The Dead Inside

by Cyndy Etler

  “This is Cyndy,” she says, tilting her chin at me.

  None of them say hi. For two lifetimes, we just stand there—me with my eyes on the biggest guy’s belly, them with their eyes wherever. I feel like I’m electrified, all crackly and glowing. This is real life, on a dark city street, surrounded by hoods. Fuckin’ A.

  Ever cool, Joanna breaks the silence.

  “I copped,” she says to the big guy. To Shithead.

  “Good girl,” he tells her. He reaches out and pinches her nipple through her shirt. And Joanna just jabs her shoulder at him, breaking off the pinch.

  “Fucking Shithead!” she goes, but she’s laughing. The nipple’s standing out against her shirt, hard as a doorbell.

  Then the dude with the Miami Vice hair and polo shirt is shoving his palm at Joanna. It’s gotta be Rich D’agostino.

  “Lemme have it,” Rich says to Jo.

  “Jesus. Chill, asshole,” she says back, but she’s sucking in her belly, squeezing her fingers into the pocket of her skintight Levi’s. She pulls out the little baggie and hands it over.

  Now watch: this’ll be the moment they talk to me, wanting to know what kind of pot I like. Fuck! Why do I wear this Stoned button? All it does is make people ask questions I can’t answer. When everyone starts moving, I run-skip ahead and fake deafness. Still, I catch slips of sentences.

  “Who’s got papers?”

  “Anyone got a bowl?”

  What do we need bowls for? I thought you smoked pot. Thank God I don’t have to know, because I’m in my own bubble. I’m flying through Bridgeport air, through the fizziest night of my life.

  “Where’d she get those?” I hear from behind me. They’re talking about me. They’re talking about…my boobs.

  Joanna’s words, “Shut up,” are drowned by more laughter. Like, sharp, razor laughter.

  Five minutes later, we’re at the Zarzozas’. Shithead goes first, leading us around the car on blocks, the upside-down armchair in the driveway. I’m at the back of the line, behind this chopstick of a kid. He must be Steve D’agostino. There’s no streetlights or anything, so when he stops short, I bash right into his back.

  “Hey, sorry,” I tell him, and he actually turns and looks at me. And smiles.

  “No prob.”

  His bangs are even longer than mine, all the way down to his nose. When he tosses his head and his bangs swing sideways, you see long, long lashes and cow-brown eyes. Maybe he’s cute. Maybe I get why Jo likes him.

  When me and Steve get around back, the rest of the group is leaning on this huge dead tree that lies across the yard. I stand next to Steve in the perfect spot, where two limbs as thick as cans of soup form a V. I can’t see anyone’s face real good, only their outlines, so I don’t know what’s happening, exactly.

  “Fucking careful, man!” Jo says.

  “Chill out and gimme yer lighter,” a guy snaps back.

  That’s Rich. He’s not the nicest guy. You can tell. But Joanna chills, or at least, she doesn’t say anything back to him. I wonder what Mr. Azore’s doing right now. I wonder what he’d think of how his twenty got spent.

  Click-shhhhhhh. A face is lit with an orange glow. It’s a big face, probably Shithead’s. He’s holding something up to his mouth, something shorter and wider than a cigarette. He’s got the lighter sideways over it. I don’t know what the fuck he’s doing, ’cause he’s holding the flame in just one spot. Shouldn’t the thing be lit by now, for crap’s sake? Finally the flame goes out. I can’t see, but I can feel everyone’s eyes fastened onto him.

  “It’s good shit,” he croaks, in a voice that sounds like it hurts.

  He hands the thing he’s holding to Rich and then barks out a cough, which makes everyone but me crack up.

  So this is getting stoned? And I’m supposed to know what I’m doing? Jesus. I better watch what the fuck Rich does.

  When the mystery thing gets to me, I grab it from Tony’s hand, like I’ve done this a zillion times. And I swear, it’s like Satan’s biting my fingertips.

  “Ooowww! What the fuck?”

  Those are the first words I say to these guys. Nice. Tony cough-laughs and pulls the thing—the boiling hot, little fucking metal pipe—away from me; I stick my burnt fingertips into my mouth. Was Go Ask Alice this stupid, before she turned cool? Couldn’t she have given us directions?

