by Kyla Stone
“Everything is a choice, whether you think about it or not.” Arianna nibbles on her fingernails. “I thought you hated cats.”
I cross my legs and the cat crawls into my lap, turns herself in circles and curls into a ball of fluff. “I do. Obviously.”
She smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “You want to paint your nails?”
I look at her. It’s like I see something in her for the first time. I’m not seeing the Bitch Squad anymore. I don’t know why she’s choosing to help me. But here I am. And she’s treating me like I’m somebody she can trust, like somebody who matters. “You have turquoise?”
Arianna brings over several bottles of polish, a clear topcoat, nail polish remover, and cotton balls. I lean carefully over the cat, who doesn’t seem to mind being half-squished. We work silently, and the silence is peaceful, not awkward or tense.
I like the turquoise color. It’s a shimmery, deep teal, like the forewings of the Red Spotted Purple, a brush footed butterfly that’s more teal than purple, with bright orange dotting its wings.
“Thanks for letting me talk to you.” Arianna paints the top coat on her last toenail. “I haven’t talked about this stuff in a long time. It’s just not the same talking with Dr. Yang. You know?”
No problem.” The warmth of this room is getting to me. I could curl back up in those blankets and let all the stress, the anger, the fear drift away in a happy oblivion. I could live here. I cap the turquoise polish and spread my fingers. “What do you talk about with Dr. Yang?”
“Stopping negative self-talk, positive affirmations to give myself in the mirror, understanding how my perceptions of my body are distorted, if I’m maintaining adequate calorie and energy intake. Boring stuff like that.”
“Because you don’t eat.”
“Something like that.”
“Your mom doesn’t seem to think you have a problem.”
Arianna grimaces. Her hand flutters to her stomach. “It’s complicated. My dad wanted me to talk to someone because I wasn’t eating much and acting depressed. Dr. Yang talks to me about food and stuff. He called a meeting last year with my parents. It didn’t go well. My mom thinks I’m fine. Or actually, she thinks I’m not good enough in any way, shape, or form.”
I should say or do something to try to comfort her, but I don’t know how. I’m really bad at this kind of stuff. It’s been so long since I’ve had an actual conversation with someone, since someone’s shared anything with me. I don’t know how I’m supposed to act, what I’m supposed to say. I blow on my nails and try not to think about the guilt digging into me.
“You can trust me, you know. Every time I saw them doing crap to you, I hated it. They’re not always like that. Nyah’s strong and funny, and Jasmine’s really smart, even though she pretends not to be. Even Margot has her moments. She can be fun and crazy. Before I hung out with them, some of the guys wouldn’t stop harassing me. It’s like, because I’m a PK, a preacher’s kid, they think it’s even funnier to say crap to me, trying to hook up and stuff. But Margot got them off my back. They mostly aren’t nasty to me anymore.” She takes a deep breath. “But none of that justifies what they did. Like I said, I’m a coward. I never said anything. I was scared. I am scared, but you can trust me.”
Just like that, the slender thread holding the moment together snaps. I can’t trust her. I can’t trust anyone. I’m nothing like all her little friends, the Jasmines and the Nyahs of the world. The darkness rears up inside me. For someone like me, there’s no God who can save me and no one I could ever trust. For someone like me, my own pathetic self is all I have. I can’t let a few minutes of escape lull me into complacency. Not with the monster waiting for me at home. Or the one curled up inside me.
I stand up quickly. Cleo lands on her feet, yowling in protest. I find my jeans piled in the corner and yank them on.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m leaving.” I pause in her doorway. “Don’t think this makes us friends.”
17
It’s one of those typical October days. The leaves are a cacophony of brilliant orange, red, purple and yellow. The colors are stark against the dreary charcoal sky and the rain sliding down the window pane.
Dr. Yang’s chair squeaks as he leans back and adjusts his pant leg. He folds his hands over his knee. “Today we’re going to talk about what happened last weekend.”
He’s looking straight at me. My breath catches in my throat. “What?”
