Sykosa, Part I: Junior Year Page 9
“What does that mean?”
“Like, we need to stop doing things separately.”
“You mean sex?”
That’s…one way to put it.
“I guess.”
Niko squeezes her jaw shut in thought. “It’s hard to say.”
“Why is that?”
Niko half-shrugs and looks away. “Well, you two’ve kept this on the down low. Some of guessed, but you guys are always behind that chapel. Is that all you do back there?”
No, but she can see how Niko would think that.
“We talk a lot. I’ve told you that.”
“About?”
“About what he’s feeling, about what I’m feeling.”
Once again, Niko proceeds with caution. Sykosa doesn’t see how sensitive she is to criticism of Tom or the circumstances upon how she came to love him. “Do you talk about last year?”
She looks pained. “He tries, but I change the subject.”
“Why is that?”
She closes her eyes and squints her face. “Niko, don’t make me change the subject.”
Niko chuckles. “Okay, you want my opinion?”
Yeah, she does, but she just remembered Niko didn’t lose her virginity in a romantic fashion. Still, what could it hurt? “What’s your opinion?”
Niko’s opinion is that things need to stop being about Tom. Shit, Niko just fucked over Ass Girl in the ass worse than Hazu does—Ass Girl’s party this weekend is screwed. The Stars will lose it when they learn what they missed out on. And doing this stuff to the Bitches is what Sykosa and Niko did together pre-Tom. They were best friends and they stuck to the group and everything was perfect.
Niko doesn’t say any of these things.
“I think you’re over stressing. They’ll be other weekends at my cottage. Besides, I’m finally taking you—my bestest friend and the one person I’ve always wanted to take—to my cottage, so we can party and act like tramped up super-bitches!”
“I know. I do want to do that.”
“Why can’t you?”
“Because I want to go to Prom.”
“He said he won’t take you? Did you ask him?”
Her elbow collapses on the door panel and her fingers push her hair up. The blackness may not have her today, but she can’t deny her Prom dream she has affected her. She knows she’s gonna sleep with him regardless, but things could get messed up between Tom and her if everything isn’t handled well. “I didn’t ask him, of course. But, he has to know. I mean, pretty soon they’re gonna stop selling tickets. What am I supposed to do then? I got excited over it and pretended not to be, and now—maybe he thinks I don’t care about it.”
Niko is a syllable into an anti-Tom rampage when her door opens. It’s Timmy. He smiles like a jackal and looks like a weasel, his body as thin as a match and, unfortunately, not nearly as tall as one. He wears a mesh of trailer trash and hip-hop, his traditional motif, while keeping his true-to-da-streets attitude by scratching his balls in public and spitting every time he exits a vehicle.
“What’s with the coldness, baby? Trying to avoid me?”
“Of course not, now get outta of my way.” Niko shoves her way out, and he provides her clearance, only to lay his skinny arm over her shoulders. His elbow swings like a loose hinge over her flat chest. “Where’s Clyde?”
“In the van screwing with his damn guitar. Clyde, where the fuck are your fucking manners? Get the fuck out here and fucking greet everybody, you fuck!”
In the past, Niko’s said Clyde is a hottie, so she watches the passenger door of the van—an early 90s Chevy Astro rusted at wheels and wells—squeal open. Clyde sets down his acoustic before the sun off of Niko’s neighbor, Lake Washington, splashes him visible. She runs out of air while breathing while getting light headed and something else. Wow, he’s gorgeous. That’s unusual in a man. They’re attractive, but not like this.
Her problems sink away, like someone cleared the drain of her better sense, then they return.
He did give her that second.
This Clyde.
He’s pushed back his dirty blond hair to open her door with his back bent over like a concierge. She twirls her hair around her ear and holds down her skirt as her leg steps onto the pavement. She tries not to stare at him. He slams the door, and after he does, his fingers run across her back, off her hip and she, gulp!, thinks he might grab her butt, but he does not.
“Do you mind if I bum a cigarette from you?”
She holds up her smokes like a losing slot machine. “Here.”