  “You gotta hold the bowl at the middle part, Cyndy. At the glass part. You ever smoked pot before?”

  Tony’s on to me. He knows what a loser I am. He totally smells my hot nervousness. But I cover it up with my Kim voice.

  “Course I have.”

  “Sure you have.”

  Shithead peels off of the trunk and steps over to me, a greasy warmth coming off his body. Before I can tell how I feel about this, his hot dog fingers are clamped over my mouth and a metal circle’s pushed between my lips. It clacks against my teeth.

  “Okay, lock your lips around it. When I light the bowl, inhale. But don’t open your mouth.”

  My heart is pumping blood so fast, I can hear it skidding through my veins. This moment is vital. If these guys don’t like me, I’ll never get to come back. I’ll be stuck in Monroe forever, in that devil house with Jacque. I have to get this right. I will get this right.

  I tighten my lips and lift my eyes. Shithead’s face is so close he could take a bite outta me. With a click of the lighter, he’s all lit up. He’s got shark-teeth.

  After my father died, but before my mother met Jacque, Kim and I would play this game called Damsel in Distress. A villain would capture a damsel and tie her to the railroad tracks. She would scream, “Help! Help!” and then, right before the train hit, a hero would show up to save her. Kim always got to be the damsel, of course. And I always had to be the villain. And the hero. When I pictured what the villain would look like, Shithead’s face was pretty much what I saw.

  He brings the flame to the end of the pipe and I inhale thorny smoke.

  “Hold it in! Hold it in!” he’s saying, his face even closer than before.

  From behind him I hear cheering and a “Yeeaaaah!”

  There’s a lumberjack in my throat trying to ax his way out, but I hold it in. I hold it ’til an invisible kick in my back knocks me forward, slamming the smoke out of my lungs. My hands catch my knees, and I crouch there and hack. I hack out flames and axed-up throat chunks.

  But after that there’s this feeling of…well…winning. I smoked pot, and the man-boys cheered. I’m here in Bridgeport, in this blue ink night, so crisp you could snap it in half. I’m surrounded by tough guys, cool guys, where Jacque could never find me.

  So this is what it’s like, getting high. Getting high equals getting safe. Yeah. Now I see why everybody wants it.

  2

  GUYS MUST WEAR SHIRTS—GIRLS MUST WEAR BRAS

  When I’m done hacking up a lung, I stand and lean back against the tree. Its bark is slick as I rub my hands over the trunk. Everyone’s silent, but I know they’re all watching me. They’re seeing how I’m the same as them, tight jeans and dirty shoes, and how I got stoned. They’re wishing I’d stay here. I turn around to tell them yes—I’ll stay here with you! I will!—but they’re not looking at me. They’re not looking at anything. Joanna’s lighting the bowl and sucking on it, and Tony’s facing Joanna. The rest of the circle has their heads down, like heavy flowers on weak stems.

  I don’t know what to do, so I look at the ground and study our shoes. There are four pairs of scuffed-up work boots. One of the pairs is small, for a girl. There’s one pair of Topsiders, and a pair of wet gray Keds. My Keds look like baby shoes next to the work boots.

  When the pipe comes around the circle again, Steve fits it into my hand and lights it for me. This time, when I bend over to choke afterward, I’m not so surprised. This time, nobody cheers. The stars shine; the moon grins. Eventual
ly everyone creaks themselves up and lumbers like dinosaurs toward the Zarzoza house.

  Down in the basement, behind a dungeon door, is Shithead’s room. A curtain cuts the room in half, hiding whatever’s behind it. There’s a cot against one wall, the creaky, uncomfortable kind. That’s where I sit, between Steve and Shithead. Our butts press into the scratchy army blanket.

  Voices start and stop; laughter jumps and falls. But none of it is mine. What can I say to make them laugh? “Hey guys! Did you get a load of my shoes?” I need to do or say something. I need to earn my place. But since I have zero ideas, I’m fucked. As soon as they talk to me, they’ll learn: there’s no reason to want me here.

  I’ve gotta avoid my trial.

  “I don’t feel very good,” I garble out.

  I push up from the cot and go to the curtain, sliding through the opening. On the other side, I’m better. Out of the spotlight. Alone.

