Sykosa, Part I: Junior Year Read online

  “Hey!” She pulls away to fix her blouse. She remembers that comment about JBF and straightens her hair, too. “You aren’t allowed to touch that.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because.”

  “Come on, it’s no big deal. I tell you what, let me touch it for five seconds. You can count.”

  “No!”

  “Why not?”

  “I’m not counting seconds while you touch my… I’d rather you just touched it.”

  “Okay, that’s what I’ll do.”

  “No!”

  His eyes are mournful. It’s cute. His penis pulsates against her side. It’s less cute. She grins anyway. In some moment she cannot recall, she became such a sucker for this boy. But even now as her grin dissipates, the goodness vanishes. She kicks at the ground, so he knows he’s upset her and to fix it.

  He notices.

  Unlike the last two days.

  “Are you feeling alright?”

  “All these girls are freaking out over Prom. It’s stupid, don’t you think? I mean, we’re only juniors, right?” He shrugs his shoulders. He’s never gonna ask. It’s particularly hard since she decided, like, a year ago that she wanted to go to Prom with him. For now, she puts her finger through his belt loop and leans against him. Actually, it was almost a year ago—exactly. The date has significance not only to her, but to the blackness, so she forgets both, and hopes everyone else chooses to do the same. “Say something.”

  “Are you sure you’re feeling alright?”

  “I’m feeling weird, that’s all.”

  He kisses her again and she kisses him back.

  Then, he leans to her ear. “Hey, I was thinking, remember that time, last week—”

  She interrupts. “That’s all you think about!” She pulls away and looks into his eyes—to see that he was looking into hers first. And his look beautiful and mysterious. She cannot stand not knowing what he is thinking, what he is feeling. Primarily because she knows he’s thinking about her, and her heart tells her that it’s incredible. She knows this because, last year, he did something incredible for her. It was out of this world and, as Niko said, totally knight-in-shining-armor stuff. So he has incredible things inside of him. He just never says what they are! “What’re you really thinking?”

  He looks bad. “I was thinking about that time, last week…”

  She puts her other finger in his belt loop. “Is that really all you were thinking about?”

  “No.”

  Why does he make it so hard? “What is it then?”

  “Your hair is perfect today.”

  It has been a terrific hair day. He’s not just saying it.

  “Alright.”

  He pulls up his slacks and lowers himself onto the cement slab. She lowers herself between his legs and tucks her skirt between her ankles and butt. She notices a pack of scars—discolored, even a little deforming—on his right hand. They are her fault. He got them by saving her, which was part of that incredible thing she was thinking about. That provokes the blackness. She still breathes, it just feels like maybe she’s getting 5% less air. She’s adjusted to ignoring it, and does so—motivated by those scars, much the same as they motivated her last time, and this time, she pets him and pulls down his zipper, lets him take it out since she fears hurting it or something, then once it feels like a fine time to start, she—without his instruction—massages.

  The experience isn’t quite what she anticipated.

  The excitement is gone.

  His penis is unchanged and the act is repetitive, and it seems ordinary, like a household chore. To jerk him off is to take out the garbage, necessary—yes, annoying—yes, expected—yes, unbalanced—yes. Everyone produces garbage. Only one person takes it to the curb. Two people sit behind this chapel. One person feels. The other works. She thought he would be as concerned for her own pleasure as she is for his. But, no, that’s not gonna happen. His eyes are either closed or watching her hand or watching her boobs or… And here I was supposed to break up with him if he didn’t ask me to Prom. And other thoughts that never really find a way to words. Mostly because she’s distracted—by his semen. It dribbles off her hand and onto his stomach. This time she brought tissue and she blots at the divots of her knuckles.

  How does he get to me like this?

  II.

