Pretty Scars

by CD Reiss

  Margie wasn’t the imaginative one in the family. She didn’t make up stories, and she didn’t lie. But she was human, and humans made mistakes and assumptions all the time.

  “No,” I said. “That’s crazy.”

  “Everything is transactional with him. Everything has a set value to be traded. Even us. Especially us.”

  I scanned the counter for something to do. An activity to occupy my body while my mind raced. But there wasn’t a drop of water to wipe or a single object out of place. I snapped my purse closed and slung it over my shoulder.

  “I don’t know how you even think you know this,” I said, opening the bathroom door. The fresh air of normalcy hit me like a winter blast.

  “There are ways of finding things out,” Margie said. “It’s not hard if you know where to look.”

  “And have you told him this story? Because there could be an explanation. Like maybe he and Mom were in love and the bankruptcy was just life. And he and Mom figured they could get permission to get married if he bailed them out. Why couldn’t it be that?”

  Margie smiled and took my face in her hands. “Don’t get sold, Carrie.”

  I knocked her hands away. She wasn’t who I thought she was. Couldn’t be. “You’re deeply deranged. If that’s true, our father’s a sociopath.”

  She laughed and picked her bag off the counter. “He’s a lot of things.”

  When I turned to leave, I saw Jonathan standing just outside the door.

  “What’s a sociopath?” he asked.

  “Look it up,” I said before striding back to the party.

  Chapter 5

  LOS ANGELES - 1995

  The living room I shared with Peter was wall-to-wall bookcases, but the only books were a dictionary, photo albums, and bound editions of the Milken journal. The rest of the shelves displayed photos, global knickknacks, sculptures, and whatever plants didn’t grow past the shelf above.

  Peter was upstairs, showering. Opening the lower cabinet, I reached past his Princeton yearbooks to find mine from USC. They were burgundy leather with gold stamping. One was for the Thornton School of Music. 1993. Still in my dress, I sat on the Queen Anne chair and opened it, cracking the new spine and releasing the thick smell of ink and glossy paper.

  USC was huge, and each school had their own book. My picture wasn’t in the yearbook in my hand. I’d acquired the Thornton music school yearbook a year after graduation and tucked it in the cabinet, unopened but not forgotten.

  Flicking through departments, I found Classical Composition and saw him right away. He was one of a dozen students with a violin tucked under his chin. Gabriel. My Gabriel. He’d pulled his hair back in a knot at the base of his neck to keep it off the body of the instrument. His left fingers pressed the strings down with asymmetrical precision, each knuckle a mountain peak in a jagged landscape. His right hand held the bow with the gentle expertise of a man caressing his lover’s body.

  Leaning forward, I tried to see his dark eyes. To catch the intensity of an artist simultaneously creating an experience and experiencing his creation. But the closer I got, the more the photo exploded into meaningless specks of ink.

  “What are you doing?”

  Peter’s voice yanked me out of the moment so violently, I gasped. He stood three feet away in nothing but a waist-tied towel. His bare feet on thick carpet had made him as silent as an intention.

  “I was—”

  “What is that?” He pulled the book off my lap.

  “It’s from college.”

  “I can see that.” He stuck his thumb in the page I’d been looking at while flipping through the rest.

  “It’s… here.” I held out my hands for the book.

  He passed it down, standing over me, bare-chested and damp. He showered when he wanted sex, and I hadn’t taken the hint and taken care of business in the other bathroom.

  “The way he played reminded me of…” I glanced quickly through the italicized names beneath the pictures. “Shelley.” I tapped on a violinist with thick tortoiseshell glasses and a French braid. “She played the cello too. Do you remember? From USC? You came to a recital where she played.”

  “I only remember one woman from that night.” He took the book and made a show of inspecting Shelley. Gabriel was one of many inky blobs. He had no reason to turn his attention to Gabriel. None at all. Unless he suspected I was hiding the contents of my heart.