  Through the glow from the curtain slit, I see Shithead’s stuff: a jumbo-size water bed, a side table, and a small rectangular window with the glass painted black. On the nightstand there’s a magazine with the pages folded back; the page facing up shows a naked lady. So, of course, I tiptoe over to it. The lady’s sucking her own nipple! Is that what boys want girls to do? I flip the magazine over all quiet, so they won’t think I was looking. Then I just stand there, frozen, as the voices keep rumbling from the other side of the curtain.

  Okay. They’re not listening to me. I kneel on the edge of the water bed, where the hard wooden box meets the rolling rubber mattress. Then I lie down, and it’s like a whole body sigh. The waves shift underneath me. Safe. I’m safe.

  There’s a stretch of quiet that’s broken by gunshot laughter. And then the curtain parts, shooting an arrow of light across the room. I freeze and hold my breath. God, let me seem asleep. Don’t make me talk to anyone. As soon as I open my mouth, they’re gonna say, “Jo, get that girl outta here. Come back when she’s gone.”

  Through my lashes, I see the thin arrow of light. Then it’s gone. It’s dark, and someone’s in here with me. I sense it: a presence, thick and silent.

  The someone moves toward me while the voices keep going. My heart is pounding out Morse code as the someone lies down next to me, kicking up rubber-mattress waves. My eyes are closed, my breathing’s quiet. My Bonnie lies over the ocean. I never liked that song when we had to sing it in music class—because how could she be lying over an ocean? Now, I think I get it.

  The someone’s hand is on my stomach. The hand starts moving up.

  They have to like me.

  I have to seem asleep.

  My Bonnie lies over the sea. It’s not a bad song, really. The hand is up to my bra, heavy-thumbing me through the thin, fake silk. The thumb is rough, and my belly tumbles backward. I’m breathing quiet. I’m not letting this happen, because I’m asleep. I’m dreaming about elementary music class.

  My Bonnie lies over the ocean, now bring back my Bonnie to me.

  Now two hands are on me. They’re pulling my shirt up, scrunching it under my chin. Thick fingers are burrowing beneath the underwire of my bra. They’re pushing the underwire up and over my boobs. The hands spread over them like spiders.

  Bring back, bring back, bring back my Bonnie to me, to me. The hands belong to Shithead. I know it because when the head moves down and the mouth latches onto me, I flick my eyes open. The hair is dark; the body is big. Too big for a teenager.

  My body’s a blender on high. Sparks and tingles are zinging all over me, from my z-z to my boobs, like Pop Rocks. I can’t believe this is happening to me. I don’t know if I want this happening to me. No, I don’t know that this is happening to me. Because I’m asleep. I am stoned and asleep with my Bonnie.

  A door slams upstairs somewhere, and the mouth unlatches with a pop. Shithead sits up, hard and fast, which turns the water bed into a tidal wave. I’m choking on the roll of cloth and underwire as my uncovered boobies turn cold, as the gummy stamp of spit burns into me. I need to pull my shirt down. I need to rub the slime off my boob, maybe ’til it bleeds. But since I’m asleep, I can’t move.

  Shithead’s palm lands flat on my stomach with a slap. He leans into my face and says one word.

  “Hosebag.”

  His footsteps cross the room, back through the curtain, as I curl up like a shrimp. From the other side of the curtain I hear a question, clear as water.

  “What’s she doing?”

  And an answer.

  “Lying there.”

  Not sleeping. Lying there. I squeeze my eyes tighter, squinching out thoughts of my plain white boobs. If I’m not asleep, then that was my choice. Like, I let Shithead do that. God, no. I’m just a deadish body. I lie on the water bed, my boobies unguarded. Minutes tick past.

  I guess I’m safe. Nobody’s thinking about me. My hands are itching to cover up my top. I’m just gonna—

  The curtain jerks open, cutting off my thought. There’s a laugh. In the light, I see Rich D’agostino. Then the curtains fall back together and it’s dark again. I lie as still as a sleeping girl can.

  He talks to me normal, as if I was awake.

  “Hi, Cyndy. Whatchya doin’ back here?”

  Rich sits on the edge of the bed, then wraps his fingers around my boobies like he owns them. Which makes my nips tug tight. Which makes Rich laugh, like I finally thought of something funny to say. Then he moves his palms on me, which makes me feel soft and clean and empty. They make it hard to breathe slow, like a sleeping girl would. Like a girl who wouldn’t let this—like a girl who wouldn’t like this.