  Niko oversteers her 7 as a cautionary sign becomes a shimmer in her rear view mirror. Her determined face scrunches, little breasts that bounce as she pumps the clutch up this twisting hill. Brake. Brake. Shift. Turn. Gas! Gas! Gas! Brake. Brake. Shift. Turn. Gas! Gas! Gas! Her engine roars like an oversized can opener and her throat hums a hip-hop song that blasts: All them bitches. All them hoes. As time slows—Brake! Brake! Brake!—and the road levels. (This is her favorite part). Double clutch, shift, gas! until the shock nearly rips the frame in two, slick rubber leaving smoky trails while the tachometer hits the limiter and… The transmission releases, the needle falls, and the suspension transfers weight, like a swift cheetah, teeth deep into the driveway.

  Bending over from the outside, she wishes Niko well, and once in her matted kitchen causeway, she drops her fifty-pound book bag and gives a silent prayer for the noise of Niko racing away. If you think she’s dangerous driving up the hill, you should see her on the way down. Cut short by her short mother, short like Niko short, who hurries in to say hello. Her mother is very thin and dressed as if today were of some importance, which it’s not. Also, her pronunciation is… Her mother was raised in Japan. She confuses articles, sentences with multiple verbs, and misuses “no, not, and neither.”

  That said, the disparity in her mom’s English—as with lots of Asian mommies—is overstated, especially by white people.

  “What took you so long to get home?”

  “We stopped at Starbucks.”

  “You should’ve called and told me.”

  “I know, I’m sorry.”

  Her mom isn’t the type to let that go so easily, but she does for some reason. “How was your day?”

  “Alright, I suppose.”

  “You want something to eat?”

  “No, I’m fine.”

  “Are you sure? It’s no trouble.”

  She carefully sidesteps into the kitchen. If her mother were to sniff a cigarette, she’d die a most dramatic death, but not before lecturing, “I can’t believe you smoke! Are you stupid? No brains. You see the commercials on TV, don’t you? That stuff will kill you.” It probably sounds cynical to describe her mother in such a way, but trust her, the woman is too gifted at theatrics. Her mom won’t raise a stink about anything for a year, but then blows up over the smallest thing and will be angry at it for the year that follows. An unfortunate habit I’ve picked up. Especially since last year, when Tom became her hero and her entire life changed in one instant. Whatever. Back to her mother, who shouldn’t be thought of for her bad behavior, but for her need to over-nourish. It is no accident that her mother greeted her from the kitchen, it’s where her mother always greets her, as it’s where her mother spends her time, beside the stove, constantly complaining, “You never eat enough. Tell me what you want. I cook it for you.” That carries hidden dangers since her mother is as relentless about feeding others as she is about depriving herself.

  Besides, I might need to fit into a prom dress.

  She nabs some crackers.

  “Mom, I’m borrowing some of your nail polish.”

  Her mother follows her to the stairwell.

  “Why? Where’re you going tonight?”

  “Nowhere, I just want to try something out.”

  “Okay, then, okay. Put it back when you’re done.”

  “Will do!”

  Her mother has turned towards the kitchen, but then turns back towards the stairs. “And hang your uniform up.”

  She’s already up four stairs, shouting so she won’t have to turn around. “I know, you remind me every day.”

  “How about you try remembering it every day?”


  “I’ll hang it up, Mom.”

  Hitting up her mother’s nail polish for something slutty will be a chore, as it’s not her mom’s style, and even if a color, in the right context, could be slutty, knowing it’s her mom’s turns all the reds classic, and all the other colors sophisticated. Plus, her mom is meticulously organized, and the bathroom light almost feels industrial. It’s like looking at the nail polishes at a department store and wondering why they all look so bland in real life. Still, all this nail pontification has pointed out to her that several patches of skin of her right hand are “tight” in dried semen she thought she had removed, but she supposes she just distributed thinly. It washes down the drain now with soap, and having selected a dark red, she heads to her room with a nail file, cotton balls, and other stuff. Inside, she slams shut the door before she clicks on her old RCA television.

  I touch penises now.

  Oh my God, that thought makes her smile uncontrollably.

  And think more about handjobs.

