by Ginger Scott
In the past, having mostly male teachers has been awkward for me. When you’re a teenaged girl, telling a dude you have a bad period is, well, embarrassing. It shouldn’t be. It’s a physiological thing that happens and has to be dealt with, and sometimes it’s miserable and requires time. But our views on women’s issues or whatever has made this a mortifying rite of passage for all girls with male teachers.
But today . . . I own my period.
“Real bad cramps, Mr. Williams. So bad.”
I sold it with double hands on the abdomen, and he literally shoed me out of lit class. My period was last week. Sucker.
The bathroom right next to the teacher’s lounge is hardly ever used. Mostly because it’s impossible to hide in here and vape without getting caught. Makes for a great place to nap so you can jump back into your dream and take care of your murder scene. That really puts the vape epidemic into perspective. It takes me maybe four minutes to doze off in the last stall. The corner where the tiled walls meet is a decent headrest. I cannot focus until I get this body taken care of, even though this body—this entire storyline—it isn’t real. I know it isn’t real, yet I cannot think about how to sell more boxes of chocolate and check lists for the homecoming dance planning committee and make the agenda for this afternoon’s student council meeting until I know I’ve done my job over there.
I’m supposed to be learning to let go of things and relax, to feel confident without this constant worry that sometimes makes it impossible to breathe. Everything about this place I go feels at complete odds with my goals. I need to talk to Ms. Esher about this.
First, though, there’s the body.
It took me forever to get Gustavio’s heavy corpse into the bag I stole from the dry cleaner a block away. It feels as if it took an hour to then drag him from behind the diner and into the small pickup truck I hotwired. Should have pushed him in a little farther. Definitely should have closed the tailgate. One pothole and he was out.
“Don’t just stand there and look at me like that. Help.” I have no choice but to engage him. The nice guy from the other place has to be mixed with whoever this one is.
He seems older over here. I guess I do, too. I haven’t thought once about who my parents are or if they’re different, where my family is. Hell, I don’t even know where I live, or if I have a home. I’m pretty sure it’s just me in this place. No attachments. Except, of course, this guy—the one who is still staring at me from the middle of the street. I peel the mask up from my face, making it perfectly clear that it’s me, that we know each other. He’s not surprised when he sees my bare face. I’m certain he knew all along.
“Look, I don’t care what you are over here. Drug lord, kingpin, whatever . . . I need to get rid of this. I need help.”
I need help.
That’s a phrase I struggle with.
I’m shouting about this body in the middle of an intersection, but nobody’s around to hear me except him and his guys. What are they? A crew? I guess that’s his crew. That’s why he’s driving on this road. Whatever he’s up to, it’s the kind of thing done with a crew and in shadows—bigger shadows than the alleyway a block or two from our school can cast.
“Well?” I hold my hands out at my sides, expecting him to move toward me at any moment, but instead he just stands there, perched at the side of some big SUV, then looks to his side, nodding toward the guy in the driver’s seat. He’s going to leave, and that’s infuriating.
My jaw tightens as my chest grows full, and with my eyes squeezed tight, I open my mouth to scream. Maybe the threat of my noise attracting someone’s attention is enough for him to get out of that damn vehicle and help me. By the time the fury leaves my lungs, though, my screams come careening back in an echo off deep canyon walls.
What the ever-loving fuck?
I blink and my entire backdrop changes. Well, I more than blink. It’s not quite a rant but maybe a rather dramatic outburst. Whatever it is, it’s like some weird reboot for my mind that brings me—and damn, the body—here which, as far as I can tell, is the actual middle of nowhere.
“Hello!” My shouting echoes right back to me twice, three times, a fourth. It fades with each repeat. It’s colder where I am now. The sky is massive, too. There isn’t a city light to be found for miles. And oh, so many stars!
“Hey.”
I leap several feet forward, twisting in the air and pulling the small knife from the back of my utility belt. I hold it firm, ready to stab and slash. Cowboy towers over me from where he sits on his horse. The bruises on his face are gone. Those aren’t for this world, I guess; only the other side. I wonder if his rib is still jacked.
