Douse (Book One: At the Edge of a Hurricane)

by June Hydra

  “I’m getting a part-time job,” I whisper to Caddy. “Tomorrow I’ll start applying.”

  “What happened to patience?”

  “I can’t wait anymore. I’ll work two jobs. This one and the one I’ll be working at soon.”

  “Where will you even work?”

  Piranha’s typing grows incessant and louder. She cranks her head to the side every once in a while to offer a big fat “Shush!”

  We leave the room again.

  “You won’t bail on us?”

  “No,” I say. “I’ll stay with you. It’s just I need to do this for myself and all. See how things can work. See if I can be the first.” Caddy raises an eyebrow. “You will have to get ‘real’ jobs eventually, too. Piranha already has one, sort of.”

  “Maybe. She works like ten hours a week max there.”

  “Shush! Stop arguing, please.”

  “Yeah, Violet.” Caddy drags me back in. I keep my mouth shut for the duration of Piranha’s work schedule.

  At approximately eleven o’ clock she finishes all her tasks. We compensate her sixty percent. Normally she chastises us about Educate, but she has expensive taste in Americana she needs to support. Morals die in the face of Piranha The Consumerist. More perplexing is her ability to mentally extricate herself from the business, as if she’s had absolutely no part in it, before bidding us goodnight with a “You’re going to get caught.”

  “It’s funny, the essay they wanted,” Piranha says before I shut my door. “It was an essay about cheating in American universities and how to stop it...”

  CHAPTER 10

  My first round of job applications involves trolling the Internet for available openings. There’s waitressing, hostessing, being a receptionist. Low-paying grunt work. Thankless work where you’re ordered around like a mule.

  I fire off the last of my applications. At around three o’ clock P.M., after much puttering around the apartment, I decide to call Bishop.

  “Haven’t heard from you in a while,” he says.

  “I was sort of…been thinking of you is all.”

  “Really?” He breathes close into the phone. I can hear the sound of tires against concrete. “I’m out and about. I actually have freetime soon, if you wanted to get together.”

  We pick this French sandwich place. Lez Magaritez or something—Caddy would crucify my pronunciation and unearthly lack of global savvy. The walls of the place are covered in posters displaying what appear to be French singers in dramatic poses done in black and white. The music played is along the lines of Edith Piaf, old and rustic, rugged and plentiful whiny. Caddy would call her “mournful” but he’s more sophisticated about these things than me.

  “You’re beautiful,” Bishop says over his soup. “You’re stunning today.”

  “You’re stunning yourself.” I stir my own soup. The heat emanating from it warms my fingers. I stir and focus on the ripples.

  “How’s life?”

  “Decent. I’m getting another job,” I say. “Applying to a lot of places.”

  “Where at?”

  And then it strikes me how silly I would sound listing off high-school level jobs. Bishop’s a working professional. Today he’s dressed in khaki slacks and an oxford shirt. He wears a tie while I wear barely fitting cotton trousers, five bucks at the local Goodwill.

  “One job is more analytical,” I say, “like the kind of job you would get for data entry, except more hands on.”

  “Getting to call more shots?” he says, smiling.

  “Kind of. It’s exciting, I think. A chance to move up.”

  How ridiculous. It’s not a chance to move up at all. What happened to honesty?

  “What about you?” I say, trying to erase my bad feelings. “How’s life for you?”

  “Same old same old. I’d like—promotion. I’d like a promotion at my job. It’s just hard. You get so comfortable working the job you have. Is the promotion worth it? Eh. Old habits are hard to break.”

  I sink in my chair. It’s like he can read me.

  “They are,” I say. “They are.”

  We chat about random, ordinary things, despite the extraordinary looming in my background. So self-centered of me. I can’t seem to shift the focus away from myself. When Bishop opens his mouth I think only about how he might perceive my living situation at home, my “job”.

  “Something on your mind? You look a little distressed.”

  “No,” I say quickly. “No, no. I’m fine. Yes, just thought it would be nice if maybe we could get some air.”