  “You met her.” I pointed at Shelley’s picture. “I was just reminding myself of her last name so I could look her up.”

  Peter snapped the book shut, losing the page, and handed it back to me. “Is Shelley why you were leaking tonight?”

  “Leaking?”

  “Sweaty hands. Crying eyes.”

  “It was the music. You know that’s my favorite piece.” I wasn’t lying. Not entirely.

  “Where else were you wet?”

  Without trust, sensual questions were no more than filth wrapped around a threat.

  I couldn’t bear him right after hearing Ballad of Blades. That concerto was love, longing, and loss. His hands on me were none of those things. His needs erased beauty and turned it to agony.

  “I haven’t showered.” My excuse would prove inadequate. I was here. This was my life. I’d chosen it, now I had to live it.

  “Pull up your dress.” He bent over me, a hand on each armrest. His breath was laced with mint toothpaste. “And open your legs.”

  I did as I was told, pulling the skirt fabric over the tops of my stockings and parting my knees.

  “Why were you crying?” he asked in a low, even tone.

  “The music was sad.”

  “You never cried over a song before.”

  His hand was cold inside my thigh.

  “I have.”

  “You’re supposed to tell me everything.”

  “I know. I just… I forgot about it until tonight. Shelley played that song—‘I Will Always Love You’—at an event. A USC patron fundraiser my father asked me to go to.” His icy fingers wove past the crotch of my underwear, and though I tried not to flinch, I failed. “It was so… moving.”

  When his hand nudged between my legs and found me soaking wet, he smiled. “Did you fuck Shelley? Did you eat her pussy?”

  “No, it wasn’t—”

  He slid two cold fingers inside me. “So she ate you? Did you sit on a chair with your legs spread and watch her crawl to you? Did she kneel while she sucked your hot little clit?” He buried his fingers down to the webs. “Did she make you come?”

  “I barely knew her.”

  “Then why are you wet?”

  “The tears were for the music. The rest is for you.”

  “Wrong.” He pulled his hand from between my legs and held his wet fingers up like a surgeon after scrubbing. “It’s all for me. All of it.”

  “Yes,” I said, skirt hitched, knees apart, wishing away my dread. “It is.”

  “Get in the shower, my love. When you’re clean, I’ll give you something beautiful to cry about.”

  Chapter 6

  UNIVERSITY OF SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA - 1993

  Determined to lose the violinist’s number, I spent the hundred-dollar bill in the university bookstore, passing it to the cashier as if it was just another big bill she had to inspect under the light. She didn’t say anything about it being defaced before she slid it into the register, and I didn’t change my mind and take it back.

  Not that I was going to call him. I’d already been accepted to grad school, but I still wanted to graduate with high marks, as if that would prove to my family I had more to offer the world than babies and a happy marriage. I was too busy to go on dates or start a long-distance relationship I couldn’t finish. I figured getting rid of the cash was the best way of moving toward my future.

  Taking the long way around the escalators, I spent fifteen minutes distracted by a table of art therapy titles, then I went down an aisle of materials for a course it was too late to take, until it was so cl
ose to class time I had to rush back to the escalators with my heavy plastic bag of books on my wrist.

  They swung in an arc as I turned a corner, knocking a bag out of someone’s hand.

  “Sorry!” I cried.

  I looked back.

  It was the guy. The money-mutilating violinist. Gabriel. Long and slim with straight shoulders and a disarming smile of surprise. His bag had ripped open, spraying a fan of yellow-stickered sheet music and notebooks all over the industrial carpet.

  “Hey,” he said. “Hundred-dollar girl.”

  “Don’t call me that.”

  “Sorry,” he said, tossing his ripped bag into a trash can. “I didn’t mean to insult you. But you didn’t tell me your name.”

  People were stepping around the spilled books. The mess was my fault. I couldn’t leave them there. I got on my knees to pick them up. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him join me, but I didn’t look at him. If I did, my annoyance would drain away, and I wanted to hold on to it as a defense.

