Dear Life, You Suck (16 page)

Her face is radiating all kinds of colors and flavors. Caramel cream and emerald ice and frosted pearl and mango dew. Holy hell, I sound like some éclair-pounding, Bavarian cream–spraying pastry puff or some- thing.

My ocular malfeasance is tingling me a prickly pineapple passion right in the ol’ fruit basket. I hope she doesn’t take a gander south and see my rising tide.
Chubbalubbadingdong
.

Her eyes blink, her face melts, and she sighs. The next thing she says almost blows me off the cliff like a hurricane gust.

“You’re very handsome, Cricket.”

The nerves in my head fizzle, and my dingle tingles.

My carbonation must be obvious, because she cocks her head. “I’m serious. I’ve never looked at you up close before. You’re always so far away or buried under that hood of yours.” Her mouth opens. “I can’t believe I just said that out loud. Sorry.”

I know I should say something, but my mind is cramped. I can’t say I think she’s pretty in a crooked, out-of-whack way, like I was just thinking.

I sense something behind me. My chest tightens, my mind whirs, and an alarm shrieks. “More likely the ocean air fucking with your vision,” I say, jerking a glance behind me.

“Why do you say that?”

She suddenly looks different. Real different. Like the old Wynona. The angry, crazy, screaming bitch in LaChance’s waiting area. Kernels in my head start popping, and the tiny door in my Great Wall slams shut.

How could I have been so stupid to have fallen for her bullshit apology? Obviously she’s up to something. She’s setting me up. Jesus, I’m so friggin’ stupid. She’s Pitbull’s girlfriend. He’s probably right behind me in the bushes getting ready to hurl me off the cliff. Fuck!

I jump to my feet and back away from the cliff. “Don’t fuck with me, Wynona. I’m not a mental midget like Pitbull.”

She stands and hugs herself like she’s cold. “What are you talking about?”

Panic knots every muscle in my body. I spin to see who’s charging, but no one’s there yet. I can feel Pitbull’s presence in my gut, and it makes me nauseous. I slowly back away from Wynona and the rhododendron trail. That’s where he must be. I slither along the narrow ledge of boulders. It’s a good place to ambush someone. I gotta get to the grassy lawn, but that’s a few hundred feet away.

“Cricket, what’s wrong?”

I keep working my way along the boulders. Finally, I turn and sprint. I need to get as far away from the cliff as possible. Once I’m on the grass, I drop to my knees to catch my breath. I can’t see Wynona. I wonder if Pitbull’s alone or if he brought friends. Damn, pretty ballsy of him to come after me so soon. His stitched-up head must still be wicked sore.

Goddamn it, Wynona! You lying fucking whore. I shoulda pushed you off the cliff when I had the chance
.

If he’s alone and on the path, I can enter from the driveway side and surprise him from behind. If he’s packing a weapon, I wouldn’t get in trouble for beating him senseless. No one could argue that wasn’t self-defense. It would prove my case to Principal LaChance and Mother Mary. And Wynona.

I search the ground for a weapon. I grab the first thing I see, a thick piece of driftwood with spiky roots on one end. I race toward the parking lot. Wynona’s bike is still there. They’re probably hugging, laughing, and scheming out phase two. My chest feels like it’s gonna explode.

I round the corner onto the trail at full speed and don’t notice Wynona running toward her bike until it’s too late. I slam into her hard and we both go down, but I don’t let go of my cedar sword. I spin to my feet and get ready.

“Where is he? Where the fuck is he?” I’m screaming ’cause I’m scared. Not scared, but you know.

Wynona’s still on the ground. She has one hand on her cheek. “Where is who?”

“Your boyfriend, asshole. Where’s Pitbull?”

She gapes at me with a frightened expression. “What are you talking about? Buster isn’t here.”

“Yeah, right! How fucking stupid do you think I am?”

Wynona lowers her hand. It’s covered in blood. She has a long scratch on her cheek. Her fear has morphed into terror.

Oh, shit.

She runs toward her bike.

I look up and down the trail. There’s no sign of Pitbull anywhere. I run toward her. “Wynona.”

“Leave me alone.”

I stop at the edge of the trail.
Oh my God, no fucking way. Was she really here alone?
“Wynona . . .”

She dabs her cheek with a tissue.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.

She jumps on her bike.

“Wynona.”

She rides away.

Wynona, please.

And then she’s gone.

