Tunnel Vision

by Aric Davis

  FOUR

  Betty suffered through the first two periods of school—math and chemistry—and then made her way to the gym. Jake walked with her but the silence between them was palpable, even in the crowded and noisy halls. He knew she was mad, even if it wasn’t really his fault, and he was making it abundantly clear that he had no idea what to do with anything on her face aside from smile.

  “Is everything all right?” Jake asked annoyingly as they parted to head to their respective locker rooms.

  “I’m fine.”

  “All right,” said Jake as he left her in the hall. Betty didn’t look back, but she knew there was likely one of those oh-so-predictable looks of male bewilderment on his face.

  “You’re such a bitch,” called a voice as she entered the locker room, and Betty smiled at the sound. It was June. Betty gave her friend a wave and crossed the locker room to her.

  June Derricks was an awkward girl, too tall, too weird, too loud, and possibly the clumsiest person Betty had ever met, but she loved her all the same. June’s hair was the same color as Betty’s, a quickly fading purple, but hair color was not the only thing the girls had in common.

  June wore stainless steel in her septum and had paired studs in her lower lip, along with a tattoo of a heart on her left wrist. At the moment, she was stripping down from a short skirt and a hoodie covered in patches in order to dress in the ugliest clothes for gym that she’d been able to score thrift shopping before the start of the school year.

  Betty dropped her bag on the bench next to June and began spinning the dials on her lock. June was mock-stretching on a bench, her bony physique in comic contrast to her baggy white shorts, the outfit tied together with neon-pink wristbands and a Spin Doctors shirt that had more holes than fabric.

  “I’m serious, though,” said June. “You are a bitch.”

  Rolling her eyes, Betty pulled her own clothes clear of the locker, then slid her bag off the bench so she could sit. “Fine, I’m a bitch. ‘Fuck Martinez.’ Like the song.”

  “You’re not really a bitch, you’re just callous,” said June, who yanked a headband over her hair and then said, “Of course, the owners of those shattered hearts you’ve left behind might disagree with that.”

  “You’re the worst,” said Betty as she closed her locker. “You’re my friend, and all you do is give me shit. Between the moms and this, I’m not really feeling the love lately. I should probably just run off with some carnies and smoke meth until my teeth fall out, and then when I come back you can throw me an intervention and I can tell you how you drove me away and I only had all of my carny children because you made me feel so bad about myself.”

  “And because you needed someone to run the Tilt-A-Whirl,” said June. “Don’t forget that part.”

  “Yes, and because I needed someone to run the Tilt-A-Whirl,” said Betty. “Exactly right. Wait, hold up. Why are you so concerned about my love life? If I recall, there have been more than a few miscues for little old June Bug, too. Remember that guy you met on Facebook last year? Because if I remember right, you told him that you would—”

  “You need to get that shit out of your mouth,” said June. “I know all of your dirty little secrets, too, so if you want to get nasty, we can get nasty.” June accentuated the words with a snap of her fingers and a quick but violent bobble of her head, and then both girls burst into laughter. “We need to hurry, though,” said June as she sat to tie a filthy Reebok. “I do not need another gym tardy.” She snuck a look over her shoulder. “And you know the Carp has her eyes on us.”

  “The hell with the Carp,” said Betty, not quite brave enough to say the words at maximum volume, lest their gym teacher overhear the forbidden nickname.

  June rolled her eyes.

  “Seriously, though, Betty. You need to let Jake go. You’re going to mess that boy up, and he’s the regular kind. You’ll leave some scars. If you really drag it out, he’ll be one of those guys you see at Meijer’s. You know the type, the ones following the wife around while she shops? Their eyes don’t leave the floor, and it’s all because some mean girl in school was playing ‘collect them all’ and fucked up a few innocents. True story.”

  “Jake is tougher than that, believe me,” Betty said. “And he’s just a thing right now. A fun thing, but that’s it. I’m not trying to be mean; I’m just trying to enjoy myself.” Betty frowned. “And I really don’t think guys like that at the grocery store got that way from high school romance. I think that takes more of a slow beatdown from a domineering wife. Probably how Ophy and Andy would be if Ophelia didn’t have such thick skin.”