“You scared the crap out of me,” I say, moving my knife back to the safe spot near my spine. Seems like a strange place to feel comfortable carrying metal, but having it there makes me somehow feel mighty.
“Sorry. Imagine me, though, just riding along and then bam! Girl in all black with a . . . sack of toys?” He tips his hat and nods to the lump at my feet.
I swallow.
“Body. Dead one.” I glare at him, waiting for a big reaction. Instead, he chews at the side of his mouth for a few seconds then hops down from the massive animal.
“We gonna bury it, then?” He rounds the bag of Gustavio, almost as if he’s sizing it up, and I get a case of the giggles at how absurd all of this is.
“I guess so,” I say through my laughter.
Cowboy reaches down and tugs at the ropes cinching the bag closed.
“You’re not going to want to open that,” I say.
“Yeah, I figured. I’m testing to see how heavy it is.” He pulls up and the heavy body and bag dangle maybe an inch or two from the ground, and only for a second before he lets go of the ropes, letting it flatten again on the ground.
“He was a big boy.” I grin with tight lips to mask the thoughts racing through my head. I wonder what he thinks of me—that this, of all things, is my dream. Also, how odd that of all things he could dream, he made himself a cowboy.
“We can drag him. Come on,” he says, nudging his head toward his horse. I follow him to the animal, and he runs his palm flat against her side, guiding me toward the head to introduce me. “This is Old Girl. She’s pretty awesome.”
I stare at Cowboy in wonder because he’s so different over here. He’s subdued, and definitely a lot nicer. I move my gaze to the horse, following Cowboy’s lead and resting my hand just above the horse’s nose. He directs me to stroke the coarse fur up and down, and as I make the motion, Old Girl blows a puff of air from her nose and nuzzles closer into my touch.
“Wow.” My strained grin shifts into an enormous and joyous one. I’ve never touched a horse, and this sensation, this gesture of unconditional love—it’s powerful.
“She the one you fall off of?” I ask, turning my head to the right to look my friend in the eye. He winces at the memory and lifts the flannel and thermal undershirt he’s wearing. His chin tucked in so he can see his waist, he gently pokes at the now greenish-colored bruise.
“Yep. Wasn’t her fault, though. Gunfire startled her.”
He didn’t mention that part when he told me the story while we stood in my lawn back home.
“You talk weird over here,” I say, sparking a smirk on his lips. I half expect him to chew on a piece of straw soon.
“You do, too.” He lifts his hat a bit to adjust its position on his head, chuckling a little while he coaxes his horse to move with him. I follow alongside as we walk over to Gustavio.
“I do not,” I say, my response a little delayed.
“You do not what? Talk weird? Yeah, you do.”
He pulls some rope from the opposite side of Old Girl, on her saddle. He fashions some sort of knot out of it, looping it around the bag’s tie a few times then fixing it tightly around his horse’s chest. He turns toward me when he’s done, holding out a hand for me to take while gesturing to the foothold on the stirrup with his other.
“How do I talk
weird?” I protest, not sure why I’m so offended by this.
He sighs, a little bit of his real self shining through.
“I don’t know. You seem more confident, I guess. Now, get up on the damn horse.”
I puzzle my face briefly but take his hand and step in the rung to swing my other leg up and over Old Girl’s back. I slide forward in the saddle and consider his assessment.
“More confident, huh?”
He tightens the rope and fixes its position on Old Girl before putting his foot in the rung, pausing to stare me directly in the eyes. For the first time, well, ever, I’m struck by how blue they are. The color is darker than mine, almost like sea water. Maybe it’s the effect of moonlight, or maybe I’m overcome by his odd sudden charm. He makes a much better cowboy than a football player.
“Yeah. You’re still annoying as hell, though.” He grumbles mid eyeroll, then lifts himself to sit directly behind me, my small assassin body caged in by his massive ranch-hand one.
