Heartbreaker

by Maryse Meijer

  * * *

  I have no eyes anymore, or eyelashes. There are no more shirts, or bellies, or breath, or birds, or blood; there are no seas, or sheets; there are no animals, and there are no masters of animals. These things are gone, along with the rest of the beauty of the world, which I despised, and only I remain, reigning over all I have unmade, the last bad daughter, free of all proud fathers.

  HEARTBREAKER

  There’s a party at Melissa’s. The door is open and some people are sitting on the porch steps drinking vodka shots from plastic cups. Natalie gets a beer from the cooler and sits on the couch in the living room. Some guy is standing in front of the only working fan with his shirt puffed out over it, and when he sees her looking at him he raises his cup and smiles.

  What’s up? he says.

  Natalie shrugs. I don’t know, she says. Nothing.

  * * *

  After two beers she walks home, her toes blistering in her shoes. It’s nine o’clock but it’s still hot and the sky is bright purple. Boredom is like a virus wrestling in her stomach and her jaw aches from what the boy at the party did to her, taking his time; she almost fell asleep. She wonders if her neighbors have any weed they will give her.

  On her street she sees Frog riding his skateboard, smiling his stupid smile. She doesn’t know what’s wrong with him exactly that he smiles like that, like a dog, at everything and everybody, even when someone is calling him Faggot or Freak or Frog, or messing with his skateboard, threatening to kick his ass.

  Hey Frog, she says. Remember me? Natalie?

  Yeah, yeah, he says, blinking like he has something in his eye. Hi!

  How are you?

  Good, he says. He gulps when he talks, his lips wet and open. She lifts the hair off the back of her neck, then lets it drop back down again.

  It’s kind of late to be out skating, she says.

  I have to practice, Frog says.

  For what, the Special Olympics?

  He blinks.

  Can you jump off that curb? she asks, pointing to the end of her street.

  Yeah! Frog shouts, and he takes off, his sneaker pushing hard against the concrete, flipping the board up and over; for a moment he is in the air, his arms flung out, the board spinning below him, and then both he and the board land together.

  Did you see? he shouts from the end of the street, breathing hard.

  Yeah, she yells back. That was really good.

  You want to try? he asks, skating back. She shakes her head.

  I have to go. But I’ll see you around, okay?

  Okay, he says, Bye, and she can feel him watch her walk away.

  * * *

  She is starting her sophomore year again because she missed too much class the year before and flunked out. Sitting at the scarred wooden desk, she feels giant, overgrown, though she is the same size as everyone else. She has to be asked twice to give her name in Spanish class. When people talk it’s like trying to hear something underwater. From her desk she can see the portable classroom buildings where they have the special ed for Frog and the wheelchair kid and the girl who got burned and wears a hat all the time. If Natalie fucks this year up maybe they’ll put her with the freaks and she can drool and eat Goldfish crackers and play with puzzles all day.

  Do you ever wonder what it’s like to be retarded? she asks Melissa in the cafeteria line.

  No, Melissa says, but I bet it would suck. I mean, right?

  I guess, Natalie says, taking a package of chips from a basket, then putting it back. But maybe you’d be too stupid to know. Maybe it’s just like being a little kid your whole life.

  You can’t be so stupid that you don’t know you’re retarded, Melissa says.

  Good point, Natalie says, and laughs.

  * * *

  After school she stops by the 7-Eleven. She sees Frog’s mom getting a drink from the fountain machine. Natalie stands right next to her, going through the magazines, but Mrs. Hoff doesn’t turn her head. She watches as the woman, overweight in a defiant sort of way, takes her change and her cigarettes and her Big Gulp and walks out to the parking lot, sucking up soda through the straw.

  You can’t read those if you’re not going to pay for them, the man tells the girl.

  I have money, Natalie says, angry, taking a magazine and dropping it on the counter. She looks out the window in time to see Mrs. Hoff get into her car, the skirt of the woman’s dress catching in the door when she slams it shut.

