a different species that I don’t understand. Never underestimate your worth because you are worthy of so much. I’ve only ever wanted to hand you the world. If you’ll let me, I want to try to make you happy. I am sorry if I scared you.” I smile through the tears. “Yes, I’m driving, and no, you didn’t interrupt me. I was just out and about, trying to clear my head.”
I start to respond, but my door flies open, and there stands Clay, staring at me. He is so tall and handsome. Such a sight for these sore eyes. He is smiling, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. His pain is clear.
“I was driving to you,” he says. I drop the phone and jump into his arms.
“How did you know I needed you? You had to have been halfway here when I called you,” I sob into his hair.
“I didn’t know you needed me; I just knew that I needed you. I can’t be without you. You’re the air I breathe. You’re it for me, and if you tell me to leave right now, I’ll die standing here because my heart can’t take this separation anymore.”
I cry harder and wrap myself around his whole body. I look up when I hear a noise and see Gran standing behind us, smiling. I lose sight of her as Clay turns. “Sorry, Gran,” he says. “I know you said to wait, but I couldn’t. She did need me.”
The smile in Gran’s voice matches the one on her lips. “I told you what you needed to hear, Clayton. You pass.”
Gran shuts the door, and Clay resumes our hug, tightening his arms around me and burying his face in my hair. “Did you just sniff me?” I giggle hoarsely.
“I did. Your smell is so unique. All you. I’ve missed it so bad. I never thought I would see you again. The way you left felt so final. It scared me, baby.”
He is right—it was final. It still is. His being here proves I’m weak, and I hate it. However, he is here, and I need something only he can provide. No matter how wrong it is, I know he won’t refuse me, and we both need it.
“Clay, touch me, please,” I moan into his ear. He pulls back and looks me right in the eyes.
“Are you sure? I didn’t come here for this. I just want you. I’m OK with waiting until you’re ready again. No pressure.”
I see the pain in his eyes. I’m so tired of hurting him. I hate being the reason for his sadness. I put as much sincerity in my gaze as I can muster.
“Yes, I’m sure. Make love to me, Clay. I want you to want me.” A lone tear rolls down my cheek. He wipes it away with his thumb, and then I feel his hands wrap around my thighs as he lifts me and hooks my legs around his waist.
“I will want you my whole life. Every time you walk away from me, it kills me a little more, but I’d rather feel that pain and know I met and fell in love with you than to be void and never have known you at all. You are my reason, Amandolette. I live for you now. Can’t you see that?”
I have to stop him before I brea
k down and ruin this moment. I lower my mouth to his ear and start to nibble, knowing that’s like turning the key to his ignition. He follows suit, and his tongue trails down my neck as he walks us to my bed, lowering me so his body is covering mine, setting my mind and body at ease. It’s natural—being with him. The time he takes on my body reminds me of the way he loves me. It’s slow, tender, loving, attentive, and focused. He’s always loved me with so much emotion, handled me with such care. I guess he’s always known that under this tough, ball-busting, penis-punching, hardcore exterior, I am fragile. He sees things in me no one else can. I wish he could see it all…even the ugly parts. I wish I could tell him about my life. But the pain I cause him already is nothing compared to the pain the truth would cause. And it would destroy me to see that kind of hate in his eyes. Clay battles his own demon when it comes to drugs. He has a hate inside him no one knows about except me. And that’s exactly why I refuse to tell him about that sperm-spouting, cunt cavity of a father I have. I’d rather Clay think I’m a slut or cheater than to know the truth.
I feel his hands slip my skirt up and tug at my panties. Lifting my hips, I give my consent to plunder the treasure he seeks. I can’t help but moan as his hands ghost across my skin. It’s been a long, hard separation, and my body is craving his touch. Soaking up his attention like a sponge, my hips buck into him, begging for more. He accepts the challenge. He somehow manages to remove his pants without ever moving his body from my body or his lips from my lips. He refuses to lose this connection, and his dedication is blazing my soul, firing up my heart, and my border is definitely thinking outside the box. His tongue slowly trails down my chest and laps at the sweat my anticipation has worked up.