We ride in silence for what feels like both seconds and forever, finally stopping at a place that somehow seems darker than the rest of the landscape. I get the overwhelming sense that bodies have been buried here before.
“He your first?” Cowboy slides from the horse, his heavy boots landing with a thump on the ground. He takes my hand and helps me dismount. The trip down is a lot farther than I expect, and I stumble into him. His enormous arms catch me, and I giggle.
I freaking giggle. Ugh!
“Well?”
I blink at his question, a bit dazed from this sudden smitten fest I seem to be going through. I shake it off and focus.
“First. Yeah. He’s my first.” I pace around the body and kneel down, pulling the knife out to cut the thick rope. I stop mid-saw and look up, finding Cowboy’s amused face waiting for me, his arms folded over his chest as he watches me work.
“First kill, I mean! Jesus, no—he isn’t my first first!” A flash of heat puts instant sweat on my skin, and I return to the job before me while Cowboy laughs loudly. Maybe he is as big of an asshole over here.
“I knew what you meant,” he finally says, letting me off the hook. I still feel hot and mortified, but the choking sensation is gone. With the rope cut, I wrap the long end around my arm a few times, then grip it to drag the body. Cowboy reaches out to help, but I hold up my hand and wave him off.
“Okay, she’s strong over here,” he says, taking a few long strides to lead me to the best spot. It’s dark now, so seeing anything more than five feet in front of me isn’t possible.
We stop about two dozen feet from where we began, and Cowboy picks up a shovel that’s stuck in the ground.
“Did you just conjure that?” I raise my right brow and point at his new tool.
He lifts it to see it better in the moonlight, a sarcastic gesture that’s more the real him than this version.
“Guess so. I don’t remember having one out here before.”
Grateful he only materialized one shovel, I take the opportunity to stretch my body. This little pause also makes me realize a few things. One, all three of us are sleeping during school hours. And two, I’m the only one who seems able to show up in other people’s dreams.
“Ready?” He’s already dug a Gustavio-sized hole. I smirk, and he probably thinks it’s because I’m relieved it’s done. I nod and we both grab the roped bag and drag the heavy body into the hole. I watch while Cowboy pushes the loose dirt and sand over the body, same smile still plastered on my face.
Yeah, I’m happy this is done. I can’t deny this massive sense of relief. But that’s not why I’m smiling. I’m giddy because it turns out I am special. Cowboy can control his dreams and bring things between both worlds, but I am the only one who can insert myself into other people’s stories.
21
Villain
I’m not sure whether Sal is real or I dream him. I’m leaning toward real since I’ve pretty much vetted the people in my dream side, and Sal, he can’t cut it over there. He’s too small.
For a while, I could tell the difference between here and there because in my dream I never came home to this shithole two-bedroom by the Red Line. Though now it’s been showing up in both places. Mostly because in the dream world, I’m hiding.
There was a bust on the warehouse. Someone ratted me out; I’m pretty sure I know who. I’ve seen her once, but who knows how many times Damsel’s been watching me in her sketchy spy shit.
I know it wasn’t Sal, so I shuffle my way down the hallway to the front room to let him in. I rub my palms over my sleep-heavy eyes and kick open the dented metal and screen door that barely keeps the bugs out of the house. It stinks in here because Paul, he likes to smoke all the fuckin’ time. I left the door open when I went to lie down. I must not have been out for long.
“I see your mom and Paul have really fixed up the place,” Sal says. He coughs out a laugh that sounds like a lung came up with it.
“Same shithole it was when you lived here,” I say, picking up a sofa cushion covered in ashes and walking it to the screen door to brush off outside. I don’t know why I bother trying to keep this place clean. I swear I’m the most domestic one.
“And since you don’t live here anymore and all, and besides me, the people who do kinda hate your ass, what gives with the visit, man?” I toss the cushion back where it belongs and flop down on top, pulling one of Gia’s dolls from the space against the arm. I toss it in the laundry basket near the TV.