  “Hey! Don’t talk shit about your moms. They’re the best. If I could, I’d move into your house right now. At least the moms don’t hate each other. You’ve got easy street compared to my divorced idiots.”

  “Well, right now I’m grounded on easy street, and trust me, just because the moms get along doesn’t mean they’re always easy to get along with.” Betty sighed. “They’re still just parents, and right now they’re pretty pissed off at me.”

  “All I’m saying is you need to stop dragging Jake along,” said June. “I mean, I’m sure he’s enjoying the fringe benefits of hanging out with a lady with your experience, but—”

  “Fuck you,” said Betty with a frown. “I’m not the one who lost my virginity at summer camp.”

  “Cold-blooded,” said June as Betty tittered, and then the bell rang. “All right, we can debate this later, I guess,” she said, and then they were running from the locker room with the flood of girls headed to the gym.

  Down the hall Betty could see Jake and a few of his hockey-playing friends as they spilled into the gym from the boys’ locker room.

  He’s cute, mused Betty, but June is right.

  As cute or cut as Jake might be, he was so far from what she imagined in a boyfriend that it was hard to believe they’d lasted the few months they had. What the hell was she thinking? There was some edgy something about him, though he’d never been anything but funny, cute, and an utter gentleman with her. Maybe it was that dark streak that drew her to him. Jake rarely shied from a fight, on the ice or off it, and Betty had vivid memories of him beating a kid who’d asked for her number outside the mall last summer. The kid had been pushy, but Jake knew he was stronger, and he smiled when he hurt him. She hadn’t been drawn to that, she knew that much. Betty could remember the kid’s screams even more vividly than she could the images of the event that had been all but burned into her mind.

  The girls mixed with the boys in the gym, and the class of sixty lined up in front of their PE teacher, Ms. Suzanne Carpowitz, a.k.a. the Carp. The Carp had earned her nickname from more than just a play on words: the unfortunately pear-shaped and utterly ageless gym instructor had an upturned nose and an absolutely enormous pair of lips. So far as anyone attending her classes knew, Ms. Carpowitz had been called the Carp behind her back since time out of memory, and there had been more than one occasion where another teacher had slipped up and referred to the aggressive woman by her less than complimentary name.

  Fishlike or not, the Carp was a brutal taskmaster, and despite her unathletic appearance, she was as agile and strong as any of the varsity athletes. It was amazing. The Carp seemed to excel at whatever activity they happened to be doing, from tennis to wrestling.

  With a wave of the Carp’s hand and a growled “Warm up,” the coed class began some light calisthenics. Two minutes later, the Carp blew her whistle and the class began to run between the painted lines of the track that rounded the perimeter of the gym.

  Betty had never been much for running. She enjoyed cardio, at least as it pertained to the judo classes she took with her mother, but felt like there was something inherently stupid about just running in a circle. Still, she was dutifully running along in a group with June, not speaking, just pumping her legs and waiting for the Carp to blow her whistle, when she felt a tap on her shoulder.

  Still running, she turned her head to see that J
une had dropped out of the pack and that Jake was now jogging next to her. He gave Betty a short wave, and she faked a smile.

  “What’s wrong?” Jake asked for maybe the two hundredth time. “Please don’t just tell me you’re fine again, I’m serious. Was it something I did?”

  “I’m just grounded and irritable,” said Betty as she spared a look to the Carp. The gym teacher had a hawk’s eye and a hatred for talking in place of sweating.

  All Betty could think as she looked at Jake was what a stupid mistake this whole thing was. The poor boy obviously felt something for her that was never going to be mutual, but she couldn’t think of a single way to say that without sounding horrible. You really are a bitch, thought Betty, and the thought carried a weight that the words spoken by June had been missing.

