Cornered

by Rhoda Belleza

  That’s some crazy shit.

  I see a tiny dot of an island far in the distance. The mandarin scented water smells of Blyss’s hair. She’s close. I slide off my shirt, sneakers, and socks and dive into the peach sea. My cupped hands move through the warm, crystalline water, and I quickly catapult forward. With every stroke, the waters change colors like a revolving kaleidoscope, from peach to turquoise, to translucent with a light grape tinge.

  I spy a raft in the middle of the sea and swim hard toward it.

  “Blyss!?” I yell as loud as I can, desperate for it to be her. She’s sitting on a raft, meringue white skin, black midnight hair cascading down to the middle of her back. I kick relentlessly as my arms move in a windmill motion. My hand smacks against the raft, and Blyss throws her arms around me.

  “You found me!” Her shining blue eyes glow in a way that makes my chest swell.

  “You look beautiful.” My mind is blank. I can’t think of anything but her. Even in the middle of the ocean, she looks svelte and graceful. Her small, sloped-up nose and delicate dimpled chin have always made me forget who and where I am. I scan her limbs and notice one of her hands is massively swollen and rolled up into a colossal fist the size of my head.

  “What happened?”

  She pinches it with her thumb and index finger. “It doesn’t hurt. I might be allergic to something. . . .” I grip her gigantic fist to stay afloat in the middle of the vast sea. Her inflatable raft dips with my weight, and I’m careful not to pull her under. She flops on her belly and our noses touch.

  “You’re my hero, Mik. Now that you’re here, I’m sure we’re meant to be together.” She leans into me and presses her velvety lips against mine. I sink into a warm, melting feeling. She pulls away and points to a green dot in the distance.

  “Let’s swim over there. Doesn’t it look like Paradise? We’ll make it our home, where no one will find us.” I hold on to her enormous fist and kick my feet hard as she lies on the raft. I paddle with one hand to propel us forward and remember the news reports.

  “They think you killed Gus, but you didn’t, though. Did you, Blyss?”

  “Of course not. He threw himself off the pier and everyone wants to blame me. You believe me, don’t you?” I nod. I trust every word she says and keep swimming.

  Blyss and I met Gus at Riverview Academy, a private school for gifted students. He was homeschooled until he got there, and when he entered the school system he skipped two grades. Gus was only twelve, placed in our homeroom with kids older than him. He wore slinky dresses and strutted about in heels. Gus wanted to be referred to as a “she” and addressed as “Alyssa” but Blyss refused. Most of the class joined her in calling him “Gus,” or “Pus.”

  Gus thought it would stop and we’d all get to like him once we understood his sense of humor, but that never happened. Blyss wouldn’t let it. So when we were forced to watch Everyone’s Queer—a play Gus had written, acted in, and directed—I knew Blyss would be upset. She didn’t just tease him like the others. She loathed him.

  Gus played his authentic self: Alyssa, a curvy “girl” with a soft voice, slinky dress, girly shoes, and glittery make-up that made his green eyes seem larger. His straight, naturally blondish hair hung down to his shoulders. The performance opened with Alyssa sitting next to Roly on the sofa—an Afro Cuban boy in conservative attire and buzzed hair—playing her straight stepbrother.

  “Why do you have to be het?” Alyssa crosses one leg over the other and swings it. “How will a decent guy ever want to date you if you’re hanging around those straights?”

  “What’s it to you if I’m into girls?” Roly toys with his tie. “It’s not like I’m killing someone or shooting up.”

  When Alyssa and Roly’s lesbian moms ambled onto the stage holding hands, I realized the play was a parody. “Mami” played a muscular butch in army attire—with boots, a mustache, and a husky voice. “Mima” was portrayed as a mega feminine mom, dressed fancy, draped in pearls and fake fur, like a glamorous Hollywood actress.

  “Roly, when did you choose to become straight?” Mima twirls her long locks with her index finger. “No one is born hetero.”

