Cornered

by Rhoda Belleza

  Then, spurred on by the voice of Nate in my head (the thing about going where life takes you, not the part about having your cock out) I found myself blurting: “And—weird thing—I ran into a girl I used to know in elementary school.”

  “Oh yeah? Small world . . .”

  “I guess. She’s in a band now. They’re playing at some coffee shop on Main tonight. Vitamin’s?” I stared into my hand. “Something like that.”

  “I think I know the place. You need a driver? I mean a passenger?”

  “I’m not sure if I’m gonna go,” I said, then muttered. “Jock strap fittings.”

  Aunt Tina cocked an eyebrow, but didn’t ask me to clarify. Stupid Tiffany was in my head. We headed outside toward the car. It had Aunt Tina’s face on the side and her tagline.

  TINA FORBES: LET ME HELP YOU FIND A HOME. YOUR NEW LIFE BEGINS TODAY.

  • • •

  So I tried to get there on the late side, to reduce the amount of time I’d spend awkwardly sitting in Vortigern’s (not Vitamin’s) Coffee by myself. What? Of course I went. What did she mean, not my scene? I could go to see bands if I wanted. I didn’t just plan to sit around watching sports with Uncle Eli my whole life. I could hang out with tattooed girls if I felt like it. I could do anything I wanted. Maybe I’d even come back from Westport with a tattoo of my own.

  Okay, that was probably pushing it.

  Uncle Eli let me drive me the short ride to the coffee shop.

  “What time should I pick you up?” he asked.

  “I have no idea how long these things go on.”

  “Okay, then just call the house when it’s over. I’ll be up. And um, if it’s after twelve we just won’t tell your father.”

  “Cool,” I said. He gave me a high five. It was impossible to believe that he was my dad’s brother.

  I walked in to Vortigern’s Coffee Shop and heard the jingle of a bell strung to the door. No music though, besides the low background of a stereo playing a quiet, old song. The show hadn’t started yet. So I would be sitting around, waiting. I didn’t see Tiffany and part of me wondered if she was just messing with me. But, no, there on the chalkboard “marquee” was the name of her band in big white letters: THE SHIFT STICKS. I noticed a few bearded heads turn and look at me as I weaved through the tables, but most everyone was locked in to their own intense conversations over steaming coffees. I really didn’t like coffee. But I felt like I should have something to sip on, just to feel less awkward.

  I walked up to the counter and a large, friendly girl smiled at me. She had a huge flower behind her ear and wore a T-shirt that said, IT IS FORBIDDEN TO FORBID. It appeared homemade, written in a style that made it look like the letters were dripping blood. She was confusing, but I liked her smile.

  “What can I get ya?” she asked, wiping the counter with a towel like an old-fashioned waitress.

  “I’m not really typically a fan of hot beverages,” I said, feigning confidence. “But I’m feeling adventurous. What’s the house specialty that isn’t coffee?”

  “That would be the Yerba maté,” she said. “Tea. You’ll love it.”

  Without giving me time to explain that I didn’t like tea either, she quickly turned around and started preparing the beverage. A few moments later she set a strange contraption in front of me. My face must have belied my confusion because she explained.

  “It comes in a gourd, not a cup. You drink through that metal straw-thingy. Let it cool a little first.” I must have still looked confused because she added, “It’s from Argentina.” As if that clarified anything.

  “Got it,” I said as I paid for the drink. It was way too expensive for a cup of tea, but it was too late to explain. When I found an empty table, I sat and stared around at the weirdly painted walls—knights and dragons motif with some pretty gory details—while I waited for the drink to cool. I pulled out my phone to text Nate.

  ME: i’m waiting for tiffany sanz’s band to go on

  NATE: if it’s the best band ever you owe me

  ME: they’re called “the shit sticks” somehow i doubt they’re the best band ever

  NATE: dude, that’s funny

  ME: is it? i don’t think i get it. the shit sticks to what?

  NATE: no, it’s like that thing that happened to tiffany. remember? taylor and amanda got in huge trouble . . .

