Hydroplane: Fictions (5 page)

In the cafeteria on Monday, sitting alone before the boy-looking girl comes over saying, You're dead, and me saying, You're a liar, and her saying, Fuck you, and me saying, Liar, and her saying, I'll kick you, and me saying, Fuck you, and her saying, I'll kick you I swear, before I get up to return my tray, before he, coming from somewhere, from I don't know where, grabs me from behind, saying, Ugly, in my ear, and, Stop calling me, before I crumble, before she kicks my legs and he walks off and my mother has to come get me.

The hostess fainting on the floor, her back against the wall, her legs out crooked like dolls' legs, her head crooked, too, hanging, mouth open, the last guest standing by her legs, unmoving, knowing he has decisions to make, at this point, as she faints, to wake her or not, to leave her or not, to fuck her or not, trying to see, one can tell, his near future, the late morning, the feeling of that.

The two friends trying to wake the hostess with a light tap on the arm, saying, Wake up, Wake up.

My mother laughing, saying, Boys will be boys, when she gets me at school the day I cannot pull my body off the dirty cafeteria floor after the new kid grabs my tits and calls me ugly and the girl kicks my legs and calls me lesbo and the crowd of kids is screaming, Lesbo lesbo, and the science teacher walking through and all the kids walking away and the science teacher leaning over me, saying, What is it, and, Can you get up, and then, when I do not get up, the science teacher calling down the hall to the school nurse, and the school nurse lifting me up from the floor as one would lift a heavy box and dragging me to her office and calling my mother and saying, Can you come up to school, saying, A boy teased her, then laughing at whatever it is my mother says and looking at me
and laughing again, and my mother coming to get me from school, shaking her head, laughing, saying, Boys will be boys, trying to make me laugh on our walk past his house, past his mother stooped in her backyard garden, past the woods where I have rolled on the ground collecting dirt on my skin and hair, and my mother making faces to try to make me laugh, saying, Those dumb boys, and, I bet he likes you, and, I bet he's in love, patting me on the back, saying, Of course he's in love.

The two friends trying to wake the hostess who is not waking despite their occasional tapping, despite a harder prodding, despite the swift kick I deliver to her knee as a way to help her friends, and the hostess waking from my second kick and looking at me, furious, her hair a mess in her face, the hostess about to rise and destroy me she is so furious that I, the most unwanted guest, have kicked her in the knee, but saying, when she sees her friends, What, and the friends saying, The cat, and the hostess sobering up despite what she has had to drink and screaming, I don't have to say like what, suffice it to say loudly.

Rising from my bedroom floor, feeling perverted, uninvited, as if I have somehow fucked the hostess without her wanting to be fucked by me.

Telling my mother on our walk home that this girl makes me play this game, What game, that she makes me suck in my lips and kiss, that she makes me feel up her tits, That lesbo, What do you mean, Or she will kick my legs black and blue, my mother looking like she is going to yell or cry and covering her mouth and saying, What else does she make you do, Nothing, and me saying, Don't tell her mother, and her saying, You are not to play with her again, and me saying, Don't tell anyone anything, and my mother calling
her mother when we get home and telling her mother that her daughter is a sicko lesbo, and me never telling my mother how it's often me who initiates CB radio, bored out of my head, saying, Breaker breaker, into my fist, saying, What's your handle, over, always thinking of getting off, never telling my mother how the girl has girl tits but a face like a boy, how it feels like something dirty when I'm with her, how I squeeze shut my eyes and think of the new kid and make her touch me harder down there until she gets bored which she always does and so I never get off, never telling how good it feels, later, in my bedroom, alone, rocking against a pillow or a stuffed animal or the pile of dirty laundry on my bedroom floor with flashes of being felt up by her or of being felt up by the new kid or of the new kid feeling her up in the woods with me watching and getting off watching or of her feeling him, even with her mouth, even with his sugarwater spurting out the campfire, all of it the same, a many-headed faceless groping sucking thing serving just one purpose, nothing holy, nothing with love, all of it science, some odd protrusion against some odd protrusion, then a burst of sparks, then a hollowness after the sparks go out, sitting blind, a girl again, waiting alone for dinner.

Calling the cops, despite the friends' attempts to disconnect the telephone, despite their screaming, Who are you even, as I say into the telephone to whoever answers when I call the cops, A cat was hurt, giving my address, despite the friends' attempts to get the telephone from my hand, despite the names they call me after I hang up, and I don't have to say what they scream or how they surround, the last guest not watching us but watching out the window for the cops.