  Bishop gathers up the leftovers to doggy bag. He stretches his arms out and bends to the side for a moment. “Good,” he says. “I wanted to take a nice drive around. Walk, perhaps?”

  “Do you have another date area in mind?”

  “We could go to the movies if you’re free. Any suggestions?”

  “I only want to be with you,” I say.

  “Do you want to come home again?”

  I swallow the lump in my throat. “You want it again?”

  “Not to offend you. I was just wondering, since we’ve already done the deed once, I figure, well—”

  “We can cuddle. And talk?”

  “That’s good too,” Bishop says, offering a grin.

  He turns on the ceiling fan. Slow rotation, nothing fast. He swathes both of us in blankets together, and we just chill out, with him running his fingers throughout my hair. On his phone he sets up a digital radio station, running through some country-Christian singles.

  “Even though I don’t really believe in it,” Bishop says, “I like to play the music my parents raised me with. It’s nostalgic.”

  “I can understand nostalgia.”

  “Yeah, honestly, it makes me feel like my parents and I still talk. You know? We used to talk all the time and were really connected. Then, I told you, they become uber weird.”

  “What did they do?”

  Bishop cocks his head to me. “Hmm,” he says, “they would say things like gay people were disgusting. They used the other word, of course. They were pretty brutal on poor people, saying that they all brought it upon themselves, that they weren’t in good graces with God and that’s why they were they way they were. Damned, I guess.”

  “Wow.”

  “They were strict about other things too. Curfews were the worst. Always had to be back home at seven sharp for more studies. I actually went to college for religious studies because of their influence. They really wanted me to learn and be devout like them but that just never happened.”

  “You and I share interesting parents,” I say. “Mine were no better.” I touch my scar.

  “You’re beautiful though. I can’t say the word beautiful enough.”

  I shrug. “I know, I’m beautiful. Don’t worry, my self-esteem in that department is fine.”

  Bishop wraps his leg around mine. The warmth of his leg heats my inner thighs, and I flush red, both with embarrassment and guilt.

  “I just want to cuddle,” I say.

  “I know. I respect that. I’ve had to respect that a lot actually.”

  I laugh into his armpit. The smell of his sweat is sweet and aromatic and dizzying.

  We fall asleep, arm in arm, leg in leg.

  But my heart thumps. Not with lust but out of fear.

  Of being caught.

  CHAPTER 11

  I either hear wedding bells or a funeral toll.

  The lying spoils every one of my moments now. Eating breakfast feels like a lie. Talking to Caddy feels like a lie. Living in the apartment with Piranha’s incessant America moments feels like a lie.

  I have to tell him.

  I should’ve last time.

  My parents castigated me for lies. They once caught me arriving home late, and I forgot to take off my cheerleading uniform. They thought I was at a friend’s house instead.

  “You seriously are so disrespectful,” Dad would say. “You come in and out like this is some free hotel.”

&
nbsp; “Why’re you dressed like that?” Mom would say. “You’re dressed like a whore.”

  “She went out with her ‘friends’. The slut squad.”

  The word slut squad made my heart roil with anger and passion. Blaming them for my troubles feels weak, but I did sleep around later, in part to spite them. I had control in college they would barely let me exercise.

  I had to lie. There weren’t many other options to avail myself of. Even my “friends” at school would mock me for being a “slut”. Apparently growing breasts before the others meant that I fucked every boy on campus automatically.

  “If I tell him, then my conscience would be free.”

  “Do you plan to or do you plan to keep talking about it?” Caddy says.

  “I’m going to today.”

  We sit at the kitchen table, mulling over our coffee mugs, again. Today’s brew has a spike of extra cocoa extract. Bitter but pleasant. Bitter and raw.

  “You don’t even have to tell him all the details. Just a little at a time. Patience, girl.”

  “He’s just so…”

  “Perfect? No.”

  “I didn’t say perfect.”

  “But you were about to. I read lips well. Yours are practically say what they’re going to before you even speak.”

  “You think he already knows?”