  “It’s true, baby. You’re just mixed up.” Mami pats her bulging stomach. “You need to date a few handsome, brilliant, interesting guys, and you’ll turn homosexual fast. You hear me?”

  Then Roly’s older brother and his muscle-bound Chinese Cuban boyfriend strolled over wearing matching pink mini shorts without shirts. The audience started to crack up at the exaggeration, and at first, I thought it was funny too. But when I felt Blyss squeeze my thigh and her body tensed up next to mine, I realized I should be furious.

  “He’s so damned disturbed,” Blyss whispered into my ear. “What gives those assholes the privilege to inhabit this earth and spread diseases? People like him should kill themselves.”

  “Yeah,” I agreed. Acid crept up my stomach and into my esophagus. I tried to swallow hard but it wouldn’t go down.

  As we continue on our way to Desert iLand, the day begins to fade but the sun is as relentless as ever. Blyss doesn’t seem to notice though. She throws me a gleaming smile, and I realize she’s a different girl from yesterday; the one sitting next to me during the play is gone. The stress engraved all over her face has dissolved, and she doesn’t seem to notice her arms and back have turned a bright pink. They’ve started to peel and blister, just like my shoulders and top of my head.

  Suddenly light bounces off the water, shooting an illusion of flashing daggers all around us. As we head toward our new home, I make out a dolphin leaping in and out of the water in front of us. He swims to us and nestles up against me. I pet the side of its slippery face.

  “What a gift,” I smile. I jut my nose to Desert iLand and ask, “will you take us there?” The dolphin moves its head, which I interpret for a nod.

  “I don’t trust him,” Blyss squints. “He might pull us in the opposite direction, farther away from the island.”

  As if prompted, the dolphin slips under the water. I try to grab at him, to coax him back, but it resurfaces a few feet away from us, squirting red from its blowhole, staining the ocean with a shining crimson glow. He stares at Desert iLand while standing in the water, swimming backward, giving sideways head jerks with an open jaw and wide eyes.

  I can’t unfasten my gaze from the distressed dolphin emitting a series of loud, high-pitched whistles.

  “He’s telling us those waters are hazardous, Blyss.”

  “I told you. He’s trying to lead us astray.”

  He nose-dives, resurfaces, and squirts a thick glob of red from his blowhole that splatters our bodies with blood. Ugh. I wipe off the viscous substance as I tread water. It seeps across the ocean with a dark red stain and the scent of iron as he leaps away.

  “This is a bad sign.” My throat ties up in knots and I gag. “Listen to me, Blyss. We need to turn around and head home.”

  “Are you nuts?!” She pushes herself forward on the raft and begins to paddle. “The dolphin is just hurt. We’re almost at our paradise.”

  “We’ve got to get out of here, now!” I try to pull the raft around, but she kicks at my arms.

  “We’re heading to the island and that’s that! Can’t you see there’s a perfect world awaiting us? It’s the only place we’ll be safe. We’ll live there together, forever. No one will bother us again, or try to push their views on us. We can do as we please.”

  “If we don’t turn back, we’ll die.”

  “Why? Because a dolphin says so? Don’t be spineless. We’re wasting time.”

  I grab my phone from my pocket and press a few digits with shaky fingers but realize it’s water-damaged. Don’t Panic. Keep your cool. Damn. I’ll never be able to call for help from the middle of nowhere.

  The wind picks up and waves start to twirl and swirl around us at incredible speeds. Strong currents slam against me. A fierce wave breaks, pushing me deep underwater, holding me here. I spin around and can’
t tell which way is up.

  I kick hard and finally hit the surface, gasping for air. Blyss is far away hollering for me, but I can barely catch my breath. Another wave crashes against me. I swallow water and cough. Shortness of breath turns into loud wheezes.

  “You better not drown on me!” Blyss shouts as she makes her way closer. I gulp air but nothing seems to be filling my lungs. I wheeze and wheeze. Finally she reaches me and slips her arms around my neck. “Breathe slowly, deeply. The weather has calmed. You’re going to be okay. . . .”

