Sykosa, Part I: Junior Year Page 3

  “Did the Tooth Fairy visit you when you were little?”

  “Of course!” That was a lie. Such customs are unusual in her family. “I’m so happy for you girls!”

  Arnold rotates the lawnmower opposite her and she pulls her drapes shut, to become preoccupied with her full-length cabinet mirror again. She traces the pooch of her butt and the pooch in her tummy and the ski slope drop in her breasts. She wants to go to Prom. Her mother’s stir-fry smells warm. Back into her PJs, she slides her socks across the kitchen floor.

  Her butt is in the chair. Her stomach is empty.

  Her mother is annoyed. “Why are you not eating?”

  She pouts. “I ate too many crackers.”

  “No, no! I go up there and I bet the cracker box is full.”

  This food fight continues and her father stays behind the paper. He pretends to be into the world news, but only reads sports statistics. His shirtsleeves are rolled to the median of his workingman forearms, muscles built atop muscles that collide uncomfortably into small digits. He’s also flat, save his stomach—his stomach is large, but he’s got a flat forehead, flat haircut, flat chest, flat personality, and eyebrows that, as he gets older, consume more and more of his face.

  He tilts the newspaper and stares with disapproval. “Aren’t parent-teacher conferences tomorrow?”

  Her mother answers. “Yes, tomorrow.”

  “What do you think your teachers will tell us?”

  Traditionally, these school situations are no situation, since she was old enough to tie a ponytail, the expectations have been clear: she is an A student and she is a teacher’s pet and she is a terrific test taker. These labors, being forlorn as they are, should lead to prosperous Prom dates, the enrollment in a first class university, and then to the performance of her lifely duties in a position of great wealth and stability, preferably as a doctor or an engineer.

  Such foresight is lost on a sixteen-year-old girl.

  Also, she is eating and talking with her mouth full.

  “I think everything’s fine. English, science, and Spanish are in good shape. I’m probably getting an A in all of them.” Here comes the difficult sell. “But, I’m having trouble with math and American history. I’m trying, but my grades might be a little low because my teachers keep doubling-up tests on the same day. They don’t know it, and when we tell them, each refuses to move the dates.”

  Her father looks displeased. “How bad?”

  “Probably C+, B-.”

  “Sykosa!”

  “I know, but they double up the tests…” Which they don’t. “And it’s just—”

  He interrupts. “Finish your dinner and go upstairs. You’re to study every night this week. When’s your next test in… in…”

  “American history?” That’s better than math. “It’s Friday.”

  “I want you ready for that test.”

  Her mother agrees. “Yes, and it counts for this quarter.”

  She nods like nothing is wrong. “I will do good, I promise.”

  Whew, dodged a bullet there, at least until tomorrow.

  Oh, that’s right, her mom’s talking. “How is Model UN?”

  It feels like this question comes nightly. “Yes, Mom, things are fine in Model UN.”

  “I’m not getting a call from Mother Superior like last year?”

  She drinks cola, her voice echoing in the glass. “No, Mom, things are fine.”

  Things get silent for a bit.

  It’s ended by her mother, who forces an unnatural cough that sounds almost like a grunt. Or a signal. It works, as her father stares with disapproval again. “Who is Tom?”

  Her chopsticks tumble and she grabs the soda again. Maybe he called to ask me out to Prom! She feels stupid. “He’s a boy I’m doing an English project with. How do you know him?”

  “He called before you got home. Your mother told him you would call him back.”

  She doesn’t want this to feel like a big deal. She downplays it. “It’s alright. I’ll talk to him at school.”

  Things get silent again, and again it’s ended by her mother.

  “Isn’t Tom the boy you went to Sadie Hawkins with?”

  She gets what her mother is implying, also why her mother left those magazines up in her bedroom.

  She wanted me to talk about him with her.

  (See, it’s good to remember this stuff).

  “He is.”

  It seems like an innocent answer to an innocent question.

  But, last year happened, so nothing with Tom is innocent.

