Sykosa, Part I: Junior Year Page 7

  This doesn’t make any sense. “Uh, hi.”

  “What’s up?”

  “Nothing, did you need something?”

  “One second.” One second. “Sorry, I’m on the freeway now. What did you say?”

  He never calls.

  “Did you need something?”

  “Naw, I don’t know, wanna talk?” Her turquoise panties are folded in a square atop a pile of clothes she wants to take this weekend. She thinks she should put them on. They might help her phone technique. “Are your parents gone for conferences?”

  “Um, let me check.” Her alarm clock is on her nightstand. “Yeah, they probably left twenty minutes ago.”

  “Great, I got food that I didn’t finish. I’ll come over.”

  She needs to pack. And she has that test tomorrow. There is no time to be his plaything. Then his words hit her. Sleeping does make her hungry. “You have food?”

  “Mackenzie and I went out to eat. She helped me finish my American history packet. Have you finished it?”

  “Almost. Are you sure you want to come over?”

  Him coming over is one of those risks that ends badly. Her parents will come home early. A neighbor will mention the car in her driveway. He’ll fall down the stairs and she’ll have to call an ambulance. Plus, there’s her house. Three bedrooms. Two.five baths. One kitchen. If he enters her little life, he might suffer his own bout of claustrophobia. Or he’ll see her furniture. The scratched up dinner table. The two family room couches that’re a sun bleached yellow. The tacky sunflower matting in the drawers and cupboards. No one knows, except Niko, that her father’s a union leader for the ILWU. He doesn’t play stocks, investment bank, or whatever everyone else’s fathers do. He spends all his money on her tuition.

  She feels guilty for being so ungrateful.

  Maybe she is a liberal.

  “Yeah, I’m coming over. Where do you live anyway?”

  “Oh, you have to go north.”

  “I can do that.”

  Oddly, she wants him to ask her to Prom and, you know, love her forever; yet asking him to turn his car around is a burden she cannot bear on him. “But, you’re already going home.”

  “Not anymore!” His horn blares in the background. “I need to exit here, get out of my way!” More adolescent horn beeps and name calling. She imagines his goofy looks and charming eyes. She wonders what he’d feel if he knew she spent all evening trying on underwear. She wonders what kind of stuff he does when he thinks about her. “Is it Lake City or Bothell?”

  “Kinda in-between. It’s Exit 177, then take Ballinger Way until you see the big bookstore, then turn left at the light, left at the stop sign. I’m at the top of the hill.”

  “I have great news.”

  “You’re going to Niko’s this weekend!”

  “Yeah, how’d you know?”

  “It’s a best friend thing. Niko called and told me—”

  He interrupts…you get it. “Did you ask your parents?”

  Really, what boggles her is why this interruption was even necessary. Let me finish my sentence! “Uh—”

  He interrupts again. “Forget it. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

  He hangs up and she pops a whitehead in the mirror. The fuckers only come around when she sleeps. She thought her reflection would look happier. That attack stole her ability to feel. She wants to feel again. Um, change clothing! She decides on her too-tight jeans. She bought them after Niko told her that a girl should always keep a pair of jeans that don’t fit, that way she always has an excuse to be on a diet. And she’s not been on a diet. So she puts her feet through the ends, then grips either side—ready to prove that, in the manner one runs a potato sack race, two objects can occupy the same space at the same time.

  Go!

  She jumps across the floor, her hands pulling like hydraulic pistons until it’s at her hips and the button’s closed. Let’s see him finger me now! Forget the witty remarks—must complete outfit. She chooses a belt with cowboy tassels that dangle to her mid-thigh while her feet slip into some Earthy sandals. Obviously, she leaves the Girl Scout shirt be because her boobs look good in this shirt, whereas they’re hidden at the Academy. He also really likes her boobs, so if he sees them in this shirt, he’ll think it’s worth seeing them somewhere else besides the chapel.

  Like at Prom.