  * * *

  She ends up at Frog’s house an hour later. She knocks, loud, then stands back on the porch with her hands on her hips, chewing gum. Mrs. Hoff comes to the door and sticks her head out.

  Yeah, she says, her eyes sleepy, a cigarette between her fingers.

  Is Frog home?

  Mrs. Hoff squints. Frog?

  I mean Christopher.

  Yeah, why?

  I want to talk to him, she says, shrugging.

  Chris! Mrs. Hoff yells, and turning away she leaves the door open, so that Natalie can see the light from a television flickering on the hallway wall.

  Hi, he says, smiling that crazy smile.

  Hi, she says. Did you miss me?

  Yeah.

  I wanted to give you a present, she says, leaning forward.

  A present?

  For your birthday.

  My birthday’s next month! he almost shouts.

  It’s an early present, she says. Because we’re friends.

  Thanks, Frog says, spitting a little. He wipes his lips. Sorry, he adds.

  Do you want to know what it is?

  He nods. Natalie glances behind Frog into the house, then looks back at him, into his big pale eyes.

  You have to promise not to tell. It’s a secret.

  Promise, he says quickly.

  She pulls out a magazine from a plastic bag and hands it to him.

  Oh, he says as the magazine falls open. In the centerfold a woman lies on a bed, her hand between her legs. Frog stares.

  Natalie smiles. Nice, huh?

  He keeps on staring.

  You like it? she asks, spitting her gum over the end of the concrete porch.

  Yeah, he says. She looks at his crotch.

  Are you getting a hard-on, Frog?

  He keeps staring at the photo, the way Natalie sometimes does in math class, like if he looks long enough the answer will magically appear.

  You can use it, for later, she says. Now hide it before your mom sees.

  He just looks at her.

  Never mind, she says, taking the magazine from him. When you want to see it you can come to my house, okay?

  Yeah, Frog says, staring at the bag as she tucks the magazine away. His face is as smooth as an eggshell, no scars, no acne, not even freckles.

  You’re lucky, she says, and he says, Yeah.

  * * *

  The next day, a Saturday, she gets the magazine out from under her bed. She lies down with her back to the door and examines a spread showing two women in red lingerie kissing. In the back of the magazine there are ads for penis pumps and blow-up dolls and phone sex. She dials one of the 800 numbers and listens to a girl’s voice asking her for her credit card information. She hangs up, then lifts the receiver again and calls 411 to ask for Chris Hoff’s number. She writes it on her hand.

  Hello, he answers.

  Frog?

  I’m Chris, he says.

  Duh, she says. Is your mom home?

  No, he says.

  Good. She turns over on her back, the phone tucked under her chin. What are you doing?

  Watching TV.

  What are you watching?

  SpongeBob, he says.

  Sponge what?

  It’s my favorite show! he says.

  She sighs. I wish I had a favorite show. I’m bored.

  Yeah, he says.

  Are you thinking about me? she asks, her legs propped up on her windowsill, staring at the blunt ugly concrete of the neighbor’s house an arm’s length away. He does
n’t say anything, just breathes into the phone.

  Did you think about me today? she repeats.

  Um, he says.

  Did you touch yourself?

  Huh?

  I want you to stop acting so stupid, she says. I asked you a question.

  I’m not stupid. He says it like something his mother taught him to say, like Please or No thank you.

  Don’t be mad, she says, I was just kidding.

  Okay, he says.

  Why do you think I talk to you? she asks. She pushes her foot through the open window and out into the air and waits.

  You called me, he says.

  You’re right, she says, I did, and she hangs up.

  * * *

  She goes to the kitchen to make dinner: her mother is standing by the sink, in her robe with her hair in a towel, drinking coffee.

  Who was on the phone? her mother asks.

  Chris Hoff, Natalie says.

  Her mother frowns. Doesn’t he have Down syndrome or something?

  Natalie shrugs. I don’t know what he’s got. She puts a bag of popcorn in the microwave and watches it swell with steam.