“It’s come to the administration’s attention that there was an altercation at a party Friday evening. The police were involved to some degree. No one seems to want to talk about it, although a teacher overheard both your names mentioned.”
“And the administration wants you to get to the bottom of it?” I ask. “Lucky you.”
“Not necessarily. Sidney and Arianna, my job is to ensure your well-being, your safety, and your personal and academic success. That’s my priority, but there’s nothing I can do for you unless you talk to me.”
I stare at my fingernails. They’re already chipping. Figures. The pain in my stomach has dulled to a fierce ache. “Nothing happened.”
Arianna looks at me nervously, raising her eyebrows. I shake my head at her.
“Neither of you want to speak? If you talk to me, we can discipline the individuals responsible for . . . whatever happened.”
“I doubt it.”
His mouth is tight, and his eyes look sad. He could almost deceive someone into believing he cares. “Are you sure? I want to help you.”
I just stare at him.
Dr. Yang sighs. He takes off his glasses and rubs the lenses with the sleeve of his shirt. “Alright. As you wish. We’ll move on for now. Because we haven’t broached this topic in awhile, I want to check in with both of you on your mental state. If you want to wait until our private sessions, we can do that. But you might learn something from each other if you’re able to talk openly.”
Arianna stares down at her hands folded in her lap. Her face is pale and there’s a bluish tinge beneath her eyes. She called the cops on a party. She’s a social pariah now, like me. Because of me. The thought is uncomfortable, spearing me with guilt. I push it out of my mind.
“What do you mean, our mental states?” she asks.
“Are you currently or have you recently entertained suicidal thoughts in the last month?”
I scratch at the edges of my bandages through my sweatshirt. “Define ‘suicidal’?”
“Thoughts of death, of inflicting deadly harm on yourself.”
I almost laugh. “No. Of course not. I’m perfectly normal.”
Dr. Yang winces. He pulls his vibrating phone from his pants pocket and stares at it as if he’s never seen it before. “I apologize, but this may be an emergency. I have to take it.”
He leaves the room. The rain plinks against the window. The radiator hums. Everything inside me is hot and prickly. I sit forward. The chair scrapes the floor. “With pills.”
“Excuse me?” She doesn’t even glance up at me. She looks miserable.
A pang of something like sympathy pricks me. I fight it down. It makes me weak. I can’t be weak. “You look like a pill person. You’d kill yourself with pills.”
“Why do you say that?”
I shrug. “Pills are for whiny girls who want attention.”
Arianna blinks. “You think I want attention?”
“Hell yes. You play the flute in a band. You have a perfect house, perfect room, perfect everything. What is wrong with you people? You want to see what it’s like on the other side or something? Your life is so perfect, you got bored?”
“Stop talking.”
But I can’t. The dark thing inside me rears its ugly head. Tears burn the back of my throat. I need to hurt something. I want to hurt her. She’s felt the tiniest sliver of what I endure every single day, and she looks like she’s falling apart at the seams. “Or maybe you’d slit your wrists. You’ll soak in a big marble tub,
probably your parents’, until your skin is wrinkled and translucent and you can see the veins. Then you’ll get a shard of glass or mirror or a broken CD or something, not a knife probably, and you’ll practice a little bit, then you’ll slice away. The wrong way, because you’re Beauty Queen with a capital B and who needs brains when you’re rich and beautiful, but you’ll get the job done.”
Arianna grunts, gives a short shake of her head. “And how would you do it, Sidney?” She says my name like it’s a curse word.
I feel hard and spiky. I force out the words even as I hate myself for saying them. “I’m not sure. I’ve thought of several options. Mainly, it has to hurt, and it has to take awhile. Maybe hanging. Or tying rocks to my legs and throwing myself in the river. Or being dragged to death behind a truck, but it would require a driver and I haven’t found anyone with enough balls. You want to volunteer?”
Arianna blinks rapidly. Her face looks pinched, her lips bloodless. She grabs her backpack and swings it over her shoulders. She walks out of the classroom, the door banging closed behind her.