  For kicks, she puts on shiny lip gloss and parts her hair down the middle. When she does this, someone’s kid always says she looks like Disney’s Pocahontas. After that, she sits on her bay window and waits for him. She didn’t jerk him off today. Maybe that’s why he is coming. He is coming to cum. That’s funny. They did make out, like they do. He liked her green thong, of course, and he grabbed it and begged to feel her pussy, but rules are rules, and once his fingers dug too deep, she feigned anger while he feigned apologies.

  She gets it now. He’s desensitizing her.

  Day by day he’s moving millimeters closer to her vagina in much the same way he got his penis in her hand. So you know, it didn’t just “happen.” It took months. It started with holding her against his erection, then tucking it underneath his belt, then humping her thigh, then humping between her thighs, then loosening his belt to hump her with only his boxers and, in the process, coming his pants what must’ve been a hundred times. Then, low and behold, one day he kisses her, and she kisses him, and he humps her, and he says it’s uncomfortable, and he asks if she’ll take over, and it almost felt like her idea.

  You know what happened.

  She knows it too.

  His SUV, a Lexus RX something, is in her drive. He got it a few weeks ago. It’s snazzy. It’s also the primary reason why going to his bedroom after school is even an option. That’s not on her mind, though. He is. And she runs to meet him at the screen door, then perform her obligatory evaluation of him. He’s in his uniform minus the starchiness. And his cotton shirt is scraggly where it was tucked in his pants. His blond hair’s fallen forward. He has a sinister feel its slicks back, like a rich asshole who wants to buy her. Lastly, she sniffs him. He smells like carbohydrates. He has two trapezoid containers with the tops that open four ways.

  “It’s yakisoba.”

  The sight of it causes her waist to expand, and she doubts, in these pants, she can swallow without having a hernia. “I’m not hungry. You can finish it, if you want.”

  “I’m not hungry either. I just ate.”

  He surfs his way around the kitchen, still in his shoes. Lucky boy. If her mother were home, he would be under her omnipresent condescendence. “For future reference, take off your shoes—”

  He interrupts. “I’m sorry. Is it a parent thing?”

  “It’s a Japanese thing.”

  He walks to the door where his one foot digs his other foot out of unpolished leather, which then copies the motion for its partner. He has black socks.

  “There.”

  It’s nice when he listens. She feels like putting her pointer fingers through his belt loops, then giving him an Eskimo kiss. At times, he knows these things—like what she wants, and what she needs, and he’s able to give them to her. He does that now. Hugging her, like seeing her, is really special to him, like getting a hug from her from somewhere other than the chapel or away from school matters to him. At the end, he gives her an open-mouth kiss like a husband might give his wife when he gets home from work, and he gives her butt cheek a squeeze.

  When they separate, her hands are on his chest.

  “You’re still in your uniform?”

  He ignores her. “Do I get a tour?”

  “You can see everything from where you’re standing.”

  “Come now, you can do better than that.”

  She shrugs. “It isn’t like your house.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Fine, how large is your house?”

  “I live in an apartment downtown, by the waterfront.”

  Is there no end to his subtle insults? “Uh, I know that.�
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  He smirks. “Yeah, you do, don’t you?”

  “I meant house as in home, and judging by your car, my house isn’t like your apartment.”

  “Who cares?”

  She realizes she dodged a landmine. It was an opportunity for him to mention his bedroom. Even so, she doesn’t consider herself so lucky as to give a tour. She’s about to say such, but then she stops. This is a trial run. What happens in her house sets the standard for what happens in his. She makes a mental note of that, then finally says as much. “Exactly. Let’s skip it.”

  “Let’s do it and say we didn’t.”

  They go through all the rooms. She folds her hands one over the other and claps when she feels embarrassed. She also feels it’s somewhat necessary to be upfront about her poverty, thus she points out the water stain on the hallway ceiling, the chipped tile in the bathroom, and the parts of the carpet that look clawed. He watches with no regard. He laughs sometimes, too. He thinks her behavior is ridiculous. She feels stupid, but it’s the good stupid. This is the kinda stuff she would come out and tell people if she trusted them.

  She feels intimate.

  The tour ends upstairs.