  Accepting his apology would lead to a conversation that would lead to that warm buzzy feeling, which would lead to a distraction. Rejecting his apology would be plain rude. So I said nothing, grabbing his receipt, then piled Philip Glass on top of Bach.

  “Hello?” he said.

  “Here.” I placed the pile I’d gathered on top of what he had, my eyes away from his. “Your bag’s ripped. Take mine.”

  I reached into my bag to empty it, but he put his hand on my arm. “It’s fine.”

  When I twisted away, still looking at the space between his chin and his collar, he pulled back his hand. But avoiding looking at his face meant I focused on his body, from the throat exposed by his open collar, to the patch of hair disappearing under his shirt. My mind built whole from what little I could see.

  “I have to go,” I said.

  “Me too.”

  I got on the escalator. He was right behind me, books in his arms, hand on the rail near my head. They pushed on the surface in a rhythm, as if they were practicing their movement on violin strings, as if the music was in his muscles, not his mind.

  God. What was wrong with me?

  I didn’t look back, heading for the glass doors. The security guard nodded me through.

  The door was half-closed behind me when I heard the guard bark, “Wait.”

  I turned, thinking he was calling me. But he’d stopped Gabriel.

  “Can I see your receipt please, sir?”

  Gabriel didn’t have a bag, and as the door closed while he shuffled through the books and music, I realized he didn’t have his receipt.

  He’d have to deal with it. It wasn’t my problem.

  I was down the steps when I knew I had to at least vouch for him. I’d held his receipt in my hands and put it… where? Looking in my bag, I found two strips of paper. One was for the series of books on autism and Asperger’s I’d bought out of sheer fascination. The other was longer. Music. Music. Staff notebook. Music. All discounted.

  I ran back to the door. The security guy was on his walkie-talkie, and Gabriel looked as if he wanted to choke him.

  “Hey!” I said, holding up the receipt. “I found this in my bag.”

  “Okay, miss?”

  “It’s his. We got mixed up.”

  The guard looked at me suspiciously.

  “Look,” I said, taking out my receipt. “This one’s mine. Books match. This is all music stuff.”

  He took the first receipt, read it, and went through the confiscated pile.

  “Thank you,” Gabriel said quietly as the security guard checked each item on the receipt with each item the guy in his custody had tried to take out of the store.

  “You’re an asshole, not a thief,” I murmured.

  “An asshole? That’s a little harsh.”

  Maybe. It could be that in trying to avoid getting involved, I’d overcompensated a little.

  “Thank you, miss,” the guard said when he finished. He handed Gabriel the pile. “Stay out of trouble.”

  “I didn’t do anything.”

  He hadn’t, but the older man had to make a point. “Do we have a problem, kid?”

  Men were trouble. All of them.

  “Come on,” I said, pulling Gabriel’s sleeve. Finally, I looked him in the eyes. I couldn’t avoid it anymore. A pissing match wasn’t getting anyone anywhere. “You’re going to be late for class.”

  He came when I tugged, letting me lead him down the outside steps. But he yanked away at the bottom, giving me a hard stare before turning to walk away.

  “Hey!” I shouted.

  He stopped. Dropped his shoulders. Looked at the sky. “What?”

  I didn’t actually have anything to say.

  “Nothing. Never mind.”

  He turned toward me, sun blasting his face into a mask. Students passed between us but didn’t break whatever it was that made it so hard to walk away.

  “I’m not an asshole.”

  “Okay.”

  “And I’m sorry you’re not comfortable with your money or your beauty, but that’s on you. Not me.”

  “What? That’s…”

  Presumptuous.

  Disrespectful.

  Screw him.

  “That’s one hundred percent correct.” He came closer so passersby couldn’t walk in the space between.

  “And you!” I shot back. “Hundred-dollar girl? You’re not comfortable with me either. Which means you’re not comfortable with yourself.”

