Rampage

by Naomi West

  I keep expecting a knock on my door late at night, Dusty standing in a light rain, hair dripping down his forehead. “Hello,” he’ll whisper, and he’ll take me into his arms.

  But that doesn’t happen. Instead, I sleep curled up in a ball, trying to fight off the nightmares. If I’ve learned anything this past week, it’s that nightmares are the most vicious thing the human mind can throw at a person. Just as I start to feel like I’ve escaped Greg, he’ll come to me in my dreams, leering, dribbling, calling me evil names and aiming evil deeds at me. He’ll grab my privates and sneer and tell me this is all I’m good for . . . But I have to force that down into the darkness, where it can’t hurt me. I have to remember who I am: smiling, flirty Felicity or Amber or Chloe, never scared Marilee.

  “You’re welcome, doll, but let me tell you something. If you ever try and lean into this booth like that again, you’ll get a black eye with your coffee. Oh, don’t look so upset, baby. That’s just how I do it.”

  The man tips me twenty dollars and walks away, looking chastened. I place a hand on my belly, wondering if it was the burrito I had for dinner last night. That’s one thing I definitely wasn’t prepared for: cooking my own food every day. One of the ways Mom tries to pretend that the household isn’t a warzone is by cooking, so she’ll cook good meal after good meal, hoping that one day we’ll sit peacefully at the table and transform into a real family. My cooking isn’t up to par. I’ve been using the Internet a lot, but sometimes even that can be confusing.

  I massage my belly, glad for the lull in customers. I’m not going to be sick; I know that for a fact. I won’t allow myself to be sick. If I’m sick, I’ve failed. My job is to be pretty, and pretty girls don’t puke. That’s how these men think about me . . . she would never use the toilet, for number one or two, and she would never vomit. She’s a clean, porcelain creation who needn’t bother with our disgusting earthly needs. That’s what I have to aspire to if I want to continue raking in the tips.

  But it seems my body doesn’t agree with my aspirations. I’ve never been one for superstition but it seems like my body is punishing me for making money this way. What started as a light sickness has turned into a twisting, wrenching feeling in my belly. I try to swallow it away, and then drink down two glasses of water, hoping to submerge it. But it won’t go away. It lingers, and then intensifies. In the end I have no choice but to spring to the little cubby-hole bathroom at the rear of the booth, falling to my knees and puking with the force of a broken fire hydrant into the bowl. I just have to hope that a customer doesn’t approach the window looking for his flirty little coffee girl. I doubt he’d tip me in my current messy state.

  Once the puking is done, I wipe my mouth and return to the booth, wondering what the hell is wrong with me. My head is light, my vision shimmering. Everything has turned into the horizon of a desert, the airwaves cascading. With an effort, I can turn the world normal again, but it requires far more concentration than simply standing here should. It’s like the time I felt sick on the bus to school and all I could do was stand there with my feet rooted to the floor, telling myself I wouldn’t be sick, because if I was sick the other kids would bully me mercilessly, as kids will always bully the one who seems weak.

  “Hello,” the man says. He’s around fifty, with a graying comb over and a shifty look about him, the same look many of the men have. He wears a loose-fitting suit and his watery eyes roam over me in flitting glances. “A latte, please.”

  “Sure.” I go to the machine and get things started. “You having a good day, honey?” I have to talk, be sexy, be friendly. I have to fight these waves upon waves of sickness. I can’t let myself be beaten by them. I can’t let myself be made weak by them.

  “A good day? Well, sure.”

  “Oh, I’m so glad.” The first time I heard myself use this ridiculous tone of voice—the tone of voice which begs him to tell me more, which is designed to make him believe that what he has to say is the most important gospel ever spoken—I felt like an imposter. I thought they’d laugh at me. But they didn’t. They never do. They want to see me as I present myself. “Sometimes I have a bad day and then I just think of something funny and . . . he he!”

  “You really are a cute little bundle, aren’t you, sweetie?”

  “That’s me!”

  I finish his latte while trying with everything I have to keep it together. I’m just able to hand it to him before rushing to the bathroom again and painting it vomit-colored. I kneel near the bowl, taking in huge breaths. I have never felt sickness like this before. I’ve been ill plenty of times in my life. As a kid I got ill every day for almost a year after Dad died. I know what sickness feels like, and this . . . I gaze at my worn-out face in the mirror.

  “Oh,” I mutter, watching my lips as though they are somebody else’s. “Oh, shit.”

  Could it be? I go over the logistics in my head. It could be. It’s quite possible. It’s not biologically absurd to think that I might be carrying Dusty’s baby. I cover my hand with my mouth, this time to stop a scream instead of vomiting, and then pace up and down the booth. It’s midday, twenty minutes until my break. The sickness churns and churns, feeling like the sloshing of a washer on a slow cycle, every movement another revolution of the drum. More customers come, and somehow I play the smiling booth babe; somehow I give them what they want.

  Then it’s time for my lunch. I throw on my clothes and lock up the booth. Usually I take my lunch sitting at the rear of the booth, ready to serve customers if necessary, but right now I’m on a mission. Wearing sweatpants and a hoodie, I pace down the street, heading for the convenience store. I have my car, but the thought of driving freaks me out right now. I’ll be cruising along and then the sickness will hit me again, and this time . . .