I sprint back to the boulders, hoping that if I run fast enough, I can reverse time. Wynona’s not there. The waves roll and laugh. It’s windy. Or was it windy before, and I just didn’t notice? I imagine a giant gust whooshing me up and carrying me far, far away. So far I’ll never make it back, no matter how hard the guilt tugs. So far I’ll never see this place, this life, or Wynona again.

I look over the edge. The waves crash on the rocks. Again and again. Again and again. They’re relentless. They’ll never stop. Never.

I glance at my driftwood battle-ax. My gut twists. My body cramps. My head pounds. My heart rips.

I don’t scream until the sharp wooden point is halfway down my chest. I throw the weapon over the cliff and grab my chest. My fingers are wet and sticky.

Caretaker keeps a first-aid kit in the boathouse. I douse my wound with hydrogen peroxide. It bubbles pink and foamy and stings like a futhermucker. I’m scared it might need stitches, but that’s just my vagina talking.

I run downtown in the hopes of finding Wynona. Maybe she didn’t go straight home. I’m grounded, but I don’t care. I look for her bike outside the pharmacy. I check the emergency entrance to the hospital. Maybe she went to Pitbull’s. Maybe I drove her back to him.

Something inside me needs to find her. Needs to know if her cheek is okay. Needs to try to explain.
You see, the thing is, I’m psychotic.
Nutseekookoo
is the technical term. Yup, one swan dive away from permanently relocating to the Everlasting Land of Nod. Wanna grab a soda? How about dinner and a movie? We could see
Psycho. Donnie Darko. Fatal Attraction.

Yeah, right.

I scan every shop and parking lot on Main Street. Her words echo in my head like a horror movie trailer.
It’s not that noticeable. You’re very handsome. I’ve never looked at you up close before. You’re always buried under that hood of yours
. She saw me. Saw me from afar. Saw me buried under my hood. She saw
me
. And she came to the Prison. My home. Wynona Bidaban came to
my
home to see
me
. To apologize to
me
. She almost cried when she thought about the names she called me. She was sorry. Really sorry.

I crisscross every inch of Black Cove Park. She’s not there. I sit on a bench and gaze at the blank slate of sea. She’s not the girl I thought she was. She’s so much more. She likes Monty Python. She likes God Art. She knows she shouldn’t be with Pitbull. She
paaahh
ed him. She actually
paaahh
ed
him. And I ruined it. I ruined everything. Ruined everything forever.

I look around to make sure no one’s nearby and light up a joint. I take a couple hits, snuff it out, and stuff it back in my wallet.

I take one more pass along Main Street but don’t find her. Maybe I should just forget the whole thing. Forget everything. Wynona, my chores, everything. Just go to Grubs’s apartment and get wasted. But I’m already in pretty deep with Mother Mary. I start walking back to the Prison, then freeze on the sidewalk. If I don’t find Wynona, I won’t see her for another week on account of my suspension.
Shit!

I walk the downtown strip one more time, then head to Grubs’s apartment. His car’s not there. My chest’s throbbing with pain, and I feel lightheaded. I look up and down Main Street, trying to decide what to do, where to go. I feel lost. The town looks eerily unfamiliar. I suck in some deep breaths but can’t seem to get any air into my lungs. My brain feels fuzzy and my stomach’s in knots. I spot the miniature lighthouse on the corner of Naskeag Road. The road to the Prison. My road. I sprint home.

Mother Mary’s standing on the front porch when I run up the driveway. I try to think fast, but my brain’s still lost in Wynona Hell.

Mother Mary’s face is tight and red. “I’m tempted to say ‘strike three,’ but we’re probably up to three thousand and three by now.”

“I had to, um . . .”

“Don’t even try, Cricket.” She goes inside and slams the door.

I spend the rest of the day doing chores. Every movement rips at the stinging gash in my chest. Bending, lifting, sawing, weeding, raking, hauling, throwing. I see Wynona's face in everything I touch. Her glow, her laugh, her smile, her skin, her fingers on my chin. Her grimace, her terror, her cut, her shriek, her fingers on her cheek. Her scared eyes — that's the worst. She came here to apologize, and I scared her. Her initial instincts were right. I am a freak. A freak of nature.

I’m still thinking about Wynona at dinner. It’s like the feeling of a nightmare that clings to you with hazy images and cloudy fears even though you can’t remember what the dream itself was about, except I remember every detail of this dayscream. In my gut I’ve got a maggot-infested tumor denser than one of Sister Eliza’s bran muffins, reminding me every second exactly what it’s about.