  But he’s got something wrong, her mother says.

  I guess, yeah.

  She takes the popcorn out of the microwave and dumps it into a bowl. She eats it standing up next to the sink while her mother looks at her.

  I got a job, you know, her mother says, lifting her chin.

  Great, she replies, licking butter from her fingers.

  I don’t know why you want to be making friends with retards.

  Even retards need friends, Natalie says.

  * * *

  She watches an episode of Cops, during which a black girl punches a white girl during Mardi Gras and the white one spits out a tooth. She sucks her own front teeth, which aren’t bad considering she’s never been to the dentist, and then she fumbles around in a pile of dirty clothes for a lip gloss.

  Mom, she yells, I’m going out, and the front door slams behind her.

  * * *

  She walks along his driveway to the back of his house, through the white iron gate stuttering on a broken hinge. She’s not even trying to be quiet, but nobody hears the dry grass cracking under her feet. She looks through his bedroom window; a poster of a cartoon character and some skateboard stickers are stuck to the wall. He’s sleeping in his jeans with the lights on, his sneakers filthy on the blanket. After a while Mrs. Hoff comes in with a microwave dinner. He eats it there on the bed, by himself, sometimes using a plastic fork, sometimes his fingers. When he drinks his milk his Adam’s apple jumps. He wipes his mouth with the neck of his shirt and when he’s finished eating he looks at the wall, his mouth open. His mother doesn’t come back in. At one point he laughs, a single hard sound. She taps on his window but it’s too dark for him to see her and he just stares at the glass, looking at himself.

  * * *

  The next night she waits for him at dusk, walking the block back and forth and listening for the sound of his skateboard. Soon enough he comes out of his house, arms flung out at his sides.

  Hi you, she says. He stops, holding his board by the lip, breathing hard through his mouth.

  Hi.

  Where are you going?

  Nowhere, he says.

  You wanna come over to my house? Hang out?

  She takes his hand, which is damp but cool, almost rubbery. His fingers are limp. She squeezes.

  You can bring your skateboard, she says. Come on.

  She leads him down the street and into her dark house. As she opens her bedroom door Frog stops.

  It’s okay, she says, just relax, and he follows her inside. They stumble over clothes and shoes as she takes him to her bed and they sit side by side, their knees touching.

  I bet you’ve been waiting to see this again, Natalie says, and slides the magazine out from under her pillow.

  Yeah, he says.

  We can share, she says, opening the magazine over their laps. You tell me which one you like best.

  She turns the pages. Frog stares, his head moving slowly as she directs him to each new page.

  How about this one? she asks, and he nods and says, Yeah.

  What do you like about her?

  She has pretty hair, he says.

  What about her pussy? Do you like that?

  Yeah.

  You want to fuck her?

  Yeah.

  You ever seen a girl without her clothes on? Not in a magazine, but a real girl?

  No? he says, like a question. She laughs. He’s like a plant, alive but volitionless; she can’t see any sign that he is actually thinking. This is kind of sad to her, but also kind of funny. He smells like corn chips.

  You just sit there, she says, and I’ll show you.

  She pushes the magazine to the floor and stands up. She pulls her top over her head, then steps out of her skirt, forgetting the hole in her underwear, the torn lace on her bra. She starts grinding her hips, arching her back, flipping her hair, humming. She does all the things she’s wanted to do with other guys but felt too embarrassed to: dance, pose, put her head back, touch herself.

  You’re pretty, Frog says.

  Thank you, Natalie says, and her smile is genuine. She goes down on her knees and looks him in the eye, close enough to see the dandruff in his hair, the baby fuzz clustered around his lips.

  What do you think? she asks, opening his knees a little so she can slip between them. You want to see more? She puts his hand to her breast, squeezing her fingers over his. His body goes rigid.

  It’s okay, she croons. Here, look. She starts to unhook her bra and then slips the straps over her shoulders, slow, before letting it fall to the floor.

  See? she says, reaching out to touch him, but he flinches and turns his head.