  I couldn’t believe I hadn’t thought of it on my own. The shit sticks. I could see it vividly now. There was Tiffany—skinny and frizzy-haired, with goofy glasses sliding down her nose—wearing that stupid cat shirt. She was out on the playground picking up sticks; she liked them for whatever reason. Actually, I knew the reason if I really thought about it: no one would play with her, and she didn’t want it to look like she cared, so she pretended to be really into sticks. Each day at recess while the other kids were playing kickball or just sitting around gossiping, she’d slowly circle the perimeter of the schoolyard and browse under the trees. She’d pick up a stick, carefully consider it, then either keep it in her hand or put it back if it didn’t suit her. By the end of the day, she’d have a bouquet of them.

  The aforementioned Taylor and Amanda were the mean girls of Hasting Elementary. They ran the game. Called the shots. Ruled the school with their tiny, iron fists. And one day they hatched a new evil plan. I was there when they planned it and I probably egged them on. No, I definitely egged them on. Why? Because it was Taylor and Amanda, and they were Taylor and Amanda. I wanted them to like me so bad, so desperately I would have done anything. “Yeah, do it!” I remember saying. “It’ll be soooo funny.”

  Here is what “it” meant:

  Taylor and Amanda chose a perfect stick with a sharp end. They returned to that place, under the slide, where that old pile of dog crap began to harden. Amanda jammed the stick’s sharp end into the poop and skewered a large piece. Like a shit-ka-bob. “Oooh,” we said. We were laughing hard. I know I was laughing hard.

  The next step was simple. Our little group walked out from under the slide. Amanda held the stick carefully but proudly, like a knight holding a lance.

  “Tiffany!” Taylor yelled. “Tiffany, we found a great stick for you!”

  Tiffany turned her head, and I could still see the look on her face. It registered confusion first, and then showed a toothy smile. Thinking about that genuine smile makes me sick now. She really thought Taylor was helping her with her bouquet. She really thought we all were being friendly. Being nice. Tiffany skipped—literally skipped—across the playground as we all tried very hard not to laugh. Tiffany reached out, smiled, grabbed the stick, and . . .

  • • •

  ME: i can’t believe she named the band that. you’d think she’d want to forget

  NATE: seriously

  ME: dude, i think i have to get out of here

  NATE: why?

  ME: she’s obviously still pissed about all that stuff! what if she just invited me here to murder me?

  Then I heard the voice. It wasn’t full of murderous rage but rather something like sweetness. “Bryan Forbes, you made it!” Tiffany had apparently returned to the Sunglasses Shack to buy the neon green shades, which was weird to be wearing since it was nighttime. And we were inside. The rest of her freaky look was amped up as well. The blond dreadlocks were now streaked with green, and her lips were dark black. She sat down in the chair next to me and began drumming her fingers on the table.

  “It would appear I did,” I said. “Make it, I mean.” I suddenly felt conscious of the less-than-cool outfit I was wearing. It wasn’t anything lame, just jeans and a skateboard T-shirt. But it didn’t make me exactly artsy or trendy, or whatever these people were going for.

  “And you ordered Yerba maté!” she said, her voice sounding less ragged than the other day. “It’s my favorite. Helps my throat recover from all the screaming. But why’d you order it? I thought you hated hot liquids.”

  “Well you know what they say,” I raised my cup. Gourd. Whatever that thing is. “‘When in Ro
me . . .’” I took a sip. It tasted nasty.

  “You know,” she said, looking at me sideways. “I always thought that was the worst expression. Everyone always tells you to be yourself, to not change for anyone, but then they also tell you ‘when in Rome . . . ,’ which is like the exact opposite message. Like you should change yourself just to fit in with Romans or whatever. When in Rome, you should be yourself! Hey, that’s a decent lyric. I should write it down.” She pulled a notebook out of her pocket and scribbled into it.

  “I never thought of it that way,” I said.

  “No, I don’t suspect that you would, Bryan Forbes,” she said. What the hell did that mean? Her habit of calling me by my full name was getting annoying. I was just glad she didn’t know my middle name, which is Walter, which I hate.

  Then the lights in the coffee shop flickered and Tiffany jumped up. “Ooh, that means it’s time to take the stage! I hope you dig it.”