  “And that’s my house.”

  They’re in the balcony that runs after the stairs between her bedroom and the bathroom. The track lights are turned down to a sunset orange. He’s beautiful in it. “And that door?”

  She is coy. “What door?”

  “That’s your room, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah, it’s my room, but you can’t go in it.”

  “Why not?”

  She gives him a spoiled brat attitude. “Because you can’t.”

  He fights a deceitful grin. Troublemaker. They stare at each other and, once the rules are laid, he stands above her, big and bold, from his six-foot-two frame. “I’m gonna see it.”

  “Huh-uh.”

  He steps right, and she steps left, then he steps left, and she goes right. Her fingertips touch her door, as do her shoulder blades. He touches the slice of her hip that exposed itself when her shirt bunched; it’s like charged wires shocking her skin. She gives him a very female look, so he knows to forget it.

  He pretends not to see. “I’m coming in.”

  Boys are fun. “No, you’re not.”

  “Yes, I am.”

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

  No, he’ll ask! I know this time he’ll ask!

  “No, you aren’t.” He licks his lips, then looks left. The fake out. He skits right and she holds out her arms. She laughs. “Tom, no!” She wraps herself around him, blockading him and pulling on his shirt so she might be like dead weight. He spins her around, so she locks her arms against the doorframe. He tickles her sides and she jumps, laughing hysterically. “Stop, Tom! Stop! That’s cheating!”

  He does stop, but it starts in his pants. When she held onto the door, her ass rubbed against him. Girls are fun. “Come on, you know I’m gonna win.”

  “I’ll never jerk you off again.”

  “Oh, that’s a lie!” He reaches for her sides and she releases the wall. “Got ya!” He scoops her up and she hangs over his shoulder. He’s strong for his age. “Let’s see you stop me.”

  “Stop it. Do not go in there!”

  He kicks down her door.

  “Let’s see here… School books? Homework? What’s this?” He stops at her desk. Her white and gold soft pack stares him in the face. “Cigarettes, huh? How cliché. You know, in this age of post-Madonnaism, it’d be more rebellious to quit.”

  She feels silly, but it’s nice that he’s somewhat like himself again. He felt a bit off in the hallways this morning, then behind the chapel this afternoon. She pretends like she doesn’t know what it is, but she does. He’s nervous. He really, really wants this weekend. She can tell how much he wants to have her to himself for a little while.

  She won’t lie. She feels it, too.

  “So now that you’re in my room you have some commentary to offer on my life?”

  “Commen-whata?”

  “Do you have any idea what you’re talking about?”

  He puts his foot upon her desk chair, then looks above like many a philosopher before him. “I’ve no idea, but your smart ass is right next to me. I must be learning by osmosis.”

  She hits him. “Let me down, I’m serious.”

  “Wait a second.”

  “No, let me down.”

  “Jackpot!” She’s spun, her room blurry and her hair against the wall (almost smacked her head). His hands release her and her feet hit the floor, both her bones and the metal desk handles rattle. She pushes the hair from her eyes and sees that he has fallen to his knees to inspect all the panties she wore. “Wow, you own lots of sexy underwear. I’ve never seen these.”

  “Nope, not all of them.”

  She supposes she could be embarrassed. Though, his liking her underwear, while immature, is not a surprise. And he gets to do stuff other boys don’t. It’s always been that way, and it’s way too late to change that. So she waits until either he grows bored or she gets angry. He doesn’t get bored, staring at a black g-string of transparent lace and three strings that’re held by a silver ring at the top of her butt. He licks his lips, stretching it out, as if to see how big a girl could fit.

  Eventually, his eyes move to her poochy butt.

  “Let me see you in them.”

  Her mouth drops. “You wish.”

  “Hell yeah, I do.” He kneels on both knees like they do in the pews at mass. He interlocks his fingers and thumbs, holding them over his head, making her his false idol. “Oh please, do not make me beg, Sykosa. Put it on and show it to me for five seconds, please!”

  Those scars, on his fingers and hand, fill her eyes, and… They might be convincing, but not quite enough. “No.”