  “I get it,” said Jake. “And I know that it’s all at least half my fault, and I’m really sorry—”

  “Half your fault?” she said. “You have got to be fucking kidding me, Jake! You sent me that stupid message, and you weren’t joking. And so I did the only thing I could think to do and—”

  A whistle cut her off, and then the Carp’s voice boomed from across the gym. “Martinez, drop and give me ten!”

  Betty groaned and walked to the side of the track, assumed the push-up position, and got to work. She could see Jake running away from her, his perfect calves carrying his muscled body across the floor. Perfect Jake was somehow coming off clean again, even though he was the one always asking to see bewbs and then talking while running.

  Betty heaved against the floor, doing the push-ups as fast as she was able while her classmates circled the track, and for what felt like about the millionth time that week, she wanted to be anywhere except where she actually was.

  FIVE

  My temperature got up to 103 degrees in the week after I killed Gary, but I never even considered the hospital. Instead, I worked my way through my purloined drugs and tried to sleep as much as possible.

  Bad memories came and went with the fever, some of Sam, a lot of Fillmore and Spider. Spider had been easy, in retrospect. I shot him and he fell. When I went after Fillmore, the camp had been put to the torch, and he was in his office trying to make some history disappear. When all was said and done, my hands were raw, he was dead, and there was a money roll in my back pocket. I thought I’d leave it all behind me, but the flames of that day haunted my fevered mind in wakeful dreams and nightmares that have faded in and out ever since.

  The wound in my side had opened up during the fight with Gary, my hand was swollen up like a balloon, and all of my other nagging injuries were finally taking their toll. Coming out of that fever was like being reborn. I had yet to tell anyone besides Lou that I was back in town, but I didn’t even worry about it while I was boiling at home alone. Either I’d see Jeff and Rhino again or I wouldn’t. They know what I do, and I think they both know that one of these days I’m going to just disappear.

  Even now that I’m on the mend, seeing my friends will need to wait, unfortunately. I need money, badly, and there are a legion of messages left for me on dummy Facebook accounts, e-mail addresses, texts, and calls on burner cell phones. I know before I even get started that most of these leads have undoubtedly dried up in my absence, but I start from the top anyway. Gary was supposed to be my salvation, but instead he’d damn near killed me, and now I needed to pick up the pieces.

  It’s two hours later, and the leads are even drier than I expected. The few people who’ve responded to my follow-ups have either given up on the problem or taken to other means to solve it. I’m craving the work that I normally hate—finding out if somebody’s old lady is cheating, or if some employee isn’t quite as injured as they say they are. Those are the boring jobs, but they’re also the ones that pay, and that’s exactly the kind I need.

  Don’t get me wrong, I’ll never forget about what Dad wants me to do, and I sure won’t ever turn down a kid that needs help. I just need a few things to get me back on my feet. Pot grows fast, but it won’t be done tomorrow, so I need a solution that I won’t need to watch grow.

  And then, right when the outlook’s blackest, I get a legit response. A woman named Claire tweets me and wants to get together to talk about some concerns she has for her daughter. She balks when I mention money, but I assure her that we’ll be able to work something out, just as long as she understands that limited funds mean a limited amount of work. I’d love to be a charity for everyone out there that needs help, but this is not the time to be looking out for the rest of the world.

  We cover the fine points, I explain how and where to meet me, and just like that I’ve got a meeting with a client. I’ll admit, it’s not exactly lighting my world on fire the way a spat between a lawyer and a doctor would, but hey, worst-case scenario, I make a few bucks and help the lady out.

  SIX

  Betty soldiered through the rest of school, ignoring Jake’s texts as they came through with increasing frequency. She knew that her moms rarely looked into the phone stuff, thanks to the unlimited plans on their cell phones, but she would have been shocked if they didn’t look this week to see if their whore daughter and that awful pimp, Jake Norton, hadn’t been communicating.

  It was enough to make her sick, and it was only the respite of getting behind the wheel of her ten-year-old Volkswagen Beetle that had any effect on her mood. She drove home while the Ramones sang their mindless and catchy punk through the speakers, and by the time she was home she was smiling despite herself.