  “Break a leg,” I said. “Or a string. Or you know, whatever.”

  “I plan to break more than that,” she called back, and ran up onto the stage.

  The stage was tiny. Barely a stage really. More like a really long, really short table you could walk on. There was barely enough room for the drum set, the guitar amplifiers, and the microphone stand. The drummer alone took up half the stage. He was tall and wide with a bushy mustache that was probably supposed to be ironic. He was sweating and panting already, like a caged animal.

  He was joined by the bass player who was . . . how can I put this kindly? He was the biggest nerd I’ve ever seen. He had enormous glasses, a mess of black hair, and a goofy-assed bucktooth smile. He plugged in his bass and played a quick riff that, okay, did sound pretty cool. Then Tiffany picked up her guitar and fiddled with the strap. It was slung over her shoulder, so she looked like a soldier with a machine gun. Ready to mow down enemy troops. She plugged in and strummed the guitar. It rang out a few clear, sad chords that vibrated in my stomach. I have no musical talent, so am automatically sort of impressed by anyone who can play an instrument—but I don’t think I was the only one who was impressed. Most everyone stopped their conversations and stared at the stage, transfixed. Tiffany stepped up to the microphone and blew on it once to make sure it was working. It was. She didn’t introduce the band, she didn’t say hello. She just closed her eyes, strummed her guitar, and started to slowly sing over the ringing chords.

  “They use their lies,” she sang, holding the last word. Her voice was quiet but strong. More than strong. Powerful. I was blown away by just those four notes. I’m even worse at singing than I am at instruments. I’m such a bad singer that my rendition of “Happy Birthday” can make a person sort of sad they survived another year.

  She continued, switching to a low quiet part that she almost growled. “And their fists. To divide you from your friends. You prepare, you adapt. But they wound you in the end.” Here her voice swooped up, effortlessly gliding back to the high notes. “As a youngster in the corridor, you just wish to comply. As a person, getting older. You spit into their eye.”

  The instant she sang the word “eye,” the rest of the band exploded. The huge drummer unleashed an epic clatter. The nerdy bass player broke off a funky groove. And Tiffany began to scream. I mean, really scream. She had to step away from the microphone so she wouldn’t shatter our eardrums. Even without the amplification, and even with the huge noise made by the rest of the band, she was loud.

  This is what she screamed/sang: “You’re only as ugly as you let them make you feel. I felt ugly. I was ugly. I was ugly. I was ugly.” It was intense. I had to look away. There were a few more verses, and each time the chorus changed slightly. The next time it was “You were ugly” and on the final cacophonous chorus she sang: “We felt ugly,” then “We are ugly.” She repeated this line over and over as the music swelled and crashed, settling into a quiet groove. “We are ugly. We are ugly. We are ugly anyway.”

  The rest of the band joined her and soon the whole room was singing. The coffee drinkers looked up from their conversations to sing. The solitary bearded dwellers in the back put down their paperbacks to sing. The hefty lady who made my tea stopped wiping glasses and started to sing. “We are ugly. We are ugly. We are ugly anyway.” Their voices soared. “We are ugly. We are ugly. We are ugly.” The weird thing is, it was totally beautiful. The whole show was.

  By the end of it, I was about to take out my phone to text Nate how great it was. And then I heard my name again. It was Tiffany, speaking into the microphone.

  “I’d like to dedicate this last song to Bryan Forbes, a guy who made my life miserable in elementary school. 1-2-3-4!”

  The drummer started a bouncy beat, and the bass played a familiar tune. I couldn’t place it at first. It was like a melody from my subconscious. From my dreams. Then it hit me. “Puppy chow, puppy chow! Make your lucky pup say wow!” She sang it a few times; the song had no other words. Then she started improvising. “Thank you, Bryan Forbes, for teaching me to be alone. Thank you, Bryan Forbes, for pulling the scales from my eyes. Thank you, Bryan Forbes . . .”