  “Please, I cannot live if I cannot see you in them.”

  “I’ll tell you what, put them on for me, and I will for you.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding.”

  Actually, no, she’s not. “No, I’m not.”

  “I’ll look dumb.”

  Her finger snubs his snout. “I bet you’d look cute.” He looks unamused. She interlocks her fingers and wells up her voice, like when she asks her father for money. “Oh, please wear my g-string, Tom. I cannot live if I cannot see you in it.”

  Her impression is a little too accurate. “Sykosa—”

  She interrupts. “For five seconds, I’ll count them for you.”

  “No way, I’ll feel retarded.”

  “How do you think I’ll feel?”

  “There’s a difference.”

  This oughta be interesting. “What’s that?”

  “Girls are supposed to wear that kind of stuff. Guys don’t.”

  He’s sort of right. It’s made for girls. Thus, he’s got a point. She has her point, too. And her eyes say how she’s conflicted. And his are drunk in possibility. She can’t do it. She just can’t, for good reason or not. Besides, this is their trial run, and it’s actually going well. Apparently, if they visit his bedroom, she’ll get a really long hug, a good kiss, he’ll still be his playful self, they’ll still have their chemistry and, really, trying on panties is gonna mess everything up.

  She kicks at the ground, so he knows that he has upset her and to fix it. “I don’t wanna. I thought you wanted to talk.”

  He’s discarded her underwear and stood up. For once, she’s so very happy he’s so ADD. “Right then, talking. How often do you wear that thing?”

  “Hardly ever, and let’s talk about something else.”

  He slouches in her desk chair like a rebel as he looks over her room. He thinks it’s a girly room, so girly with so many girl things, girls, yes girls—all he thinks about are girls. To his point, he wants to ogle her, and… What’s this? She’s sitting on her polished maple bay window, her legs drooped over the side, swinging back and forth while her bunched shoulders hang on, for dear life, to those melon tits with the
candy drop nipples and… I got it! He has it. I know! He knows. She looks like Pocahontas! She looks as gorgeous as any girl he’s ever seen. And this hot girl and her tight ass rubbed itself against him by her door. She’s such a babe. “American history sucks, but it’s okay. Tomorrow we’ll be heading east to Coeur d’Alene.”

  “Did you say earlier that your family owned a place there?”

  “Yes, my grandmother did. We visited during summers.”

  “But not any longer?” He raises his eyebrows. She feels like she intruded. “It’s okay, if it’s like family stuff.”

  “She died a while ago. My mother and her didn’t get along.”

  “Your grandmother must’ve really driven your mother crazy then. I mean, I can’t imagine being without my mom.”

  “Well, you get along with your mother.”

  I do? “What makes you think that?”

  “You seem like someone who likes her parents.”

  Her parents, and by that she means her mother, betrayed her once. Had her mother been successful in that betrayal, she wouldn’t have gone to the Academy, and never met Tom. “We have problems.”

  “You do?”

  “Yes, but they’re not as bad as they used to be.”

  He moves on. Family stuff and all. “Well, my grandma was my father’s mother, so after they split, I didn’t see her often.”

  “How long have your parents been divorced?”

  “Long time, it seems.”

  “Do you see your father a lot?”

  “No. Your parents are married, right?”

  That’s why we all live in the same house! “Yes.”

  “If you had to choose, who would you live with?”

  “What?”

  “Who would you live with?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve never thought about it.” He does not believe her, nor does he stop staring as he waits for the truth. She coughs. Divorced kids are fucked in the brain. “So what’s Coeur d’Alene like?”

  He likes that question. His answer is swift. “It’s right in the middle of nowhere. One second you’re on the freeway, driving through the mountains and then pow! You break through the trees on a lake. And people are waterskiing and jet-skiing and having fun.” Occasionally, at times like this, he has a unique sense to him and he’s very poetic. When he sits back and lets the words come off his tongue, they sound slicked in butter. “You’re coming, right? I mean, that’s why you got these clothes everywhere, isn’t it?”