  Betty could hear the music before she opened the front door, and though she couldn’t imagine what Ophelia could possibly be painting that would be best influenced by 1990s gangsta rap, she did feel that her mother’s muse was a good one. Suppressing a grin, she walked inside and shut the door after her, grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge and trudged upstairs to work on her homework. In addition to the suffrage paper, she had math homework, an English test in two days, homework for her chem lab in three, and what felt like a mountain of other bullshit on her shoulders.

  Betty sat at her desk and slid her computer from her schoolbag, uncased it, and then waited for a few minutes as it fired up. When the laptop was ready, Betty tossed on a pair of cheap headphones, flicked the mouse to a playlist on iTunes, and then got to work on the suffrage paper.

  As always, she started with Wikipedia. There wasn’t a teacher in the world that would have allowed her to cite from a website so easily, and so often mistakenly, altered by random users, but the bibliography at the bottom of each page was a gold mine. Betty, like most students, hated the search for good sources, but here they were, all properly organized and ready for a couple mouse clicks to transport them to the bottom of her own paper.

  When she was satisfied with the shored-up back end of her paper, even if the majority of the writing was yet to be done, Betty slid the headphones from her ears, stretched in her chair, and headed to the kitchen to see if there was anything worth eating.

  After a brief inspection of the refrigerator, cupboard, and fruit basket, Betty settled on a handful of raspberries and half an apple one of the moms had left in the door of the fridge. Deciding that the fruit would hold her over until that evening’s meal-and-fight, Betty trudged back up the steps, Ophelia’s music providing a bass-driven rhythm that made it impossible not to feel like she was dancing along as she moved.

  Halfway up the steps, though, there came a knock at the door. Most likely the UPS driver. Heaving an annoyed sigh, Betty walked back down and swung open the heavy door without checking the peephole or attaching the U-bolt—both major no-no’s in Andrea’s book—and found before her not the UPS man, but a grinning June.

  “What are you doing here?” Betty asked. “I’m grounded, remember?”

  June shook her head and said, “Doesn’t matter. Does not matter.” The way June’s eyes were bugging out of her head had Betty wondering if her friend might not have decided to embark on a second and more successful attempt at their previous summer’
s goal of buying magic mushrooms, but then she saw the piece of paper June was waving in her right hand.

  “What is that?”

  June pushed past her into the house and on into the dining room. “I rushed over as soon as I saw this,” she said, shaking the paper. “I stopped by Vertigo to see if they had the new Captain, We’re Sinking—they did—and on my way out, I saw this.” She held the paper aloft and shook it again for emphasis, but she was rattling it too hard for Betty to learn anything other than the fact that the paper appeared to be some sort of a flyer.

  “What is that?” Betty asked again, but June didn’t appear capable of staying still long enough to tell her what she was so excited about. She walked past the dining room table into the kitchen, the paper fluttering in her clenched fist, flung the fridge open, and grabbed a can of Diet Coke.

  The snap of the soda opening reminded Betty of a television gunshot—especially with Ophelia’s music in the background—but June took a long, leisurely pull off the can, yanked a seat from the dining room table, and plopped down onto it.

  “Do you have any idea how much trouble I’m going to be in if Ophy comes out here and sees you?” Betty said as she sat next to her friend. “I’m like the most grounded person ever, and I’m pretty sure that even covers crazy best friends.”

  June shook her head with a smile and then smacked the flyer down on the table in front of Betty.

  Betty made an O with her lips when she read it, and then looked to June, who was beaming. “Holy shit,” said Betty.

  The flyer June had taken from Vertigo Music advertised a show that was to take place at the Pyramid Scheme, a local bar and punk rock venue. Numerous bands were listed as playing, but the most prominent one on the list was a band that hadn’t played a show that either of the girls had been aware of in a very long time. Old Croix Road had achieved no small amount of local press after winning a high school battle of the bands by a wide margin, but the kicker was that the oldest boy in the band was twelve at the time. That had been back in 1997, before either of the girls had been born, and neither had ever imagined there would be an opportunity to see them live.