  Her voice turns whisper-soft. The melody seeps into me, and I do as she says.

  “If you drowned, I’d be left alone.” She caresses my hair. “Let’s think about the beautiful life we’re about to have. We’ll fish and feed each other berries and fruits. We’ll drink rain and coconut water. We can survive perfectly happy, alone, just the two of us.”

  She presses her mouth against my closed eyes. The warmth of her breath runs slowly from my eyelids, down my entire body to my toes. She kisses my lips, and my mind is emptied of everything except Blyss’s sweet taste.

  Until I see flashes of Gus’s contorted face.

  I’ve got a dark feeling creeping inside me like a silent, deadly surf, rising and falling, bringing with it condemnation. I’m catapulted into reality. My voice is strong. “That island is much farther than it looks. We’d dehydrate and wouldn’t survive without liquid in this heat.” I let go of the raft and wave my hand toward the apex behind us. “Come on! In an hour we’ll be back safe on shore.”

  Blyss slaps the water. “Stop pissing me off and let’s go!”

  “You don’t want to be fresh bait for sharks, do you?” I keep a careful eye on the rapidly growing waves. The water begins to get colder. A shiver works up my spine.

  She presses onward. “I would have never dated you if I’d known you were such a weakling.” She pulls the raft in one direction while I pull in the other.

  “Don’t you ever want to see your family again? How about all your friends and Trigger, your dog?”

  “Let go you stupid fucking son-of-a-bitch! You coward! I wish Knight were here instead of you.” Veins pop out of her forehead as she thrashes about. “He’s stronger and would have pulled me with him on his back all the way to the island.”

  “Calm down, Blyss. Please. Please. You’re losing energy. We need to stay tranquil.”

  “Tranquil? Here’s tranquil.” She cocks her large fist and starts pounding the ocean. Waves hammer against my face, making me spit out water. “I wish I had never met you, Wimp!” My eyes leap with surprise at the power in Blyss’s punches and I let go of the raft. I stop a memory of Gus from flooding my brain. If she’d jabbed him with her inflamed fist, she’d have massacred him.

  She stops and catapults all the power in her arms to help her paddle forward toward the island. I grab her foot but can’t keep her from speeding ahead.

  “Don’t you get it?” she says without looking back. “I won’t rot in juvie or get thrown in jail for a crime I didn’t commit. That asshole’s death isn’t my fault.” The clouds take on a dark, eerie hue as the sun sinks in front of us and the water becomes black as onyx.

  “We won’t make it out of here alive. We need food, supplies, and shelter. . . .” I start swimming in the other direction and momentarily look back. “Follow me!”

  “No! Don’t leave.” She spins around on the raft and hurriedly gets to me. She holds on to my neck and won’t let go. “I’m sorry for everything I said. I didn’t mean it. . . .”

  “I know,” I try to assure her. “Let’s go. Grab on and I’ll swim you back to shore.”

  “I can’t.”

  I slide out from under her grip and plunge into the sea, promising myself I’ll come back for her. I swim as if a killer whale is chasing me, for what feels like hours until I hit a large rock. I haul myself up, gulping huge gasps of air as I look around. Damn. That girl has guts. I can’t believe she stayed, alone. It’s pitch black by now. I must be where I first started. I get up and move carefully, one foot in front of the other, making my way downhill. My eyes throb with so much pain. I reach up to rub them but my fingers penetrate the empty sockets. I shudder. My eyes have fallen out of my head.

  This can’t be. You’re dreaming.

  Carefully, I walk downhill without animals hooting, clawing, or hissing. I must be taking a different way out. I stumble upon a pliable surface. It feels like the taut canvas I came through. I step into it, listen to the material tearing and feel the cold ground under my feet. I hear city noises: barking dogs, car horns, and airplanes overhead. Truck exhaust, cigarette smoke, and perfume fill my nostrils. I’m definitely back in Miami.