I can’t believe I freaked out like that. I felt so certain she was bulldozing me into a mushy pile so Pitbull could drop-kick my ass into the briny deep. Why else would she talk all that crap about me being good-looking and stuff? I know I’m an ugly fuck. I know my scar freaks people out. First expressions don’t lie.

But if she wasn’t setting me up, why was she buttering me up like some tasty stud muffin? There’s no way she can really think I’m a hot tamale or anything. Her eyes seem to work fine. She walked right to the edge of the cliff without falling over.
Monkey nuts—what gives?

I’m halfway through my peach cobbler when Mother Mary taps me on the shoulder and finger-twirls me to the tower. At first, I’m like,
How the hell am I gonna mind-spin happytime tales with this nightscare bottlenecking my brain?
But then, I’m like,
No, this will be good, clear my head, get me to stop skull-mashing the Wynona gashing
.

The Little Ones follow me to the tower and settle in. I ask them where I left off.

Gregory Bullivant’s pudgy cheeks drift at me from starboard. “Apollo Zipper didn’t die when the ferry sank in the English Channel, Mr. Cherpin.”

Even though the Little Ones call me Mr. Cherpin all the time, something freaky happens when Greggplant Parmesan says it. I suddenly feel older. Like I really am Mr. Cherpin and not just on account of a bunch of kids way younger than me calling me that. Maybe it has something to do with Mother Mary telling me I can’t live at the Prison after I turn eighteen.

Whatever the reason, the feeling makes it seem like my driftwood antics with Wynona happened a long time ago to someone much younger and much different. I know that sounds wacky because obviously I’m not older, and I’m not different. I’m just me. Me, the storyteller. Me, the orphan. Me, Mr. Cherpin.

I suddenly know what I have to do. It hits me square in the forehead like a stiff jab. I have to stop listening to the music and face it. I have to find that little girl I scratched on the face and apologize. I have to apologize to Wynona.

Holy gutloads of mayhem and dismayhem, Batman. How the hell did all that emotional hullabaloo kitty-cat my snugglepuss so lickety-split on account of one midget toad calling me Mr. Cherpin? Man oh man, the braineroo is one funky organ. I mean, turn and face the strange ch-ch-ch-ch-changes, Mr. Bowie.

The Little Ones are staring at me like I have three heads, so I’ll have to finish brain-scrambling this Freudian omelet later.

“Right, Apollo Zipper. The ol’ Zipperoo. Zip, Zippy, Zipster.” The Little Ones have no idea I’m killing time trying to pull something out of my ass. “The Zipmeister. The Zipinator.” I dim the lights and rub my hands together. Damn, even my hands feel older. Rougher, more callused. Probably just from the yardwork. “Well, Apol-lo Zipper did not die on that fateful ferry fiasco back in eighteen girdedy-nerner.”

“Eighteen seventy-five.” It’s Billy Kopin, who never speaks, speaking.

I give tough-guy Billy a thumbs-up. Huh, maybe I ain’t the only one transmogrifying in this magical power tower tonight.

I tell the Little Ones more about the phantasmagorical adventures of Apollo Zipper. Like how he survived the ferry debacle by floating on the ship’s steering wheel, and how he washed ashore on a tiny island in the North Sea, and how the island was inhabited by runaway orphans who traveled the rocky trails on the backs of domesticated wolves. The Little Ones nearly bust their little lungs cheering when I tell them there were no adults on the island, which meant no homework, baths, bed- times, or Brussels sprouts.

Just as I’m telling them that the rogue wave that sank the ferry was not an accident and was caused by evil adults who enslave children in underground diamond mines, the door to the storytorium swings open and Mother Mary Mistiming enters, clapping her hands. The hot air from the Little Ones’ groans warms the room. They line up and file out.

I stay behind, munch some leftover popcorn, and think about Wynona. I have to find her and apologize. But how? And where? And what will I say? I can’t do it at school. Too many people around. I can’t do it here. There’s no way she’ll ever step foot on this hallowed ground again. I can’t do it at her house. Too many parents around. Plus, I don’t even know where she lives. And even if I do find her and get her alone, chances are she won’t stick around long enough for me to squeak out an apology.

I gaze at the dark, distant sea. The ocean looks motionless from this far away. Unlike the way it rock-’n’-rolls a head-banging vertigo from up close. Funny how that is. How things are so calm and peaceful from far away, but up close that surreal scene cartwheels your nutsack like a pebble in the surf. Maybe that’s why people like Man Art more than God Art. A painting of a tsunami can’t obliterate your ass the way a real one can.