I blink moisture out of my eyes. It’s better this way. I want it this way. This is what I want even though my gut is filled with jagged rocks. I am officially the most terrible, awful person in the world. Lucas leaves me alone now, just like I asked, just like I said I wanted. And now Arianna, too.
They’re both good, too bright to look at. I’m the bad, ugly girl who pushed them away.
I shove out the door and slide into the stream of students. Arianna is already gone. I feel eyes on me, gazes like shards of glass. I lift my chin and walk into the crowd.
18
After school, I’m twenty minutes into my shift when Frank pulls into the restaurant parking lot. I stop mid-movement, hovering over an empty table, my hands stuffed with crumpled napkins. Cold sweat prickles my skin. What does he want?
“Where’s my man?” he hollers as he bangs the door open.
Bill comes out of the kitchen, wiping his ham-sized hands on a dish towel. “How’s it hanging?”
“It ain’t hangin’, bro. It ain’t hanging at all.” They laugh, hug, and backslap each other like brothers.
“You want a beer? The dinner crowd hasn’t started yet. I can take ten.”
Frank shakes his head. “Not this time. I’m here for my girl.”
“What’s the kid done now?” Bill asks, winking at me.
“Family time, Bill. You know how it is.”
My spine stiffens. I don’t want to go anywhere with him. This is supposed to be one of my safe places. He doesn’t belong here, not during the day, not when I’m here. “I’m not off until six.”
Frank grips Bill’s shoulder. “You work her too much, Bill. A father needs to spend quality time with a daughter, keep her on the straight and narrow. Keep ‘em from turning into their mothers. Am I right?”
Bill looks at me, a flash of concern in his dark eyes. “Well . . .”
“You said yourself it wasn’t busy. Let’s go, Sidney. Get your stuff.”
I see the slightest shift in Bill’s body, a slump in his shoulders. “I guess I can call in Jessie if I need to.”
“Thatta boy! I’ll see you Saturday. You’re gonna wish you stayed home after I take your stash. Again. Tell Gonzales I’ll be there by nine.”
And there it is. Everyone capitulates to Frank. I think about refusing, but what’s the point? Frank will get his way if he has to carry me out of there kicking and screaming. I hang up my apron, clock out, and grab my backpack and jacket.
“Kid—” Bill says. He’s standing in the kitchen, a frown on his face.
I just look at him. “What?”
He hesitates. “Is everything . . . okay with you?”
“Everything’s stupendous, Bill. Can’t you see that?” I leave quickly, so he doesn’t see the dread etched across my face.
When I get to the truck, Aaron bobs his head out the window. “We’re going gun fighting!”
“It’s a gun range, stupid,” Frankie says from the back seat. “You shoot at paper targets.”
Frank’s gun paraphernalia hog the front seat so I have to squeeze in the back with the boys.
Frankie’s playing some kind of war game on a smart phone.
“Where’d you get that?” I ask him.
“Dad got it for me. Says I’m a man now.”
I snort. And who’s going to pay the monthly bill for service when Frank disappears again and the money dries up? Nobody. “Enjoy it while you can.”
“Stop trying to ruin everything!” Frankie never takes his gaze off the screen. “Just because you’re a loser doesn’t mean we all have to be as miserable as you.”
I reach across Aaron, snatch Frankie’s phone, and throw it on the floor.
“Stop it!” Frankie squeals. He tries to smack me while Aaron shrinks into the center seat like he wants to disappear.
Frank slides into the driver’s seat. “Shut the hell up.”
We fall silent, my stomach like a brick. No one says a word during the twenty-minute drive to Frank’s favorite gun range, Old Reggie’s. It’s basically an empty field with hay bales stacked into pyramids and paper targets of silhouetted humans tacked everywhere there’s free space. There are wooden horses stacked with metal targets of varying sizes that spin when you hit them. To the left is a squat gray building with an inside range, but Frank never uses it. Old Reggie’s never been one for rules and regulations, so he doesn’t care if kids under twelve shoot as long as there’s an adult responsible for whatever happens.