  Maybe I shouldn’t do my nails today.

  Like most things that involve him, once she starts thinking, she has a tendency to be unable to stop, even if it’s about gross sex stuff. Right now she can’t deny that there’s a biological imperative to the male orgasm. And she does feel a confidence knowing she has some mastery over it. Then, again: It’s a stick. I rub it. Who cares? Well, he does, for one. She wishes she understood that. Like, she kinda likes his orgasms. They’re fun to watch. And she has sexual desires herself. She wants to [fill in the blank] with Tom, she just doesn’t need to do it like he needs to. Yeah. Anyhow, she thinks if she did understand it, if he could provide a plausible reason, then maybe she’d be willing to do it more often, and he’d have to pressure her less…

  That’s a joke. Like there was ever a reason!

  He does not love her. He does not listen to her.

  He just wants to get-off.

  Dickhead.

  In Tom’s absence, she scrunches her nose at one of her boy stuffed animals, a Fievel mouse. He sits atop her made bed, and the shiny black brim of his sailor cap lies deceptively over his left eye. She wonders if little Fievel asks little Cindy, a princess in a pretty pink gown and a limp magic wand, to jerk him off while he feels up her royal panties. He says he wouldn’t, but she knows he’s lying—the liar! She punches him and he falls onto her teddy bear, and there he stays, acting all injured and making her feel like more of a jerk.

  She caves and fixes him, then makes up with him.

  “Poor Fievel, you wouldn’t be so disgusting, right?” He says that he would not. She hugs him. “What’s that? Oh, yes!” She kisses his mouse cheek. “I’d love to go to Prom with you!”

  Prom!

  A cracker is stuck in her molar and her uniform crumples on her floor. Goose bumps prickle along her skin and a swallowed lump forms in her throat. She clips her skirt to the same hanger that supports her blouse shoulders, and once it’s hung, she folds her sweater vest square. Done with that, she slips into a skinny pair of pink pajama pants and a spaghetti string camisole, then catches herself at a good angle in the mirror on her cabinet door. So she attempts many other angles, most involving her breasts. She’s quite proud of their sometimes D-cup status. (It depends on the brand of the bra). And she has to be proud. If you recall, not only is Niko crazy about them, but so is Tom.

  In fact, it’s the first thing he noticed about her.

  (Sadly, it might be the only thing).

  Such details are insignificant! Yes, they are.

  On the TV is a sitcom about stereotypical people who’re obsessed with themselves and their infighting, their contrived plots and trivial hang-ups. It’s called Friends and it’s her all-time favoritest show and she’ll hear nothing bad about it! When her mind spaces from it, she thinks about herself and her infighting, her contrived plots and trivial hang-ups. Particularly Tom and their relationship, and how much she likes having a boyfriend, and then she thinks evil thoughts about stuff that happened last year. Since her brain is so focused on hands today, she thinks of all the scars that are on his right hand, and of how, unlike with his semen, they cannot be washed away with soap.

  Nothing I will ever do will top him, thus everything I do and think and feel feels insignificant in comparison.

  She ignores this thought cause she ignores the blackness.

  It’s not a great coping mechanism, but it is one.

  Her left hand is painted when she decides to smoke.

  The best part of her bedroom is that she has a bay window she can sit on and watch the neighborhood from—and smoke, of course. Once she’s twisted the window open, she breathes the chemicals in deep and notices, across from her and atop her fleece blanket, some of her mother’s fashion magazines. It excites her since fashion mags talk about taboo subjects, like sex, menstruation, breast and cervical cancer, homosexuality, QUIZZES!, pregnancy, clothes, intimacy, and—this one you were waiting for, so enjoy yourself—how to “please” Tom spiritually, emotionally, physically and visually.

  How does he get to me like this?

  And why does she love him so very, very much?

  Forget him for a second.