  Rich lies his body down along mine. It feels so different from when Jacque does. It still feels scary, but Rich at least is cute, and he has magician hands. When he pushes my shirt higher, my bra flips over and the underwire lands on my chin. It’s embarrassing, but I can’t fix it, since I’m asleep.

  Rich’s hand moves lower. His thumb is under my jeans, and his fingers start pulling at the top button. It doesn’t pop open so he gets mad at it. He jams both hands down my waistband and starts ripping. The first button pops. And then the whole row.

  Rich’s breath is going faster. His hands are on my sides, trying to pull my Levi’s down, but my hips won’t let go of my jeans. My boobs are bouncing around, helpless, but I’ve gotta seem asleep. If I’m letting this happen, Jo will never bring me back here. I do a little “Uh?” to sound realistic.

  My jeans are totally stuck. So is my breath; so is my brain. Even my jeans don’t know if they want what’s happening. But Rich—Rich knows what he wants. Still, even with two hands, he can’t peel off my Levi’s. Panting like a dog, he pushes my feet to my butt, making my knees bend up, and he scratch-curls his fingers into the sides of my Levi’s. Then, with one sharp yank, my pants are halfway down my thighs.

  With Rich’s knees on my feet, I’m a prisoner. I can’t straighten my legs, or push myself away. But Rich stops moving. All the motion dies. I’m cricket-kneed on a water bed, a six-foot man on my toes; from thigh to shoulder, I’m naked. Except for Kim’s fancy underwear.

  Rich is totally still. He must be staring at me. I can picture what he’d see: a blur of hair over a closed-eye face. A scrunched shirt and bra dividing head from boobies. A belly and ribbon-tie underwear. The underwear suddenly feels about the size of a safety pin. Maybe that’s what he’s staring at. He can’t believe how cute they are.

  He must be done thinking now because he presses his hand—which is big as a stop sign—over my hip. It feels like an electric shock, like something very good and bad is about to happen.

  But Rich moves his hand away, and the electricity shorts out. Then there’s a tickle on my hip, and a wave of cool skims my z-z. He—he untied my underwear. He leans over me and undoes the other side, too. Am I about to have sex? Do I want to have sex? Is this how Jo passed the test and got in?

  Like he can read my mind,
Rich starts his laugh again, then cups his massive hand over my z-z. Oh God, oh God. It’s the opposite of when Jacque—of when I lock up, of when Jacque gets in my room. That’s when I make myself hard, a stainless steel padlock. Then nothing can actually happen to me. I just lock up and go to God. But if I wasn’t made of metal, if I could scream, my mother would burst in and save me. I know she would. If she saw what he does, she wouldn’t say that I’m trying to get attention or that I’ll make a great actress someday. She’d save me. But when Jacque—when I’m locked up—I can’t scream. Padlocks don’t make noise once they get snapped shut.

  But none of that matters right now. Right now, with Rich’s hand, I feel swirly and alive.

  Because Rich is moving his fingers, and it feels good.

  I’m naked on this dirty bed.

  But Rich is gorgeous. And so is his hand.

  There’s a bunch of strangers a cloth curtain away.

  But his hand isn’t Jacque’s as it windshield-wipers me.

  I feel melty, like caramel, like I’m floating away from—

  “Hey, Dick. How’s it going back there?” a guy calls.

  The voice is a bolt of lightning. It cuts the dark and shows me what’s really going on. My body’s not caramel, it’s plastic. My butt fat is flattened on my panties, and my legs are spread ugly, held open like a car door by Rich’s arm. My boobs should be called something gross now, like “titties.”

  Rich doesn’t answer the question. Instead, he pushes a raw finger up my z-z, and all of a sudden, he is Jacque.

  “You like that, Cyndy?” he asks, his lips right next to my ear.

  I forgot how to sleep-breathe. Now I’m just lying here. Letting him.

  “You like that, you little hosebag? Hosemonkey.”

  He pushes his finger around, breathing heavy. Heavy enough for both of us. And then he’s sitting up. The water bed shoves me back and forth as he wipes his finger on my belly, and then he’s gone. I’m alone behind the curtain again, just me and the magazine lady, sucking her own tittie.