Not having to finish school that year before my mother moves me somewhere else, and walking around in the daytimes like I am old or like I am some kind of ghost or something, translucent, walking
past houses, walking past his house and past his house and past his house wearing his shirt, hoping the crossing guard does not see the edges of me walking around if she is digging in her garden or if she is standing on the corner in her blue cop-pants and hat, hoping I get to see him coming home from school, wanting to see him walking by himself down the street in that graceful fuck-you walk I fall for, the loose way he holds his books as if he wants to drop them, as if he wants to leave them there on the sidewalk and come with me into the woods.

The cops standing at the door, saying, Come with us, and the hostess and the two friends following the cops outside, one of the friends holding the cat, wrapped like an infant in her coat.

Watching from the chair the last guest walk from room to room, picking up bottles and dropping them into paper bags.

Deciding whether or not to come out of hiding, before he sees me standing there only half-hiding behind the tree in the neighbor's front yard like some kind of pervert, like some kind of sicko pervert wearing his shirt before he stops on the sidewalk so he does not have to pass me, so he does not have to face whatever sick thing it is I want, before he turns and runs back to school.

Watching the last guest put on his coat and open the door.

Knowing I should say, Stop.

Knowing he is scared of me, knowing he is scared of what I am thinking of doing with him because it's scary, I know, to be watched, but it's scarier, even, to be caught watching, and I cannot avert my eyes.

Wanting to say, Okay, it's you and me now, or, Let's split this scene, looking at the way his hair molds to his neck in those small flame-shaped waves, and wanting to say, Come with me now, but saying, instead, as he pulls the door to fully open, Who are you, and him saying to me with no perceptible emotion, except, perhaps, annoyance, and not even looking at me as he says it and not even wanting an answer, I can tell, Who are you, with the stress on the word
you
, as in Who the fuck are
you
annoying me, watching me, following me from room to room, though I didn't mean to annoy him, and meant, if anything, to work things through, and I still have the shirt.

Wanting to say, as if to explain, Look, and wanting to answer his question of who I am, to tell him who I am, to say something holy, something that will blow his fucking mind, as in, I am the one you ruined, as in, I am the one who ruined you, but saying nothing as he crosses the threshold and crosses the vestibule and disappears somewhere in the rain.