  “Oh my God. Call the man already.”

  I clutch my coffee mug. The caffeine buzz percolates throughout my brain.

  Caddy’s right. Just a couple of words. I help people cheat. I don’t need to tell him about how those answers came about. Not unless it’s absolutely necessary. No need for penance yet.

  In my room, I settle on ballet flats and skinny jeans along with a fitted tank-top. On coming outside, Caddy says, “Sexy!” I throw a dirty napkin at him. He simply continues. “Once you’ve finally set yourself free, then we can finally get some productivity back.”

  I call Bishop to meet me, and he offers to pick me up.

  “I can drive myself. We’ll meet inside?”

  “You sure? Are we all right?”

  “We’re fine. You and I are fine, babe.”

  “Babe. Aw.”

  “I can’t wait to see you.”

  And so I beg Caddy for the station wagon. “Fine,” he says, “your ass better be thankful that I don’t have classes I care about today.”

  Driving myself will mean less heartbreak if he rejects me. I’ll have an out—giving back Caddy’s car—and he can just leave and go on his own.

  As I’m driving through the streets, I’m assaulted by negative thoughts. He’ll leave. He won’t want anything to do with the slut-whore child who’s parents hate her.

  I grip the wheel harder.

  Don’t think like that.

  He’ll feel the energy. He even heard it over the phone.

  I arrive first and wait him out. After popping open the vanity mirror, I check myself. No makeup. Just me. Myself. No shields anymore. If we’re to continue a relationship together, I need to be honest like I am with Caddy or Piranha.

  I step out of the car. It’s some Spanish restaurant this time that I picked, a place pronounced Las Pinyas. Something like that.

  The waitress at the front greets me, and I ask for a table for two. Face to face booth, please. I sit down. Shiny leather seats make farting noises while I adjust myself. I face the restaurant’s front and order two cold waters to start off with. The waitress slaps the menus onto our table as if to give me reprieve, something else to fixate on. Should I get Spanish rice or Spanish rolls?

  “Hey.”

  I jump at the voice. Bishop grins at me, and I jump to hug him. He’s warm, wearing fitted boot-cut jeans and a trendy sweater vest. No matter what, his muscles bulge out from his clothes, unable to be constrained by mere fabrics.

  He smells of lemon and musk. I breath him in for what could be the last time.

  “What’re you ordering?” he asks.

  “Just browsing through the menu. I’m probably going to try the salad. Or do you want to share?”

  “We can share. Mind if I feed you?”

  I smile. Dad would jam spoons into my mouth sometimes if I didn’t “eat fast enough” or “eat properly” as a girl. I was nine or ten and reprimanded for simple bad habits—essentially not closing my mouth all the time. I know Bishop would be so safe and sweet. I’m inclined to lie again. If he runs, I’ll have lost a chance at a great guy: sexually and emotionally compatible.

  “Something on your mind? You look a little distressed.”

  “I just—have something to tell you. Would you mind listening to me? I don’t want to lead you on because this is our nth date and everything. I hate being led on and stuff.”

  Bishop’s arms hover around my shoulders. He could either hug me again or begin to beat me. “What’s wrong, huh? You sounded stressed over the phone but I wasn’t sure if you had something really wrong at home. Is something going on?”

  “Well, it’s just, not bad per se. I’m just sort of embarrassed.”

  “About?”

  “I’ve been lying,” I blurt out. “Sort of. I’ve just. I’ve not told you the more defining parts of me. Like how I sell answers to college students to make money. And I feel awful because you come from a good-boy background. Country boy background. And here I’m some dirty city girl who tricks people.”

  Bishop reaches for my hand, and he holds on tight, as if we were near a raging storm and I could float away at any moment.

  “What’s wrong? Speak plainly, I’m listening. I’m all ears for you, hun.”

  Hun. Another pet name. Cute one too.

