Girl Wonder (17 page)

I pushed my way outside. I was a tiger. Panting.

“Watch it!” a gnome shouted as I elbowed him in the head.

Once free of the otherworldly throngs, I stumbled around the corner of the warehouse and ducked into an alley. It was refreshingly dark. Cool. Empty. The walls pulsed with music. I kept expecting them to burst, and for the crowd to roll out over me like a tsunami. I upended an old crate, sat down, and stuck my head between my knees.

There was this loud ringing inside my ears.
The bell tolls for thee
, I thought, remembering the John Donne poem my father often quoted.

When I finally sat up eons later, I noticed a gaggle of people clustered around a side entrance. They were smoking cigarettes. Laughing. Guzzling water and alcohol from bottles. One of them was a DJ I recognized as a kind of local celebrity. He was making out with some groupie girl. From where I sat, no one could see me. I inched my crate closer.

Jesus.

The girl making out with the DJ? She wasn't exactly girlish.

The curly hair. The tilt of her chin.

Hi, Mom.

The Catholic schoolgirl uniform was one of mine. Who knew that migraines could turn around so fast?

Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit.

Somehow I found my friends. Or they found me. What mattered was that we were all together again. They took me back to Bailey's apartment. “You're tripping,” Amanda said. “This isn't real, Char. Snap out of it.”

I started to cry.

She led me to the bathroom and instructed me to wash up. When I splashed my face, I breathed in some water and started to gasp and choke. Then I was vomiting, and Amanda was holding my head, stroking my hair, and telling me it was going to be okay.

How could I have doubted her?

She was my friend. My best friend. I was beyond lucky to have her.

Lucky lucky lucky.

When she flushed the toilet, I noticed that the particles swirling away formed strange geometric designs. I leaned closer to get a better look. My head dropped down into a dark sucking tunnel, a tunnel with no light or exit, only black empty space, terror, and a nasty urine smell. A black hole to end all black holes.

* * *

Charo was trying to tell me the Love Boat was sinking.

“You need to get into one of the lifeboats,” she said. I begged her to sing the Chiquita Banana song. “You're not listening!” she snapped.

I shrugged. “It's just a stupid show. It's not even
on
anymore. It's not real.”

She studied me with pity. “You're not real,” she said, rolling her R's.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

She smiled sadly.

“Tell me what you mean!” I shouted.

Isaac the bartender walked up. “Is this girl bothering you?”

Charo crossed her arms and stared beyond the railing, pouting. “I am sick of trying to help the passengers. They are such children.”

He readjusted the crocheted poncho that was falling off her shoulders and helped her climb into one of the rafts. “You can't take it personally,” he said. “Not everyone wants to be saved.”

“I was just fooling around!” I pleaded, but they were already gone.

Scanning the deck, I saw that it was now deserted.

“Come back,” I whispered. Water started lapping overboard. The ship sank some more. Then, with a great creaking moan, it heaved and tilted forward. I clung to the railing. The horizon was jagged with black waves.

“Please come back!” I screamed, but my voice was lost to the ocean.

* * *

When I came to, I was clutching the headboard of Bailey's bed. I was thirstier than I'd ever been. I walked into the kitchen and poured myself a glass of water, trying not to notice all the commotion in the air; the tracers, the dancing particles, the shifts of light and color. Someone had left the sliding-glass door to the balcony open. As I made to shut it, I remembered something I'd read once, about how people on airplanes near doors would be sucked out—seat and all—if ever a door blew open mid-flight.

Passengers in an exit row may be asked to assist during an emergency.

I waited. No one came to my aid. There was no sign of my friends.

I'd been abandoned.

Abandoned.

ABANDONED!

People were disposable. Like trash.

I'm trailer-park trash. Can't you tell?

One could be disposed of. It was all a matter of who you knew. It was a game. All of it. I was a pawn. Not a player.

I sat down on the couch and sank into the cushions. At first I trembled with cold. Then I grew hot. I was burning. Inflamed. My core was hot. Hard. Like one of those fire logs. If I didn't do something fast I was going to combust.

There was a noise. I heard it the way you hear a fly.

A steady annoying stream of bubbles.