  Her father talks like he doesn’t know this stuff. “This Tom, he was the boy in that accident, right?”

  What happened to Tom was no accident. It was purposeful, but people—like her dad or herself—need it to be an accident. They need to know it’s not their fault. They need to….

  Blackness.

  “He was.”

  She knows her parents are debating any number of topics. Maybe they want to talk to her about sex. Or what love is really like. Or, if they feel bold, they want to explain how life, unlike what they’ve presented thus far, is a cold and lonely place, and how they’re a tad worried she’s learned that too soon. Possibly they want to get really specific. They want to tell her that sometimes bad things happen and, yes, it brings people together, but it can also create attachments that, while not bad, are not by such automatically positive. And they fear this may have happened to her, and that this boy, Tom, who seemed like an alright guy when he picked her up, may be inadvertently, and by no fault of his own, prolonging her pain and intensifying her suffering.

  None of it gets said.

  They think: She’s only sixteen. There’s no way she feels so bad. Kids don’t feel things that serious, and I’m projecting my emotions on her. I shouldn’t put these thoughts in her head. Besides, other than the occasional second, she seems happy, and okay with life.

  So let her be a kid and…

  This isn’t her story. This isn’t her life.

  I’m no kid.

  Her father starts on a generic rant. “He’s not a boyfriend, is he? Because you’re too busy and too young for a boyfriend. He isn’t the reason that your grades have been slipping, is it?”

  She’s echoing in her soda glass again, and once she’s done and she’s released the glass, she wipes her wet fingers on her pants. “Dad, I told you, we’re doing a project together. And we went as a big group to Sadie Hawkins—you remember, right? It’s not what you think,” except that it is, and that puts a drive in her to sell this lie, “and, besides, I…I don’t even like boys.”

  “You don’t like boys? What’s wrong with boys?”

  She throws her hair. Ugh, give me a break! “Well, I like boys, just none of the ones at my school.”

  He bellows before he covers his face again. “Well, that’ll change someday. Now, hurry up and finish eating so you can…” Dream about Prom? “…start studying.”

  He’s no fun, not like he used to be. And his fatherly manner reminds her of the you-know-what and how she promised to ask and how this is not-the-time. Maybe she’ll mention it later. Ugh, Niko’ll be so pissed if I forget. It could be for the best. You-know-what, when it comes to Niko, always ends up as wish-it-wasn’t, and this time, especially with Niko being so intent on winning Hazu back, screams of glad-I-didn’t.

  “Yes, Daddy.”

  III.

  A red dawn distills her dreams to a forsaken reality. Her limbs frozen in their comfortable position, desiring a return to this restful world where homework is nonexistent. If the Academy knew how comfortable she was, they’d call off school. She’ll get her mother to write a note. One that says that her sheet was stretched over her shoulder like a warm cocoon and her hair was perfectly tucked away while Fievel suffocated in the crease of her breasts. It would also say girls need more time for sleep, more time for dreams…

  Make boys do all the work.

  Her bladder states otherwise.

  Her u
nderwear are at her knees, her elbows are laid about her thighs and the toilet seat is cold. She thinks about Prom while she pees. She forgets Prom while she whiffs at her semi-stinky armpits. No time to shower. She wipes herself, flushes, lifts her panties, and glares between the blinds. She has a feeling Arnold’s watching her. Perv. Then, she pops three whiteheads and brushes her bacteria-ridden gums.

  She takes a quick shower, anyway.

  In her room, she wears a pink bra, then a mint green thong. She rarely wears thongs any longer as he gets to her pussy so fast in one, but he really likes them. I like them, too. Moving on, she buttons her blouse over her undershirt, then tucks in the ends before she yanks at her shoulders. A glass bottle, square in dimension, is inverted on her fingertips, #10 foundation that she spreads across her cheeks, nose, chin, and pimple-ridden forehead. It’s totally cool. The Academy’s Personal Code allows for makeup, and the amount that’s allowed is based on grade level, and being an upperclassman, she gets away with a bit. After, she combs, then snaps some hair clips in place before she performs her final inspection. Once she determines it’s safe to be seen in public, she promises to break up with him if he avoids the Prom subject.