  “I want you to know what I do for a living. Because what I do for a living is a huge part of who I am. I can tell you more later, but basically, I sell answers to college students. Test banks. I help people cheat in school. And I feel awful for not telling you ahead of time. Like I’ve tricked you or something. You just come across as the type to want a more respectable girl. There? There. That’s what I wanted to tell you. I feel silly because I said I ran a business. But it’s a cheating service. Not super proud of that accomplishment.”

  Bishop’s still hovers. Analyzing.

  “So you give answers to people.”

  “I sell them. They don’t do their papers or anything. I just sell the answers and they pay me. They don’t do any work. I enable them to cheat their classes.”

  Bishop stays silent. Our waitress comes by and we order whatever.

  “Do you think I’m a bad person now?”

  “No!” Bishop shakes my hand and grips tighter and tighter. “No, I’m glad you had this discussion with me. I’m glad you’re opening up.”

  “Do I seem closed off?”

  “Very in your head. There are layers to you that I wouldn’t have guessed off the top of my head. Wild and beautiful at the same time. Depth. You’re conscious about your actions. That’s great.”

  “You’re not disgusted or repulsed or anything?”

  “Repulsed? Wrong, no, not at all, no. I’m intrigued.”

  “You’re intrigued?”

  “There are other details that would need explaining, but yeah, call me intrigued. It’s interesting to me.”

  “I don’t plan on doing this forever.”

  “You’re not slinging meth on the corner. I thought you were going to tell me something like that.”

  “Right,” I say, lightening up. The weights in my chest untie themselves. Flight is a possibility again. “I’m glad.”

  “Do you mind if I ask your reason why? How exactly you got started with this?”

  “My parents. I had the same struggles. They…would be really cruel to me, and—I can’t—” my voice breaks before I can finish. “I feel bad is all.”

  Bishop slides out of his booth, fart noises and all, and he slides to my side, throwing his arm around me like a shield, a real shield, not the self-imposed prison constructed to protect my ego. He cares more than Dad ever could. Let him.

  “Don
’t be like that. Don’t. It’s okay.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “For what?” he says, shaking me. “I’m sure you have your reasons. I’m not judging you any.”

  “Thank you,” I say. “Thank you.”

  “We have our quirks. Hey, you don’t have to tell anybody anything.”

  “I want to.”

  “When we get to my place then. If you want to go there that is.”

  “I’ll go anywhere that’s quiet with you.”

  “Okay, then. We can go to my place or the car or wherever.”

  We eat little and speak little over our Spanish rice and salad. What is there to say when you’ve just had an outburst? I’ve made things awkward now. And we awkwardly probe our meals until about ten minutes have elapsed.

  “You want to go to the car?” Bishop says.

  “Yeah. The car.”

  Bishop shuts the passenger side door. He walks around, carrying a doggy bag filled with unfinished food.

  I open the vanity mirror. Puffy bags have taken residency underneath my dull eyes. I close the mirror. What a crazy brave fool I look like and am.

  “You okay?” Bishop says, placing the doggy bag on the console. “You need tissues? I can go back in and get some.”

  “I’m not crying that much. It’s a recent development. I’m okay. It’s nothing.”

  Bishop hangs his wrist over the steering wheel. He faces away from me, searching the Spanish restaurant’s windows. But I know he’s just trying to give me space. There’s nothing to see in the windows but our reflections.

  “The reason I croaked in there,” I say, “is because of my parents. I was trying to tell you that in order to gain my own independence from them, I had to work. And I’d work really hard. Really hard. And they’d still abuse me. They would be really, really horrible. I told you that’s how I got my scar. He—” and my voice breaks again. I’ve blocked out the memories for so long, replaced the trauma with sex and meaningless interactions that the reality haunts then paralyzes.

  I start again. Bishop wraps me in his embrace, and I start again, steady now.

  “I learned in high school that my peers would cheat. Even when I didn’t, everybody did. Especially in the higher levels, the APs. It almost became this contest of who could cheat the best and not get caught. After I graduated, in the summer before I moved away to college, I sold my first set of test bank to the kids below me—rising seniors. And then from there the entire thing burst.”