The fish were staring at me. Laughing at me. Baring their teeth like piranhas. They smelled my vulnerability. My naiveté. My sweetness. They hungered for it the way you hunger for something you think you can't possess. But they would try. They meant me harm. They would harm me if I didn't hurt them first.

They were malevolent.

One of them, an angel fish, waved her fin at me. She puckered her lips. “Come here, sugar,” she said in a low, throaty voice.

I tiptoed closer. “Yes?” I whispered.

“You lost,” she said. “You were never even a player.”

“What did I lose?”

“You know.” She snickered. “You never even had a chance.”

“What are you talking about?” I screamed.

She blew some bubbles at me. “I don't have time for losers!” Then she darted away.

Fueled with a strength that wasn't quite human, I lunged for the aquarium. I lifted it skyward, arms fully extended, electrical cords dangling around my neck like snakes. Then I tipped my palms.

Water cascaded out along with everything else. The glass exploded as it landed. Fish hit the floor with a sickly thwack and flopped off to various corners. My feet disappeared in a warm tide of water. A ribbon of blood ran down my ankle.

As the room grew strangely silent, I realized the ringing in my ears had stopped. The game was over. I'd done my work. I was the victor. Finally.

Crying with relief, I stumbled back into Bailey's bedroom, where I shut myself into his closet. Burrowing deep into a pile of laundry, I made myself into a ball and closed my eyes tight. I was shrinking. Shedding. I was going back, way back. I was in a tunnel again, only this time I was going in a safe direction. Now I was in a cave. A warm red cave. A womb. I was…unborn.

I
woke up wet, cramped, and utterly disoriented.

What was that horrible smell? And why the fuck was I in a closet?

As I readjusted my position—a shoe was digging into my back—the memory of the night came back to me in a rush. Waves of shame broke over me. Though it seemed a sensible idea to stay in the closet forever, I slowly slid back the door to the closet.

Two people lay slumbering in bed. Neal and Amanda.

Amanda was on her side, sheets falling off her hips, the butterfly tattoo in the small of her back exposed. Neal slept on his stomach, head turned toward Amanda, his left hand grazing her neck. Amanda's prom queen dress, tossed carelessly into a corner, had landed in such a way that it resembled a squat, headless child.

Bile rose in my throat.

Trembling, I backed into the closet, right into the arms of an old coat. My fingers clutched the sleeves for comfort. The wool was scratchy and smelled of mothballs. My clothes were soaked. I smelled like vomit. I needed a hot bath and a toothbrush. I needed water. I was a bottomless pit of need.

It was all I could do to not scream. The two people who mattered the most had betrayed me. Something deep inside my chest cracked open.

No crying. Not now.

I grabbed my overnight bag from the corner and headed for the bathroom, trying to avoid the sight of the den.

The toilet flushed. A moment later, Tyler walked out of the bathroom, rubbing his hands on his T-shirt to dry them. He stared at me. “What the hell happened last night?”

I shook my head numbly.

“You went on a rampage,” he said with a tone of disbelief.

I didn't blink.

“You killed the fish.”

“That really happened?” I whispered.

“You're so fucked,” he said, his voice almost reverent.

Inside the bathroom, I stripped off my dominatrix clothes and stuffed them into the bottom of the wastebasket. The sink turned rock gray as I scrubbed off my makeup. I found some toothpaste under the counter, brushed my teeth with my fingers, and scoured my hair with a bar of soap.

The door to the bedroom was still shut when I emerged. Good. I had no desire to see Amanda and Neal—like, ever. I needed to get out of here fast. I was scared. Scared for myself. Scared
of
myself.

I caught a glimpse of Tyler and Diego trying to clean up the mess I'd made. Though I wanted to help them, my body recoiled when I began to move in their direction. Instead, I quietly left the apartment.

Once outside, I leaned against the bricks and closed my eyes. That it was sunny seemed a particularly cruel joke. My head throbbed. My entire body ached. I was a zombie. When I opened my eyes, I realized that I wasn't in the nicest of neighborhoods.

The air smelled faintly of garbage. The children playing had wary, tough expressions, as if they were used to looking over their shoulders and scattering at the sound of trouble. Two guys across the street were leaning against the hood of a beat-up brown car. They stared at me in a hungry way. I strode off as if I had someplace to be and knew exactly where that was.