  I said it’s okay, she says, grabbing for his hand, trying to pull him back to her, but he screeches, like a cat or a bird, and she lets go.

  I go home, I go home! he cries, cowering, a bubble of snot hanging from his nose.

  Get out, then, you fucking idiot, she hisses, throwing her jacket at his head. His nose keeps running and he doesn’t wipe it. Get out, she says again, and he scrambles to the door. She follows him, mostly naked, her hair swinging in her face.

  You forgot your board, dumbass! she yells, and he stops and looks at her, his eyes glittering in the dark, his red mouth distorted by fear and stupidity, still smiling.

  * * *

  Natalie brushes her hair until it crackles. Her mascara has dried up; she plunges the wand in and out of the tube, then throws it against the wall. Cheap shit, she says to herself, and puts on more eyeliner.

  She goes to Melissa’s. It’s Thursday and there are twenty people there, maybe more. She gets sucked into a kitchen full of boys. The table is covered in beer bottles, ashtrays, exploding bags of chips; someone’s brother just turned twenty-one and there is a sheet cake that people are eating with their fingers.

  Hey Felicia, one guy says as she walks to the table, grabbing a handful of Doritos.

  I’m not Felicia, she says.

  Oh, he says. No one gets up for her to sit down so she just leans against the stove while they talk. She gets bored hearing about TV, movies, other girls. Everyone is talking at the same time. For a while it’s like she’s turned into a zombie, not really thinking anything, her body numb. She lets her eyes go out of focus so that everything blurs together and for a moment she thinks she knows what it’s like to just not exist. Then someone bumps into her arm and she snaps out of it.

  Do you have a cigarette? she asks no one in particular. A boy fumbles in his pocket, shaking his head.

  You have to start bringing your own shit, he says, and Natalie rolls her eyes, taking the cigarette he offers.

  You know that retard at school? Frog? she says, taking a drag. Her shirt rides up over her hip, exposing a strip of skin and bone.

  Oh man, someone says, slapping his jeans. That guy’s fucking hilarious.

  The
y all take turns imitating Frog’s expression, the way he talks, his loose-armed way of walking, until they’re hysterical with laughter.

  Well, she cuts in, blowing cigarette smoke to the ceiling. I fucked him.

  Everyone stops talking.

  Damn, one guy says, leaning back in his chair.

  Serious? another guy asks.

  Yeah, she says.

  What’s his dick like?

  Like a dick, idiot. He’s retarded, not deformed.

  The table is quiet for a moment; then she winks, and they grin and laugh and get more drinks and drink them and she goes into the backyard with someone: but right before it happens she pulls her arm from his grip and says No, I don’t want to, and the boy is slapping at her clothes but she slaps right back until he is off her, cursing. Melissa calls to her from the porch, but Natalie shakes her head and walks fast, her arms around her waist; when she is home she sits down hard on her bed, swallowing, pressing her palms to her eyes until it hurts.

  * * *

  Frog, she says on the phone, into his answering machine. It’s me.

  What do you want? Mrs. Hoff says, picking up the phone, and the girl is too startled for a moment to say anything.

  What? Mrs. Hoff repeats.

  I want to talk to Frog, the girl says. Where is he?

  At a friend’s.

  A friend’s? Natalie says. She is lashed by jealousy, rage. She clenches the phone until her knuckles go white.

  He can’t talk to you, Mrs. Hoff says, and hangs up.

  * * *

  It’s almost noon by the time she gets to school. She doesn’t have her books or her backpack; her hair is uncombed, her top from the night before wrinkled and stained under the arms. As she cuts through the main building, she sees that someone has written on her locker in black marker Natalie Harper fucks retards.

  She punches through the heavy double doors and strides toward the special ed bungalow at the back of the field. Soon the bell will ring for lunch and there will be students everywhere, streaming across the hot grass. But for now it’s just Natalie, and the bungalow, and Frog’s face through the window, turned toward a piece of paper on his desk.