  I don’t think about it, just push into the convenience store and go to the medicine aisle, past the lube and to the tests. I buy two with some of my tip money. Then I go to the public restroom and squat over the toilet, which is surprisingly clean, considering the public-restroom thing.

  I’ve never needed to pee so badly in my life, and my body has never been so committed to not peeing in my life. I force it out, willing it to drip onto the stick, but it stays within my body, stubbornly refusing to comply with the basic command. It’s as though my body is defending my mind; it knows what this revelation could do to me. I turned eighteen a few months ago. Wouldn’t this ruin my life? That’s what the teachers always used to say. A few girls got pregnant at the end of the school year and they were generally considered to be freaks. Is that my fate? But I’m not in school anymore. That’s high school nonsense. I don’t need to worry about that.

  But still, the pee won’t come. I think about that night with Dusty, the most intimate experience of my life, how I felt as though my world was blossoming, if only for a night. And now I might be carrying his life, might be, and my traitor body won’t let me find out. After a few minutes I stand up; when I hit the front door, my body decides to comply. I rush back to the toilet and finish the job, using both tests and then placing them on the sink counter.

  I pace up and down for the two minutes it takes the tests to decide my fate, wondering if life can really change this quickly, this brutally. Then I laugh at myself for such a naïve question. Of course life can change this quickly. Dad died suddenly, in the form of a letter from the government, and Mom changed quickly, in the form of Greg, and now my life will do the same, in the form of a tiny little life. But maybe not. Maybe I really did just eat a bad burrito.

  I feel oddly numb when I look down at the tests. “Okay,” I whisper. I drop them into the trash. “Fine, that’s fine. Sure.”

  I’m a zombie as I emerge from the bathroom into the midday sunlight, cool and fresh and yellow on my face. Sweat drips down my forehead, smudging my makeup. I don’t feel sick anymore, so that’s something, at least. I head back toward the booth. It feels as though my legs are being controlled by a puppeteer; invisible strings tug them from above. The
booth comes into view with a car parked out front, a big jeep with one of those wheels near the back window. I squint and that’s when I see her, powerful-looking in her suit and with her curves. Of course Kim chooses today of all days to swing by during lunchtime.

  I have to be charming now, be Booth Marilee. It doesn’t matter what two sticks said to me from a sink counter. It doesn’t matter what two sticks told me about the road my life will travel down from this day onwards. I’m Marilee, smiling, giggling, happy, seductive, alluring. I never cause offense and I’m never upset. I’m Marilee the Sexy Teen.

  “Hey!” I exclaim.

  Kim jolts at my voice, spinning on me so that her luxurious, wavy dress flutters around her. “What do you call this?” She points at the protective shield, closed and padlocked.

  “It’s my lunchbreak,” I say, feigning innocence. I tilt my head at her, pretending that I’m completely confused. If working here has done anything for me, it’s this: the ability to make my face do what I want. It’s like a cheap acting school. “Is there something wrong?”

  “Yes, there’s something wrong.” She waves her hands as she talks, her sleeves billowing. “This is a business, the last time I checked, which means that we’re here to make money, not to go wandering off into the distance on our lunch breaks. I thought I made this clear, Marilee. You take your lunchbreak in the booth. I know it’s a pain, but it really does result in better business. Do you do this often? Or is this the first time you’ve done it?”

  “This is the first time,” I say, glad that I can be honest.

  “So why change your tune today, huh?”

  “I really wanted a cheese panini,” I say. “And we don’t have anything like that.”

  “Mm.” She strokes her chin like a villain from a superhero movie. “And is a cheese panini worth your job?”

  “No. Of course not.”

  She nods matter-of-factly. “Then I hope you’ve learned your lesson. This is your first and only chance.”

  I nod with contrition, looking like nothing more than a guilty, apologetic eighteen-year-old. Kim’s face scrunches up guiltily as I stand there nodding. She places her hand on my shoulder. It’s strong, almost maternal. “Listen, I know this business is hard. I used to work in one of these places before I made enough money to buy my own. So I get it, okay? This place can be tough. It can drag on you. But you’ve got to make yourself tough, not weak.”

  “I understand. Thank you for your advice. It’s very helpful.”

  She smiles and together, we reopen the booth. A few minutes later I’m standing exactly where I started, only this time there’s a pit in my belly, swallowing my confidence. Two sticks sitting near the sink, staring at me, changing everything . . .

  Chapter Thirteen

  Marilee

  I remember in English literature class, Mr. Jonson talked about how all the world is a stage and everybody has their part to play. It was one of Shakespeare’s most important quotes, he said, because it was completely right. Everybody plays a part, and not just one: a different part for school and volleyball and dating and serving coffee in a bikini. I’m not the same person lying in my motel bed at night, knees drawn to my chest, thinking of Dusty, as I am when I’m standing here giggling at some trucker’s bad joke. I can’t be the same person, because that would mean disaster. If a trucker came here wanting to get away from the misery of the world and he was met with me, looking markedly miserable, I would have failed.