Doors locked, he says, and windows up, radio off to be safe,
but why
, just off, he says, and, wear my jacket,
but why
, just wear it, your dress is too thin,
my dress is fine
, your dress,
it's fine.
But he warns, it's rough where I'm from, this place,
a dumb city
, you'll be looked at, gawked at, like mother like girl, the spitting image,
don't treat me dumb.
He says, it's not like home where I'm from, they're rough all these ones. And he knows these ones and these streets around here, that market, that church, that lighted tavern he knows like the back of his hand. He says, that's where we played, me and my pals, and that's where we parked, the things we did, you should ask your mother,
so what your pals
, we were crazy. The sun slips behind the rows of buildings, and the buildings are rundown, all
boarded up, and who isn't hungry, it's night already. He says, here's a tavern,
but it doesn't seem decent
, so you're hungry right, so he says and, so it's open. More than he can say for the rows of boarded storefronts. This place is open. And this is real hunger. There was nothing worth eating at that rundown wedding. Well, what do you call this, he had held up his cake,
I call it nothing
, and he said, be good, for once in your life. But that nothing cake, the bride's makeshift dress,
like sewn rags or some such
, and faded flowers,
carnations or some such
, and he said, be good. But that rundown hall, her made up face,
like a clown or something
, said for a laugh, and soon he said, let's leave. And goodness he spun out to your chasing him,
are you mad
, to nothing,
are you mad or something
, to his clenched teeth, clenched hands, and good thing for the open car window, the buildings whistling past, good thing for the radio on and up,
I know this song
, and he snaps it off. Dumb, he says, like a headache or something, and, I can't take you anywhere, and, roll up that window, and, that's where we killed time me and my pals, and that's where we killed time. Though the rows of buildings are all boarded up, all but this tavern,
I'm not going in
, and he says, fine, but it's an unsafe street and he knows this street like he knows the back of his hand. Not your home, he says, in my neck of the world, your mother could tell you, ask your mother, knowing your mother would strike him if she knew how quick he'd park you, leave you, there on the street in a running car. Though he wants you to cover, to wear his jacket. It all shows through that thin dress, he says. And at least he's willing to stop. We'll eat here, he says,
I'm not eating inside
, and he says, fine,
I'd rather eat in the car
, and he says, fine then,
I'd rather use my fingers like a damn animal
, and he says, animals don't have fingers, and some such about the rough ones,
what ones
, those, he says and slams the door,
hurry up.
And they stand by the church, those ones, and they laugh standing there, poking each other with sticks there laughing, spitting, and quick he's gone in the light of
the tavern. In the car is dark. And big deal they laugh, big deal they walk with their heads jerking this way that way, and one says, I'm not a, something or other, and what does it matter what he says. The others say something loud, unclear, I'm not no, some such or other, then a howl, a laugh, as they near the car. And remember rule one as they near. A look in the eyes is an invitation. Everyone knows, even your mother. And then what. Trouble. The worst kind. As in a stick to the skin, a strike, or worse. They go for the ass, these ones, the tits, the face, even your father knows or he wouldn't have said, wear my jacket. And so it's his fault all this trouble, and it's his fault all this killing time, and it's his fault that rundown wedding not worth the drive to the city. He's my best pal, he said,
big deal
, my good old pal, he said, from when I was your age,
big deal, I've got plans.
You're with me this weekend and you're coming with me,
go yourself
, and he gave a, suit yourself, and the crying, goodness, once it started it was hard to stop. He agreed so quick, it seemed too quick and that he didn't care, his suit yourself, and to send him alone meant his pal would have thought, your girl's a something, your girl's no good, staying home for a boy. But, stay at home, he said, it's too rough anyway,
I'll wear my new dress
, it's too rough for you. Then a wait in the yard for his car. Your mother in her nightgown waving from the window, be good!, as the car lurched forward. Then a drive to the city and no one thought to eat. They'll serve something at the wedding, so he said, they always do, but it was rundown cakes in a rundown hall, and who doesn't want a decent wedding with none of this boarded up city, these rundown streets. Who doesn't want a backyard wedding under trees and stars, a springtime wedding in the damn yard done right, father on one side mother on the other, a look deep into the boy's eyes, and everyone knows it's for life, for love. Enough. This is hunger. This is hunger playing with the head. This is a day of not eating all day, and this is what happens after a day of not eating,
and soon he'll be back with something to eat. And soon he'll drive you away from this boarded up city. He'll drive you fast from these ones in t-shirts who poke each other with sticks. And they walk with their sticks, yelling, I'm not no,
what
, then a howl, then maybe a look. If they wanted they could. They could look at you. Then you could look back. Then they could break a window and reach with a hand. They could strike with their sticks, or worse. They could go for the skin, they could paw your tits, they could backhand you. And would he come from the tavern, would he yell, get off of her! But they're not looking. But they could look. They could take the car. And would he cry coming out to find no car or to find a shell of a car and nothing inside not even his jacket with the faded flower still pinned on. But this is just hunger talking, and no one's taking the car, and no one's going to strike you, and what flowers aren't lovely, even carnations are, even rundown brides, even in a dumb clown face and makeshift dress, admit it. And they danced right. Who didn't see the way they danced, the way his pal looked her deep, his hands clamped to her hips the whole time, goodness, the way he looked her so deep, who didn't feel it. And they played their song, that one, goodness, that one, whatever it's called, and he spun her about, they sweated like animals, spinning and grinding close and tight. Who didn't want to dance, even in that rundown hall,
can I dance
, even around those rundown people,
are you mad or something
, to his cake,
are you mad
, to nothing. He wasn't talking. He was mad at something. And you could have told him a thing or two to get him truly mad. You could have told him a thing about home, a thing of the boy you fell for. You should have told him,