Sal holds up his phone, waving it side to side, too fast for me to see whatever it is on the screen that he clearly wants me to read. I stand and grip his wrist, and rip the phone from him with my other hand.
“Quit with the jazz hands, dude,” I say, moving my focus down to the phone in my palm. There are eighteen missed calls from some number I don’t recognize and he doesn’t have saved as anyone in his list of contacts. I toss the phone back to him and he bobbles it a bit before catching it.
“So, you’re on some spam list. Why do I care?” I fall back into the sofa, this time sideways so I can put my feet up. I cannot sleep enough, I swear.
“That ain’t spam, bro. It’s that lady doctor woman. She keeps calling, wondering why you’ve missed two appointments. The school’s probably calling your mom, but I know she don’t give a shit about that. But this lady, yo, she can’t keep callin’ me! I’ve got business.”
His eyes are wide and panicked, and I can’t help but crack up, which only infuriates him more.
“Dude, you aren’t taking this seriously.” He huffs, lifting my feet and flinging them from the sofa so he can sit on the other end. It only makes me laugh harder.
“First of all, lady doctor woman? Two of those words are synonyms.” I glare at him and realize he doesn’t know what I mean, so I move on. “And relax. I haven’t been feeling great. I think maybe I’ve got a bug. In fact, you think you could call the school and call me out for the rest of the week?”
I sit up and pull my phone out to load the school’s number, but before I can, Sal abruptly stands and walks to the opposite side of the room.
“I’m not your servant or employee or whatever. And I’m not your parent.” He points at me with that last part.
“You kinda are, at least according to that lady doctor woman,” I say through a crooked smile. I shrug.
“Pfft, man.” He turns his back to me again, his hands at his forehead, his phone still clutched in the right one.
I hold his gaze through a full breath and start to feel bad. I’m having a lot more fun with this than he is, and it could be because I’m not even sure it’s real. Just in case, I should be a little more sympathetic. He’s trying to do right by me, and really, what he doesn’t know is I wasn’t lying just now—he kinda is the only parent I’ve got. And we don’t share a drop of blood.
“Look, Sal . . . I’m sorry. You’re right. Just, give me a little help with the school. Just one phone call, and I promise—” I don’t make promises, so I get caught up on th
e word. He calls me on it quickly.
“Promise what? Don’t promise me shit you don’t mean. It ain’t your phone getting burned. I’ve got other people I deal with too, you know. I can’t be getting these calls when I’m at some of the places I go.”
I tilt my head, noting the clues he’s giving me. I’ve always wondered who else Sal gives pills to. And when he shorts me, I wonder if someone else is getting extra.
“I promise I will meet with her,” I finish, my thoughts still on Sal and his other business. After a few seconds of his eyes boring into mine, I crack a smug smile. “You know . . . lady doctor woman.”
I snort out a laugh and he grumbles. I hold my phone out, primed and ready for him to make the call. He refuses at first, pushing his phone and both hands into his front pockets. Our eyes play out a short game of chicken, and he’s the first to break, blinking and looking at the phone. He finally draws in a heavy breath and grabs it from me, pacing the room as he pushes the CALL button and waits through a few rings.
“Hi, yeah. This is, uh, Paul . . .” He looks at me with a sour face, holding his hand out and snapping at me. Shit! That’s right, he doesn’t know Paul’s whole name.
“Turner,” I whisper. I scramble to my feet at the same time and grab a pen from the kitchen drawer then scribble TURNER on a paper towel.
“Turner. Paul Turner. Sorry, our dog was distracting me,” Sal lies. “Yeah, so . . . my stepson has been sick.”
There’s a pause on our end of the line and I stare intently at Sal’s face for clues, watching his eyes. He keeps nodding, which I think means someone is talking on the other end.
“Right, yes. Excused, yes,” Sal says, and I sit back on the sofa arm, feeling a small sense of relief. I didn’t realize I was stressed about ditching school; it’s not like it’s the first time. I guess maybe my emotions are more raw than normal, though, because I can breathe a little easier now.