After a few blocks, I came to a McDonald's. I bought myself a Coke and some fries and slid into a booth. Two little Hispanic girls in the booth in front of me—dressed identically in pink Sunday frocks—kept squirming around to stare. Rubbing at my face, I worried that I might not have removed all the makeup. I'd been too wigged out earlier to look at my reflection.

Eventually I gave up on eating and considered my options.

Fact: I had to get home.

Fact: I had no money left, no credit card, no checks, no cell phone.

Fact: I couldn't call my mom. No way.

Mom. Oh God! Had that been real last night? What I'd seen? I pressed my fingers to my temples. No. I couldn't deal with that right now. I shook my head to erase the image.

Who else did I know in Seattle with a car?

I bit my lip. Could I? Did I dare?

I found a phone book and flipped to the Z's. Luckily,
Zacharias
wasn't that common of a name.

“Hello?” Milton said, picking up the phone.

“Milton—it's Charlotte.” My voice was raw and hoarse. “James Henry's sister?”

“Oh. Um. Hello.” There was a long silence.

“I didn't know who else to call,” I said. “It's not an emergency. But kind of.”

“What's going on? ”

“It's…well…I need a ride.”

“Are you okay?”

“I'm fine,” I said too loudly.

“You don't sound fine. Where are you?”

By force of will, I gained enough control of myself to give him my location.

“Please don't tell anyone about this,” I added.

“I'll be right—”

I cut off my phone. Then I went outside to pace, trying not to care that everyone was staring. A long line of cars snaked around the McDonald's drive-through. The street bustled with shoppers out to make the most of a rare sunny day.

Miraculously, Milton arrived within twenty minutes. I didn't want to know how fast he'd driven. “You look like hell,” he said as I got into the car.

“You have a real way with girls,” I said, turning my head toward the window.

“You reek,” he continued obliviously.

I interrupted. “Stop.”

Something in my voice got his attention. “I was just trying…” he said. “Sorry.”

“I know. It doesn't matter.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I caught Milton glancing at me, his brow furrowed with fake concern for my well-being, the not-entirely-unpleasant smell of whatever wheaty cereal he'd had for breakfast emanating from his breath. Though I tried to ignore him, it was all too much.

Finally I snapped. “What? What's the problem?”

“Excuse me?”

“Why are you staring?”

He made this clicking noise with his tongue. “You seem edgy.”

“Yeah? Here's a thought: Feeling like a specimen in a petri dish sure doesn't help.”

We rode in silence for a while, me trying not to retch at the smell of myself, Milton thinking God-only-knew-what about me. As we crossed Lake Washington, whitecaps slammed against the side of the floating bridge. It was a windy day. There were a lot of boats out on the water. To the east you could see the Cascades rising above the landscape like giant teeth. To the south you could see Mount Rainier. It looked extra clean today. Whitewashed. It must have snowed up there recently.

“You're shaking,” Milton remarked. “Are you cold?”

“No.”

He turned on the heater, then reached into the backseat. “Here,” he said, handing me his jacket.

When I started to protest, he said, “I wasn't asking. Put it on. You're freezing.”

A few minutes later, Milton popped a disk into his stereo. To my amazement, “How to Disappear Completely,” one of my all-time favorite Radiohead songs, began streaming from the speakers.

I grabbed Milton's CD case and started flipping through his stuff. He owned every Radiohead album ever recorded…and some bootlegs I'd never heard of. I shook my head. Unbelievable.

“What?” he asked.

“You like Radiohead,” I said dumbly.

“That's an understatement,” he said. “Is there any other band?”

“No.”

“I could burn you some stuff,” he suggested.

“I'm good. No thanks.”

He frowned.

“It's not you,” I said. “Thanks for picking me up.”

“Do you want to talk about what happened last night?”

“You can drop me off here,” I said. We were just a few doors down from my house. “I don't want anyone to see…” My voice trailed off. See what, exactly?

“I'm not the enemy,” he said.

Already out of the car, I spun around. “You were right.”

He looked blank. “Huh?”

“About me. About my fatal flaw.”

He started to protest. “I was just teasing you about that shit.”

“No,” I said. “It's true. I prefer beauty to substance.”