I shrug on my jacket, then help Aaron slither his arms through his faded striped pullover. “School okay?” I ask him as we walk a little behind Frank. I’ve checked in with him at least once a week since I punched Jackson Cole.
He nods, a too-long curl tumbling into his eyes.
“Jackson still bothering you?”
“He calls me names.”
“Names don’t matter. Has he hit you again? Touched you?”
He smiles. “Not since you.”
My heart swells up inside my chest. I pat his head. “Good.”
“Sidney?”
“What?”
“At school, kids say you’re a bully. And worser things, things I don’t wanna say.”
I sigh. I grab the collar of his pullover to stop him. “Listen to me. That’s what the real bullies say to deflect attention from themselves. Me and you, we have every right to defend ourselves. You understand? You fight back, you give ’em a taste of what they’ll get if they keep messing with you. That’s not bullying. That’s justice.”
“Okay.”
“And you say whatever you need to so they get off your back, you hear me?”
“I’m not allowed to say swears at school.”
“Well, that’s okay. There’s lots of other awesome insults you could use. How about barf-breath or turd-brain?”
Aaron grins. “How about stupid-head?”
“Always a classic. Then there’s blistering butthole or puss-filled pimple-head, if you want to get creative.”
“Poop-brain.”
“Stinky butt-muncher.”
“Dumb-head.”
“Good. How about smelly fart-eater?”
Aaron laughs, and the high, clear sound of it echoes all the way through me. He should laugh more. He’s beautiful when he laughs.
We reach the trestle table where Frank is unpacking his collection of guns and laying them out.
Frankie’s practically bouncing on his toes. “I want the Remington! With the sniper scope!”
“Put on your gear, first.” I hand the boys their protective eyewear and ear mufflers, then put mine on. I give Aaron the pink Springfield 9mm XD-S Frank bought for Ma back when I was in elementary school. It’s smaller than the Glock and easier for Aaron to hold. “Remember to plant your feet. Relax your knees. Use both hands. Place your fingers like this, with your thumb on the grip, your index finger pointed out. Remember there’s no safety, so you never put your fing
er on the trigger until you’re ready to shoot. Then make sure you pull hard on the trigger. Got it?”
Aaron nods, his eyebrows scrunched in concentration. I point his body toward the closest target, guide the gun until it’s level. “Pretend it’s Jackson Cole,” I whisper in his ear.
Aaron doesn’t hit a target once, but Frank’s too busy with Frankie to notice or yell at him. Then it’s my turn. I pick up Dad’s Glock.
I curl the fingers of my right hand around the grip, straightening my pointer finger along the side of the frame, outside the trigger guard. I wrap my other hand around the other side of the grip, making sure my thumbs are parallel with my trigger finger. I get into my shooting stance, legs shoulder width apart, knees slightly bent. I raise the muzzle and line up the shot, aiming through my sights for the closest paper target.
I love the gun in my hand, the weight of it, the power, the loud bang of the shot, even through the ear muffs. I feel the thrum of the bullet streaking through the air, punching into the hay bales, the satisfying kick of the gun. I imagine shooting all my demons. Every. Single. One. The bullet tearing into flesh, opening red gaping wounds.
Then he’s hovering over my shoulder. “That’s my girl,” he says into the nape of my neck. Even through the ear muffs, I hear it. My body stiffens, goes cold.
“Widen your legs.” With one hand, he reaches down and smacks my inner thigh. He leaves his hand there. No one else is close enough to see. It’s so cold, most shooters are using the range inside. “I know you took off all night last weekend. I came to your room for a goodnight kiss. Are you whoring around on me?”
I try to aim the gun, but my hands are shaking. He’s talking to me like he talks to Ma, his tone laced with something sharp and possessive. I’m sick to my stomach, like I’m going to vomit right here, all over myself. “No.”
He pinches the sensitive fat of my thigh, right over a healing cut. His stale, smoky breath is hot against my cheek. “Are you screwing around on me?”
“I’m—I’m not. I swear.”
His voice changes, grows hoarse. “I need you. I know you need me, too.”