Timmy is bored. “Are you girls ready? Let’s hit the road.”
“Um, can you not see that we’re in our uniforms? Besides, everyone won’t be here until classes are over. Since we have time to kill, Sykosa and I are going to get ready, that way we can start partying right when we get there. Don’t you think that’s a good idea?”
Niko’s bedroom is, technically, a wing of the mansion. She has her big bathroom that leads into her big actual bedroom, with her big bed and her large posters of Leonardo DiCaprio and Bruce Lee. Beyond that, through French doors, is a lounge with pastel purple walls, comfy sofas, and a big screen. There are bookcases on the walls full of stuffed animals, pictures of Niko’s mom, and a bar/mini-kitchen. It is in this room that Sykosa drops her book bag before she tunes the TV to TRL to see the same songs that’re there every day. Included is this rap song that’s been stuck in her head. All them bitches. All them hoes. The rapper has a deep voice, and he’s very, very black.
“Niko, Timmy’s friend is hot!”
Niko’s on the bedroom side of the French doors.
“He’s probably gonna play his guitar tonight. You should listen and tell him it’s great! He has this fragile ego thing.” Niko walks towards her bathroom, but takes a left into her walk-in closet—or as it’s nicknamed, “The Hallway”—which is an infinite tunnel of tee-shirts, skirts, dresses, and non-thonged lingerie. Currently, Niko bites on her nail of her third finger, distraught over how little she has to wear. “I should’ve bought that damn skirt!”
“Hey, don’t come in here. I’m gonna change, okay?”
“Don’t come in here either.”
This dialogue was necessary, and hard to explain.
At one time, Niko and she had, what her mother described as, “boundary issues.” They’re both only children and they definitely thought—think—of themselves as sisters, so they shared beds, bath tubs, blankets, underwear, and—brace yourselves—practiced her favorite masturbation technique: pillow fucking, which—brace yourselves again—Niko taught her how to perform. That wasn’t all. Because of Niko, she knew to sit against jets in hot tubs, straddle speakers, where to place her toothbrush, and the correct way to ride a tire swing. Now before anyone calls DHHS, Niko didn’t understand sex, so 80% of Niko’s sex ideas were pea-brained, non-sexual, and in retrospect, kinda cute.
The problem?
I was nine years old. And my mom freaked.
Her mother’s response, and Mother Superior’s, was to help her establish an identity. Many attempts were made over the years, but none worked. What did work was Niko joining the Bitches. This happened during sophomore year or, as she refers to it, “last year.” And despite how it seems, joining the Bitches was difficult. For one, Donna Harly was leader, so membership required constant submission to her. In Bitches terms, this was called the “Rules” and the Rules were followed without exception. Thus, to fit this mold, Niko1.0 became 2.0, and for many months, worshiped, mimicked, and followed Donna like she were a Messiah.
Until, of course, Niko didn’t want to any longer.
All that’s in the far past. Niko3.0 fixed those things. As it so happens, while Niko3.0 was busy doing that, she fixed their friendship, as she learned that privacy and independence are part of growing older.
In the last year, she expected Niko to discover the same.
That hasn’t exactly happened.
“Like, I was thinking, it doesn’t
really matter if I listen to him. Clyde is like Timmy’s age. I’m not dating him.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Shit. “Nothing, it’s a personal preference thing.”
“Excuse me that I think high school boys are lame.”
No, you think nice boys are lame. High school has nothing to do with it. She wishes Niko wouldn’t date Timmy. He’s kind of a loser. “I didn’t mean it as a bad thing. I meant he’s hot, but I’m not interested beyond that.”
“Yeah, yeah, like Mike Holler, I know.”
She becomes silent. That name.
“Yeah.”
This isn’t her story. This isn’t her life.
Niko never mentions Mike Holler. Why would she do that?
No time to find out. SS2 sticks her head in the bedroom door and sees Niko pop out of her closet in some punky jeans of zippers and patches and holes on the knees. SS2 gives Niko a hug. “You look so hot! God, you’re so beautiful, Niko!”