  And yet that is exactly what is happening right now. I can’t focus. The trucker is an old man, with one of those handlebar mustaches, so thick that it covers his mouth. His words seem to come from somewhere under the mound of hair. He wears a cap with an American flag on it and leers at me as most of the men do. But I can’t smile back. I just keep thinking of those sticks, warping my life, changing it completely.

  “So I said to him, ‘What do you mean you ain’t got enough gas to get you across the state? Ain’t that the point of stoppin’ and refuelin’?’ And he tells me, ‘I stopped and everything, Joe, but I forgot about the refueling part.’ So I asked him: ‘What did you do, then? You were sitting there for damn near fifteen minutes.’ And he tells me, ‘Well, Joe, I’m not rightly sure. There was this bluebird, or least I think it was a bluebird, and it was a damn pretty bird anyhow.’”

  He stares at me and I know this is the point at which I need to laugh. If I want to secure a tip, seductive giggles need to resound through the air. All I can manage, though, is a weak grin and laughter which sounds almost mocking.

  “Is that milk okay, sweetheart?”

  I follow his pointing finger. The milk has boiled over the metal jug, spilling onto the counter. “No,” I say. “It’s not.” I act quickly, salvaging the coffee as best I can, but the atmosphere is soured beyond repair. He nods gratefully but leaves with a quizzical look on his face. My guess is that one of his buddies told him about the girl at the coffee booth. He’s probably wondering if he’s been tricked.

  I clean up and then go into the bathroom, splashing cold water on my face and staring at myself wide-eyed in the mirror. “Get it together now, okay? So what if there’s a kid in there? What does that mean, that you can’t do your job properly? Hell, no, that’s not what it means. Just stay focused. You need this money. All right? You need this—”

  “Miss?” A man stands at the counter, wearing a black suit with a bowtie and slicked-back hair. “Are you still serving coffee?”

  “Sure!” I yell far too loudly. It sounds phony even to me. “Sure!” But the correction comes too late and only adds to the phoniness.

  “I’ll just have a black coffee, please.”

  “Okay, handsome.”

  The handsome sounds forced. The man glances at my legs. “You really think I’m handsome, do you, honey?”

  “Well, sure I do.” Tips, tips, tips, I tell myself. All I need is tips.

  “I bet you say that to all the fellas.”

  I giggle. “Only the handsome ones.”

  “Only the handsome ones,” he repeats. “Right. Sure. Not every guy who comes through here, then. You’ve got principles.”

  “Ha, ha.” I try my best, brightest smile. “That’s me. Call me Miss Principle!”

  My jokes are always bad in the booth, because men don’t expect girls wearing bikinis to crack funny jokes. But most of the time the men will give me a courtesy laugh, letting me know that even if the joke isn’t funny they’re having enough fun to make out like it is. But this man just stares at me blankly. His face is somewhat unnerving, his eyebrows thin as though they’ve been drawn on, his eyes small and always watching. “How long does it take to make a cup of coffee?” he asks.

  “Oh, sorry.” I realize I’m just standing there, looking at him. “Not long at all. I’ll get to it right now.”

  “Why don’t you do that? It’s interesting, I think, how a girl like you can work at a place like this. I’m sure your father isn’t a huge fan.”

  “Oh, he doesn’t mind.”

  “He doesn’t?” The man lets out a cackling laugh. “If you were my daughter, I sure would mind. I wouldn’t like it at all. Have you seen what you’re wearing? When you bend over the coffee machine, the bikini bottoms ride right up your ass. Oh, if you were my daughter, I wouldn’t be okay with that at all!”

  “Well, I suppose everybody is different.” I pour his coffee quickly and rest it on the counter. “That will be a dollar fifty, please.”

  “A dollar fifty for a cup of black?” He winks at me as he reaches into his pocket. “But I guess people don’t come here for the coffee, am I right? They come for the view. Let me ask you something, sweetheart.” His hand is stuffed into his pocket. I can’t look away from it; he could pull anything out. “When you look in the mirror, do you respect what you see? Because when I see a girl like you, fresh and ready to be fucked until she cries, I don’t respect it much. You’re too far gone, you know? You look at a pretty girl and you know that doing something mean and dirty to h
er would be a shame, because she’s never experienced anything like that before. But you—you’re a lost cause. You’re made for this stuff, aren’t you?”

  I straighten my back. I’ve had to deal with a couple of guys like this before, although they weren’t this intense. “I really don’t appreciate you talking to me like that, sir,” I say. “I’m just trying to do my job. The last thing I need is for you to speak to me like there’s something wrong with me. I haven’t done anything wrong.”

  “Methinks thou do protest too much, little lady.” He grins at me, taking his hand out of his pocket and spilling a bunch of coins on the counter. He watches me with a smirk on his face as I gather them up and count them. “I think you’re lying when you say your father doesn’t mind you doing this work, because it seems to me that most fathers have an instinct that doesn’t let them sleep well while their daughter humiliates herself.” His grin gets wider. “Even stepfathers, I imagine, have this same instinct.”

  My body gets suddenly colder. His eyes lock onto mine. I feign a smile. “I’m not sure I’m following you, sir.”