  Whatever.

  Then, it happens, or starts. She hoped to squeak by without mentioning it, but it’s here. This weight on her chest. It’s the same as what she experienced behind the chapel, when she was taking in 5% less air. It’s a sign that the blackness is here. She hates the feeling of it. Both because it sucks, and because it means more is to come. And it’ll get worse. Still, it’s odd. She usually thinks about the weight more than she experiences it, yet this week has been an exception—and for good reason.

  Next week is the one-year anniversary of Tom’s “accident.”

  This isn’t her story. This isn’t her life.

  It’s a big deal, and I don’t know how to let him know that.

  Niko honks her horn, then leans back against the seat. The car is pumping warm air, people are bitching on the radio, and her hair, still wet from her shower, is shiny in patches. Niko’s also covered her face to cover her eyes. They’re agitated and red from another sleepless night, possibly from hanging out with Timmy, or Hazu if Niko met up with the Stars to convince him that Ass Girl is lame and going to Prom is lame. You see, by the rules according to Niko, it’s better he go to no dance if he cannot take her, but Niko probably hung out with Timmy since—both when she sits in the passenger seat, then waits at the Starbucks drive-through—Niko mentions nothing of him.

  At a stoplight near the Academy, two cutie boys, who attend the school and were part of Mike Holler’s circle last year, pull up next to them. Niko lowers her window and the boys say, “What’s up?” and they chat a bit. It sounds stupid, but she likes that someone went out of their way to say hello to her. In fact, she breathes easier afterward, but at the Academy, specifically at her locker, that’s gone. She thinks of all her valedictorian, Model UN, and other crap expectations. I need to get out of here. So as the bell towers start her day and her American history teacher starts his class, her feet stick to the mud of the chapel while her nipples become so hard they practically eat through her vest, like temptation eats through her will—foil ripped from a new soft pack and a flame against the gray-silver sky.

  She wishes he were here.

  If the morning weather is severe, occasionally everyone will decide, via cell phones and whatnot, to meet up for coffee or something and be twenty minutes late for school. Last month, that happened for a heavy rainstorm, and she arrived at the Starbucks with Niko just as Tom did. Despite the public discretion they show for their relationship, they kissed once and sat together at the center of the big table, holding hands while surrounded by friends. She fantasizes about it, but one can only fantasize for so long, especially at the scene of the crime. She replays jerking him off—drawing his penis in detail and wondering how her red fingernails might’ve blurred had she jerked him off when she did have, for one short hour, red fingernails. Also how, at the midway, her forearm succumbed to overuse, and she had to substitute her strength for the momentum of her body. It bruised her knee and might’ve done worse, but nope, what happened was he shot his white stuff all over her hand and himself.

  She thinks about that for quite a while.

  She had always wondered what boy cum would look like.

  And…

  How does he get to me like this?

  She hits off her smoke, then tries to forget it, but she can’t. In truth, when they started getting serious, she thought she’d shyly forego his advances for her penances with God. But, even if she could not, then certainly they could find a place for such indiscretions that was not the chapel, that was not God’s home. Tom’s got a solution for that. Lately, he’s mentioning how his mom works late, and his home is empty, including his room—unless, of course, they went there after class.

  Thinking about it makes her feel heavy.

  Feeling heavy makes it difficult to breathe again. She snubs her cigarette and, in class, explains to her American history teacher that she’s having “girl problems.” He’s skeptical since she smells of tar, but lets it pass. She is, after all, one of the Asian girls—too good and too innocent for something so improper. He gives her a packet titled Review for Test of Chapter 14 and tells her to find her seat. Once she does, she flips her hair over her shoulders, gets a pen from her bag, and finds the usual group has assembled. Niko, of course. Tom, of course. And this goth boy who can never find a group.

  Everyone has decided to await her arrival before beginning the review packet. She supposes that’s expected, and she talks with conviction, knowing that she’ll have to convince the two biggest lazy asses that today all must work. “I’m in big trouble with my parents, so we can’t goof around.”