Niko spanks SS2 on the butt. “Thanks, butt face.”
SS2 laughs. She thinks it’s funny when Niko abuses her. “When we didn’t see you in school, we knew you ditched, so we did, too!”
SS3 walks in afterwards. No one notices.
SS1 follows. Her corn-fed body is in her Academy uniform, as are the rest of the Sluts. She’s on the phone. “It’s one weekend. Ð Don’t be like that. Ð We’ll party next weekend.” Then, SS1 sets her phone on the dresser. “You were so right, Niko, my boyfriend hates that I’m leaving! He’s afraid all the college guys are gonna woo me!”
SS2 smiles too. “Yeah, Niko, our boyfriends are pissed!”
VIII.
The cottage in Coeur d’Alene (as it appears through a forest like a castle in a storybook) almost seems like an optical illusion. The lawn is cut and green—alive!—in April. As are the flowers along the driveway that lead to a beautiful rock landscape. It builds to a ninety-five hundred square foot compound—aren’t cottages small?—with a second floor of too many rooms to count (one full of pictures of Niko’s mother from the swimsuit issue), and whose main floor includes a sauna, weight room, dojo, movie theater, and a four-car garage full of three sport coupes and a truck that looks like it belongs in a war. The real eye catcher is the rear deck. It’s multiple levels, sectioned off like the house in Swiss Family Robinson. It bottoms out to twin spas on either end of a pool, which has its own secret lagoon where people can screw.
Hm.
That’s an interesting thought.
Maybe Tom and her will make love in the lagoon. That way she can listen to the waterfall while he gets off. Or they can pretend! They’re Honeymooners who’ve rented this cottage to, um, that’s not right. They’re recently engaged lovers who’ve rented out this cottage… Oh! They’re traveling students, both on break from their respective significant others when they meet on a crowded beach in Spain and, later that eve, decide to fuck each other. Then, three weeks later, after telephone correspondences that stretch until dawn, he’ll take a train to spend the day with her. He’ll be wearing cream pants and one of those guayabera shirts like sexy Cubanos do. She’ll be in a sundress and no underwear. After checking into this cottage/ hotel, they’ll tour the city, eat only appetizers, drink too much, and later in the eve, decide to fuck each other. And it’s okay because they’re studying for careers and other stuff, so this is
an important experience.
I can’t wait to go to college!
(She secretly read her mother’s romance books at 12).
(Niko underlined the sexy parts).
Then she remembers that it takes money to do these things.
Depressed, she sits on a kitchen bar stool where she smokes and watches it curl up her transparent window reflection. She does this because she needs a few minutes where she doesn’t have to smile and laugh and be polite and meet the needs of everyone around her. This resignation bothers boys, who then go to great lengths to make her smile and laugh and be polite and meet the needs of everyone around her. Their lavished attention amuses her, and thus she smiles and laughs and becomes polite and meets the needs to everyone around her.
Boys use many tricks to achieve this.
Some tell jokes, some become goofy, some act like your best friend, some refuse to talk to you (yuck), some are mysterious and others are TMI-junkies, some talk about sex stuff (pervs), some behave like gentlemen, some become shy (boring!), and others do what Clyde’s doing.
He sweet-talks.
Specifically, he continuously curls his hair around his ear so he seems vulnerable. He talks into her eyes so he seems attentive. He looks at her boobs when he reaches for his beer so she knows he is attracted to her. He listens to her problems and tells her all the stuff she has to endure is bullshit so she will think of him as someone wise.
He could go to jail for it.
For now, he sits with his guitar case at his side. It’s easier to talk to girls after they see the guitar. “Music is like an orgasm. It gets, like, better and better, faster and faster, or slower and slower, and sometimes slower is better, ya know? Then it all gets bigger and bigger, and before you know it—pow! Music is all about sex. Everything is, if you think about it.”