  She needs to note that her mother rarely shares this trash because society says it propagates an unrealistic female figure, which’s true; however, her mother will occasionally—when she feels the need to make amends for something—leave these behind after she cleans. What did my mom do? I don’t know yet. (But, it’s worth highlighting that tidbit of knowledge). In the mean time, she reads, hoping to find ways to make being a woman feel less dangerous. Instead, she settles for a picture of a pretty white girl with freckles and a sun hat who’s leaning over a rock on an exotic beach. Her bathing suit has orange flower prints and the bottoms are the less revealing style, a really short-short pair of shorts, which must mean she has no trouble getting a Prom date…

  One-tracked mind strikes again!

  Anyhow, she wants this new suit for many reasons.

  First, Ass Girl is throwing a big party this Friday. Ass Girl’s parents are gone for the weekend and Ass Girl, in all her assy greatness, smutted her slutty Ass Girl ass in her face, insisting they get dressed in their super-slinky bikinis and give the boys something to go gaga over in her father’s hot tub. Not that she listens to Ass Girl, but Ass Girl is friends with Mackenzie who’s friends with Tom and Tom suggested the two of them, if they’re both going, go together.

  She wants to go with him, so she said yes.

  Second, last year, she overheard a girl named Donna Harly crying about rape. She prefers not to think of it. And she prefers it not happen to her. She thinks this bathing suit can help with that, certainly more than her current bathing suit.

  Third, her head’s in her panty drawer like an ostrich’s in the sand, where she snatches a suit of more string than fabric. By impulse, she disrobes, then scrunches the bottoms between her thighs as she ties a knot over either hip. A minute later, her breasts are covered as well. Yeah… Basically, after all the stuff that happened last year, she went through a short-lived phase where she attempted to see if dressing like a prostitute could help her feel better about herself. Spoiler! It didn’t and she quit doing it. And she’s gonna quit on this bikini, as it’s not only too slutty, it’s not at all practical. Tuffs of hair stick out the sides, and yes, this type of bikini requires a not-so-typical brand of pubic grooming, which leads to…

  Fourth, she won’t have to shave her pussy for this new suit. She keeps things “trim” down there, but for the most part, it’s old growth and it’s everywhere. Though, saying she won’t shave her pussy begs the question: when did she shave her pussy? Well, it was last year. (Notice something?) And it was partially so that she could wear this bikini to Niko’s summer parties. While she was surprised that shaving such a sensitive area was so uneventful, she didn’t like it. One, she thinks her pussy is ugly. Two, being bald felt Lolita-ish.

  She thinks the hair is like the man on the crosswalk.


  Fifth, all these reasons remind her of the you-know-what Niko mentioned behind-the-chapel. Should you-know-what become what-actually-happens, she’ll need a new suit.

  Her thoughts have been disrupted.

  Arnold, her neighbor, mows her yard in diagonal lines. Her father pays him to do this because he dislikes doing it himself. Arnold receives two forms of compensation for his labor. One, twenty bucks every Tuesday. Two, he gets to find “convenient” times to mow when she’s “coincidently” by her bathroom or bedroom window. What a total perv, and a macho-less slug with pancakes of sweat under his arms and a toilet bowl ring around his neck.

  He has the cutest twin sisters, though. She babysits them twice monthly when their parents go out. He usually stays in his room, probably because conversing would be a non-pervy thing to do. The twins say he’s boring. They like Sykosa! Recently, they’ve been frenzied by the loss of their front baby tooth, both on the right side, and both on the same day.

  They approached her as she retrieved the mail and pointed to the holes in their mouths. “Sykosa, look!”

  “My Gosh, you two look like hockey players!”

  “What?”

  “Hockey players, they get lots of teeth knocked out.”

  “We don’t play hockey, Sykosa! We lost a baby tooth! It means we aren’t babies any longer.” Both girls held out their right palm to show off a shiny fifty-cent piece. “Look what the Tooth Fairy gave us! Do you know the Tooth Fairy, Sykosa?”

  “You sillies! She comes at night while we sleep!”