  Niko has gum in her mouth. “Where were you?”

  “Where do you think I was?”

  “Smoking! You should’ve had me come with you.”

  She rubs her temple and reminds herself to be patient. No one knows she is feeling the weight. Still, she wonders if the Pep Squad (in her mind) is assembling. No, it’s too soon.

  Relax. “Seriously, we have to study.”

  “Why? What’s gonna happen with your parents?”

  It’s hard to pass up an opportunity to whine, so she whines her woes to Niko’s shock. Surely not! He would never! My dad would never order me to study! Niko then recounts a story, and there are many, of great adventure and irresponsibility. It involves Timmy and his friend Clyde, someone she’s never met but who is supposed to be gorgeous, and how they did this or that and it almost ruined the night…

  Blah!

  She’s not allowed out on school nights.

  Tom is busy noticing that her nipples have eaten her vest. She makes her obligatory evaluation of him. His top button is undone and his collar lies like some seventies TV superstar. His blond hair is slicked back in hair gel stuff, and he is still comatose on her tits. She wishes there were boundaries. He is, by his decree and not her own, only a tool for her sexual amusement and not a menace to her schoolwork.

  Wait, nothing’s getting done! “Seriously, we have to work!”

  Niko, who’s without makeup today, has sprung up from her bookbag, and from it she takes a white headband, with three red Japanese symbols, that she ties behind her head. Niko sticks her gum under the table, and holds out her fist. “Alright, Sykosa, for you, I will study.” Niko opens her text, then reads not three words before she becomes overwhelmed by jitters. “I hate this! I’m never gonna need this useless shit.”

  She frowns. “What did I say about concentrating?”

  “I don’t know. I wasn’t listening.”

  “This isn’t a joke.”

  Niko’s eyes roll, her attention finding its true subjects—Ass Girl and Hazu. They’re sitting together, similarly engaged in some sub-intelligent conversation. Niko, too, wonders if she’ll ever get asked to Prom. “I… I…” Niko wants to say something, but she’s become stuck o
n that goth boy who’s tagged along. He has nice vampire hair, and it’s sexy how one of his eyes has a bit of eyeliner. Niko feels something funny when she thinks of it, and she doesn’t understand it. She ignores it by talking to Tom. “Tom, are you doing anything interesting tonight?”

  “Nothing really, I mean, what’s there to do on a Thursday?”

  Niko holds her answer a half-beat since she knows Sykosa will chime in. It is the most important day of the week! Sykosa smiles, because she cannot control herself sometimes, and lifts her head to say in synch with Niko: “Watch Friends!”

  “I take it you both watch it together?”

  Niko shakes her head. “Never, we watch it at our houses and talk on the phone.”

  “Wait, you watch the same show and talk on the phone?”

  They speak in unison again. “Yes!”

  “Whatever.”

  She giggles, annoyed that Niko used Friends against her. Though, she does feel better, until she feels worse. She tries to sound tough. “Enough of this. Niko, you take section one; Tom, you take section two…” They look like toddlers in a too big world. She closes her eyes and feels dizzy. Her eyesight becomes fuzzy. This is the blackness. This is what happens when it gets worse. And it’s only first period. Should the Pep Squad assemble? No, not yet. It’s too early. Relax. “Can you guys please do this for me?”

  “Absolutely!” Niko forms a fist and goes headfirst into the text before, three words later, her eyes get lost and her fist grows limp. God, this is boring! It’s so boring that talking to Tom is a for-real alternative. “Tom, if you could do something tonight, what would you do?” Sykosa pounds her fist into the table and looks all frazzled. Niko is perplexed. “What’re you worried for?”

  “Because we need to work on this—”

  Tom interrupts. “Why? You’re going to get an A.”

  He better not say what she thinks he’s gonna. “What makes you think that?”

  “Because you always get an A, even without studying, right? All of you Asians get good grades. It’s genetic or something.”

  Actually, it’s cause our parents are psychopaths.