He’ll fight her if she disagrees. If he fights her, he’ll move in excitement, and his shoulder will block more of Tom, who shares the family room sofa with Mackenzie. His uniform is crumply and worn—like last night. His hair is messy and blond—like last night. His posture relaxed and fun loving—like last night. She wants him to pick her up—like last night. Yet, he stays on that sofa like he doesn’t care. It’s because Clyde monopolized her for the entire van ride. For some reason, Tom has not butt in to claim her for himself and that’s unfortunate; she wants to ask him if he saw that lagoon!
Until he does, she drinks the expensive, dust-covered, cellar wine. It makes her drunk and dissociative. “I’ve never thought about music that way, but I guess you’re right. I believe that everything has to do with relationships.”
“Yeah, sex, that’s what relationships are.”
Typical guy crap. He’s lucky he’s a hunk. “I don’t think I’ll ever see music as just sex or my relationships as just sexual. I mean, we’re more than our bodies, you know?”
“Huh?”
She should have defaulted to Niko’s Big Book on Being Cool where Niko notes—in great length—never to bring up the subject of spirituality to public school kids.
They get confused.
“How long have you played guitar?”
“Since I was nine.”
“Did you take lessons?”
“No, I just started to play.”
“Wow.” He smiles like he knows he’s hot and she’s unable to resist him. She’s unsure if it offends her. Though his smile reminds her of Tom and the look in his eyes when he’s gonna be grabby. Then, she relives kissing Tom on her bed. That was a good time. “I kinda envy you. You know what you want. It’s not so simple for me. It’s like everything is available, or that’s how my parents talk about it, but I don’t want that.”
“You know what I want?”
“Tell me.”
“I want to be the greatest musician ever.”
Also depressing!
She isn’t interested in a man who chases the impossible, but a man who chases himself. Like a dog. That way they can lie in a rut together. That sounded wrong. She fixes it. She wants a boy who is more of a friend than the boyfriend type. That was wrong, too. Hm, she wants a boy who’s… Shit. Brain fart. What she wants is a normal, non-pervy boy or boy-like creature who’ll serenade her with good dreams.
She used to have that boy, except for the perv part.
She remembers it’s impolite to ignore someone speaking to her. “Wow, that’s kind of difficult.”
Clyde’s over read her words. “You don’t think I can do it?”
“You could be the best, and no one might ever notice.”
And taken his reaction too far. “What do you mean?”
He interrupts. “Are you saying I can’t be the best?”
“No, that’s not what I’m saying.”
In an attempt to sound cool and accepting of her opinion, he ends up sounding like a prick. “You know what? Let’s forget about it. It’s no big deal.”
Okay. Fine with her! She’ll forget it, if that’s what he wants. She’ll never think about it again, nor will she mention it. Hey, it’s not a problem!
She’s whining. “Clyde, I didn’t say anything.”
“Alright.”
“Did I make you angry?”
“I’m not gonna listen to anyone tell me I can’t be the best.”
She refills her wine glass and changes the subject because she was right. Clyde’s shoulder is blocking Tom and she does not like it. Once he’s sure she is no longer questioning his guitar licks, Clyde reverts to his old self. She looks at Tom again. The pull—the one she feels around him—hits her. It wants to make him look at her and pay her some mind, then when she’s sure she’s got him, have him do her in the lagoon.
Maybe I really do want to have sex.
Clyde continues to talk, but she’s not listening. She looks at Mackenzie’s thin pink lips and their sort of shiny layer, at her Mary Tyler Moore haircut and bellbottom jeans, and those hands, folded one over the other, her back straight when she sits. She sees Mackenzie and tries to figure out how to act more like her, so Tom will be less distant. And Mackenzie sees Sykosa and tries to figure out how to act more like her, so Tom will be less distant. She looks at Sykosa’s lips and their pout, her fine hair, and those hands that work that cigarette and swirl that wine like some spoiled debutant.
Tom continues to talk, but she’s not listening.
He isn’t either.
He peeks over his shoulder, obsessed with Sykosa and her come-hither outfits that… How is she buying this guy’s crap?, he’ll never know, as he knows better than most that, with a girl like Sykosa, it’s never the conversation that’s interesting. That came out wrong. He doesn’t only like her because she’s mega-hot. There’re other reasons.