you should see me up there, you should see me, there are nights, times, when you think I'm asleep, there's dancing in a parking lot and cigarettes and dunking from bottles up in our safe home, in springtime, in the summer
, but he went for his jacket, walking right past their animal dance. You should have told him,
on a street like this, rundown, dumb
, no it's different at
home, hidden in trees
and there are cars and others and all the songs on and up and sitting in cars and big deal someone's fingers going all up and under and the heat from summer or smoke or a tongue going around and around my tongue and teeth and the pressure of fingers on my hips and it's songs up loud and shirts slipping to the floor of the car and our heads spinning out and out and
don't look, goodness no, eyes closed, goodness, a look in the eyes is an invitation. Everyone knows don't look or it's trouble. And one of the boys says, I'm not a,
what
, and another says, you got that all right, I'm not no,
you're not no what.
And they circle their slow wide circle past the market, the church, the tavern, the car, and they're young it seems, they're just boys in their t-shirts like the boy you fell for, and the sticks are not sticks but metal poles they sound as they scrape the cement. And they clang outside the church, and they clang outside the tavern, and he's inside the tavern and must have heard, or is the radio playing loud in there, and his songs or some such from his neck of the world, and is he dancing in there saying, my wife was no good, my girl's no good, like mother like girl, just dumb and dumb and dumb. But you're not dumb, you're not, or you would look at these boys as they move past the car, just a hip or a leg, now the bottom of a t-shirt brushing past. And don't look, not even a quick look, not even a safe look like the look at his old pal today dancing clamped to his bride, how your look could have turned harder and inward, a gawk, how it could have gone inside his head. He had eyes like the boy you fell for, the same dog eyes. They could have been brothers or father son. But he looked only at her, his dumb cheap bride, deep through, and who didn't feel it how it pinned her down, how anyone could see it this old pal looking deep through, pinning. And she let him pin her, she let that crazy song go on and on until she turned weak-kneed,
can I dance
, and he went for his jacket, and you danced your own circling dance alone to a time you should have told him,
a time with the boy when our tongues went and went and it tasted of cigarettes his spit how else could it have
tasted and his hands were pressing and every part pressed up and hard and later his jacket spread under my legs and ass and our heads slipped to the floor of the car.
And you circled the chair until he came back with his jacket, he grabbed your arm and spun you out.
Are you mad at me
, to nothing but the car door slamming you in, the song going on and on, the wind messing your hair, thoughts of, there's a boy I fell for, and it could be love, the one true love, weak-kneed like the pal and bride, and he said, just like your mother,
what
, just like your mother, through clenched teeth, just like her, admit it,
what of it
, your mother. But she's clean. You're clean. Last time this boy you fell for said, look at me, you said no, knew a look was trouble, and you kept your eyes closed tight even with fingers up inside and the tongues pushing and every part pressing up and up. He said, what do you want, but rule two was don't answer, rule two was keep quiet even though it felt good, even though it felt crazy and could have been love. He said, tell me,
no
, before he started, tell me,
no
, and he was laughing, hands all over, pawing, saying, what do you want, saying, baby, you were crying, baby, and, look at these little things anyway, these little tits, and, I don't need these little tits, and you ran off, half-dressed, homeward to your father's house to cry in his backyard until morning. And he must have heard from the house, your father, your crying. And he did say the next day, how are you doing, or, are you well. But rule two was keep your words to yourself, even as he tried to make you talk, even as these boys try to make you talk, try to make you look with their words, their, I'm not no,
you're not no what.
But don't fall for it. It would be smarter not to. And the smartest thing would be to drive. It would be good and smart to drive from these boys, to spin the wheels out and up the street and wait. So what he'd walk out the tavern and he'd look all over, and so what you'd be at the end of the street, big deal. You'd never leave him. He knows this. It's something with blood. You'd be right there at the end of the street waiting, he knows. You'd push an
arm through an open window,
over here dad!, hurry dad!
It would be good and smart to drive. But this is just hunger. And you're really fine now. You're better now. You're in your own safe place in the city, doors locked, windows up, and there's really no need to drive. The boys walk in a very wide circle. They walk past the market, the church, the tavern, the car. Besides, they look dumb as the boy you fell for. Besides, soon, he said or some such. Besides, who wants to drive. Besides, he'd walk out, he'd panic, he'd think, shit, the car, then, where'd she take it damn it, and besides, you haven't looked deep at these boys. You haven't invited a thing. You're safe. And besides, he'd walk out, he'd look all over saying, shit, the car, panicking. And they're not looking in yet. But they could look in.
But they're not.
But they could. They could hear the radio if you turned on the radio.
But it's off.
If you opened the window just a slit for air.
It's rolled up tight.
If you turned up the radio with the window a slit, they could hear,
big deal
, and they could get you,
and then what
, trouble. So drive up the street. You'd never leave him. You'd never think it, some such about blood. Just the boys could get rough. They could push a fist through the window or the poles or some such. They could try to paw you, to backhand you. But you could drive up the street. You'd yell,
up here dad!
, and he'd see the car. He'd think, what are you thinking, and you'd yell,
up here dad!
, and he'd see the boys, and he'd try and save you, he'd run to the car, and the boys' heads would jerk up, and they'd run to the car clanging their poles to the ground and again and again,
run faster dad
, you can see them running,
run faster dad
, and he says, coming to get you, but the boys are younger and running like dogs, spitting, get you get you, and the boys are the fastest, clanging their poles down and down and again and again and the boys yell, get you,
big deal
, gonna get you, and your father says, stay put, I'm coming to get you, and you thrust yourself to the hips out the window and look them all deep in their crazy dog eyes, just like a bride, and say,