  “Thanks for the therapy session.” He said it as a final retort. A goodbye-and-thank-you. But his body didn’t obey the tone of his voice.

  “You’re welcome,” I said with the same finality.

  “Fine.”

  “Good.”

  “Are we done here?” he asked.

  Yes. We were done. Very done. Time’s up, done.

  “I don’t know. Are we?”

  “Yes.” He twisted his lips to one side as if he was trying to keep words from leaving them, then failed. “For today.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “We’re reconvening on the matter tomorrow.”

  It wasn’t a question.

  “Really? When?”

  “Lunch.”

  “Well,” I said, feeling my control over the situation slip through my fingers, “I’ll see you at Heritage Hall at twelve thirty.”

  “Great. Can you tell me your name?”

  “Carrie,” I said, intentionally leaving off the last name. Money was money. Drazen money was something else completely.

  “See you tomorrow, Carrie.”

  I got to Heritage Hall early and sat on a wooden bench in the shadows. I never thought much about why I always looked for dark corners, or why I got uncomfortable sitting in one place for long. People noticed me and I didn’t like it. I hadn’t asked why I didn’t like it or why it mattered.

  The California sun shot dusty beams through the windows, laying bright oblong slabs on the marble floor. Slim pedestals lined the center of the entry hall. Heisman trophies, busts of famous coaches, jerseys with retired numbers sat on them, brass plaques describing the athletic or strategic feats they accomplished.

  As usual for lunch, students streamed in. They didn’t look like the students in my department. They were taller. Wider. Tighter. They came in knee braces and school jerseys. They didn’t carry as many books but hauled duffel bags of gear. I liked watching their power and grace. Special creatures built to be gladiators but consigned to sports in a time of peace.

  As he came in, Gabriel was almost mowed down by a refrigerator of a man who, with split-second reflexes, kept him from falling. There was laughter and an apology. Gabriel picked up the instrument case he’d almost dropped and scanned the hall for me as if I was one of the trophy pedestals lit by the angles of the sun.

  In Heritage Hall, it was obvious he wasn’t a gladiator, but he was power and grace just the same. He owned the space he was in, with broad shoulders and a way of moving that dared
defiance and dismissed it at the same time.

  I stood in the light and waved. He came toward me with an easy gait and easier smile.

  “So,” he said.

  “So. Second session.”

  “What are we talking about?”

  “Your criminal past,” I said with a smile.

  “Trying to take my own stuff out of the store without a bag.”

  “That. And defacing money. That’s a federal offense, by the way.”

  “Benjamin Franklin would approve.”

  “I hear he was an asshole too.”

  In the single breath of time that followed, we looked at each other. His expression was empty, receptive yet open, all pretense gone. The room that had, seconds before, been a hollow echo chamber of voices and footsteps went silent. An indistinct haze blanketed the sharp sunlight, putting all of it outside my attention. My body relaxed and my mind emptied.

  I recognized him not from my past, but from my unwritten, yet certain future.

  He cleared his throat, summoning back the curse of normalcy. “I’ve never been in here before.” He turned his gaze to the trophies and majestic space.

  “It’s the only decent lunch on campus.”

  “Really? How did I not know about it?”

  “It’s kind of a secret. They only serve athletes. But one day I was starving and I wandered in here. They fed me. If I’m on this side of campus, I stop in. It’s not a problem.”

  “Huh,” he said, turning toward the line of gladiators showing ID cards at the entrance to the cafeteria. “Well. I guess we should go in then.”

  We went to the back of the line. His violin case took up as much room as a loaded duffel but was the subject of suspicious glances.

  “ID, please,” the middle-aged woman behind the table said before she looked up. “Oh, hey, Red.”

  “Hi, Tia.”

  “Who’s this with you?” She bent over to see his case.

  “He’s—”

  “Band,” Gabriel interjected.

  Tia glanced at me, then Gabriel, then me again. I smiled.

  “Tri-tip today,” she said. “And the lemonade is fresh-squeezed.”