Our eyes locked. In the icy light of late afternoon, his gray eyes looked brook clear. Something sorrowful caught in my throat. I waved him off as he tried to come after me, and turned around before he could see my tears.

“Not a word,” I said, my voice just a hint of a whisper.

I spent the afternoon in bed staring at the ceiling, unable to nap or to focus on the take-home test that was due tomorrow for Chemistry. There wasn't much chance that I'd be getting any better than a C anyway. What did grades matter when you were getting an F in life? It was a lot to absorb—what had happened last night. What had happened to me. What I had done.

Was I a crazy person? Was I?

Suddenly I remembered something. I'd overlooked one of them—the fish. Brutus. The beautiful killer who'd been given his own special bowl. It's what saved him in the end.

Et tu, Brute?

Brutus. The Amanda fish.

Lucky lucky lucky.

Late in the afternoon, my brother came into my room, landline in hand. “It's Amanda,” he said, his finger pressed to the mute button. “Did you guys have a fight?”

“Tell her I'm in the shower. Or napping. Better yet, tell her I'm dead.”

“But you're not.”

“Do it!” I snapped, shoving the phone back at him.

“She's in the shower,” he mumbled. “Okay…Bye.” He hung up. “She sounded pissed,” he told me. “She wants you to call her back pronto.”

“It's time for Amanda to quit getting everything she wants.”

He gave me a strange look, but let it go.

“Don't bother Mom,” he said a few moments later. “She's taken one of her pills. She said to cook hot dogs for dinner.”

“Don't tell her anything, okay?”

“What were you doing last night?”

I laughed harshly. “Ruining my life.”

James Henry moved to the foot of my bed and tried to interest the cat in a game of swat. Steerforth batted his hand a few times, got bored of missing, and retreated to a patch of sunlight, where he began grooming his prominent belly. The man who lived across the street from us was pruning his fruit trees. There was something mesmerizing about the rhythmic clipping of his shears. I didn't know his name. Except for Milton and his mother, we didn't really know any of our neighbors.

Resting my chin on my knees, I studied my toenails. The pedicure Amanda had given me the weekend before was starting to chip. I scraped off the remaining enamel.

“You're still here,” I said to James Henry.

“What—?” He hesitated.

“Use your words,” I said.

“Did someone…do something to you?” he blurted.

“Ha. That's a good one. You might be a comedian, bro!”

To take away the sting of the words, I pulled him to me in a hug. “Was Mom here last night?” I asked.

“She went out,” he said. “Why?”

“No reason.”

On Monday morning, I waited for the final warning bell to ring before entering the double metal doors of Shady Grove. The halls thinned rapidly as students hurried to their homerooms. The pungent scent of meat loaf seeped through the vents like a poisonous gas. At this godforsaken hour, the few kids who were talking among themselves at their lockers spoke in raspy, sleep-deprived voices.

Though I tried not to make eye contact with anyone, I could tell I was being stared at. I didn't want to guess just how many conversations were about me at this moment.

A crowd was gathered by my locker.

There was a dead guppy taped to the dial—no doubt one of the fish I'd killed. My hands shook as I ripped it down. Everyone booed when I threw it in the trash.

“Fish killer!” someone shouted.

Mid-morning, while I was retrieving my books for Algebra, Amanda approached my locker. She kept checking over her shoulder to make sure nobody we knew was watching. It was as if I were now infected with a disfiguring and contagious disease. With bravado, I straightened my shoulders and tried to remember how to breathe. When I turned around, Amanda said, “You better have something to say for yourself.”

“How was the rest of the rave?” I asked.

“What?”

“Did you and Neal share brain waves again?”

Her eyes flashed like broken glass. “Do you know how much damage you did to that apartment?”

A group of Spartanettes—the girls who danced for Shady Grove and who were even more popular than the cheerleaders—drifted by. A couple of them glanced at me with wide eyes. Amanda tried to act like it was merely coincidence that she was standing next to me.

“You left me,” I said though clenched teeth.

“This isn't my fault, Char. What you did—you did that all by yourself.”

“I suppose it's my fault that you slept with Neal?”

“Oh.” She bit her lip. “So you know about that?”

“Are you two like girlfriend-boyfriend now?” I asked, mimicking what she'd asked me just a few months ago.