  At least I thought she was saying “thank you.” The drums were pretty loud, and she was sort of mumbling. There was a pretty good chance she was saying something else. It was clear though, that she was pointing right at me. Someone threw a spoon at me. For a second I thought it was a knife, but no, definitely a spoon. Still, I took that as my cue to leave. I stood up. Another spoon was thrown. It hit me in the ear and fucking hurt. I looked around for help. Tiffany’s eyes were closed, and I don’t think she noticed. Not that she would have helped me anyway. Another spoon, right in the back. Um, nice lady with the flower, you work here, right? I searched for her, but her back was turned. The whole crowd began singing with Tiffany. Chanting, pointing, and throwing things while the drummer pounded furiously on the snare.

  “Thank you,” (I think), “Bryan Forbes. Thank you, thank you . . .”

  It was a good thing to be a runner. My heart was pounding and my stomach was lurching and everything in my body was saying, Go! So I went. I pushed through the crowded coffee shop, past the singing, pointing, taunting. Past the flying cutlery. I shoved open the door and ran out into the cool night air. I looked back for the mob that would follow. I expected a chase. I expected pitchforks and torches. But no one came, and after a few blocks, I was sure I had outrun them all. Jesus. I was so pissed! At Tiffany, at Nate for some reason, at everyone. And, to be honest, I was pissed at myself.

  • • •

  I couldn’t call Uncle Eli. He’d want to pick me up at Vortigern’s, and no way was I going back there. It was just a few miles away to their house. I remembered the route, and even though I wasn’t dressed for it, I kept running. I settled into my steady long-distance pace. It felt weird running in jeans at night, and I’m sure I looked insane. Once I got to the house, I pulled out my phone to text Nate about the tragic turn of events. After I gave him the basic details:

  ME: you’d think that someone who knows what it feels like to be excluded wouldn’t turn around and do that to others

  NATE: you know nothing at all about human psychology, do you?

  His little gem of wisdom pissed me off, mainly because I knew he was probably right. I felt so shitty right then. I didn’t want to talk to him anymore, but I needed to talk to someone. I checked the clock. It wasn’t very late, and my parents were a full time zone away. I was sure my dad was still awake reading. I debated for a minute, then pressed the button.

  “What’s the trouble, Bryan?” Dad asked, barely giving me time to say hello.

  “Nothing’s the trouble,” I lied.

  “Just calling to say hello? I don’t believe you.”

  “Geez, why can’t I just be calling to say hello?”

  “I can hear it in your voice.” Stupid parental superpowers. Was I that obvious? Dad and I never really had deep conversations. He expected me to do things a certain way, and mostly I did them. When I messed up, he yelled and that was
about it. I never really thought about it, but maybe all I wanted was to impress him. Maybe that’s even why I didn’t have the guts to go against the crowd, because I didn’t want him to think I was weird. But maybe that’s just making excuses.

  “I’m feeling guilty about something,” I said.

  “Why? Who’s pregnant?” I wasn’t sure if he was trying to be funny, but it made me laugh.

  “What?” I said. “No. Nice assumption, Dad. It’s just that . . . I’m . . . I’m feeling guilty about something that happened a long time ago. I don’t feel like going into it, but I was a jerk once.”

  “Hate to break it to you, kid, but you were a jerk more than once.”

  “Thanks?”

  “I mean—we all are, Son. That’s part of being alive. We’re all just trying the best we can. Guilt is a useless emotion if we let it eat us up. But it’s there for a reason. It’s telling us to do better next time. That’s all we can do. Do better next time.”

  “Thanks, Dad,” I said. Weird thing is, it actually did make me feel a little better. We chatted for a little while longer, about not much of anything. I thanked him again.

  “You’re welcome, Son,” he said. “I still have no idea what we’re talking about and nobody better be pregnant.”

  • • •

  I stood in Tina and Eli’s driveway looking at their house. It was a very quiet suburban neighborhood. I knew they’d think it was pretty weird that I decided to walk/run all the way back, but I was banking on them being cool with it. I opened the door and heard the TV on in the living room. I poked my head in, trying not to scare them.

  “Hey,” I said.

  Uncle Eli and Aunt Tina both jumped up and made the same exact confused face.

  “How the heck did you get back home?” Uncle Eli asked.

  “I decided to walk. Well, run,” I said.

  “Not a great concert then?” Eli said.