  Voices come at me from all directions, “Whoa, boy, watch where you’re headed!” I shiver and hug myself. I’m back in frigid February temperatures and I’m fully dressed; I’ve got on my jacket, shirt, shoes, and socks. I’m not soaking wet like I was seconds ago. How can this be?

  My hands feel frigid, unmovable. I’m sure they’re turning purple. I blow warm breaths into them and clap them, but nothing helps the cold seeping my bones. I walk carefully, slowly, with trembling arms stretched forward so as not to stumble or crash into anything or anyone. A veil of hopelessness drapes over me. I no longer belong to the human race. I’ve lost myself, my girl, my eyes. The police are searching for me. My poor family is probably desperate to find me, and someone I know has died.

  With every step I take, my head becomes crowded with flashes of Gus’s play: Alyssa left the earlier scene and reappears as a totally different character: a drag queen named Papayúa, which according to our Cuban friends, translates to “immense vagina.” It’s something like having guts—except you know, huge balls—and it’s supposed to be hilarious, but Blyss didn’t find the humor in it, and so I didn’t either.

  When Papayúa batted long pink lashes, Blyss whispered to me, “The clickety-clacking of that sicko’s stiletto heels makes me want to puke.”

  The crowd started getting rowdy. Some hooted and hollered while others tried to shush them. Mrs. Carrillo settled the hecklers by yelling, “Stop or you’re all getting afterschool detention!” It prompted everyone to shut up. Everybody except Blyss. She cupped her hands around her mouth and blasted, “Shut it down!”

  Mrs. Carrillo stormed up to us and reminded Blyss in a brutal whisper, “If you start up again, you won’t pass English, and I’ll need to see your parents.” She spun around and walked back to the front of the audience. Blyss threw the finger at her back, which made me chuckle.

  “This is America,” Blyss said as she shut her eyes. “I won’t be forced to watch this piece of shit. If everyone can state their opinions, I should have the same freedom to express mine.”

  I agreed but had to keep my focus on the play. I didn’t want to fail after how hard I’d worked all year to maintain As and Bs. Our parents took out loans and worked overtime to place us in such an expensive academy. I wouldn’t think of flunking and doing Mom and Dad wrong.

  Papayúa stormed into the stage wearing a tall orange wig, blowing wispy purple bangs out of her face, snapping fingers and saying things Blyss found morbidly distasteful, like, “Roly, if you’ve never dated another boy, how do you know you’re straight?”

  Roly turned on the TV to get away from listening to Papayúa, but the station was interrupted by an emergency news broadcast: “Don’t let your daughters and sons befriend heterosexual counselors, teachers, or priests. Remember, child molesters and rapists in jail are ninety-nine percent heterosexuals. Sixty-five percent of heterosexuals are divorced. Ever since we granted straight people the right to marry and equal rights in some states, their divorce rate has been extremely high. . . .”

  A handful of people in the audience belted out laughs. I could tell by the way Blyss grabbed my knee and squeezed it hard she was still furious. Instinctively, I cracked my knuckles, flexing with pent up anger that my girl could be so upset.

  After the play, between periods, Blyss follow
ed Gus. I trailed after her. “Pussy Boy thinks he’s a glam girl, eh?” She kept teasing him. “Listen up, people. Gus has a tiny, squirmy little worm, not an orchid. I made him show me.”

  Peals of laughter filled the halls. Gus kept walking and called over his shoulder, “Please stop.” That only made Blyss sing louder, “Fake Pussy Boy’s feelings are hurt. Boo, hoo, hoo.”

  Blyss and I chased Gus home after the play. I didn’t want to pursue him but needed to be with Blyss. We ran through an alley to cut Gus off, and Blyss stuck her foot out to knock him down. He fell face first and stayed put, probably hoping we’d leave if he didn’t move a muscle. He seemed so helpless and pathetic I wasn’t motivated to laugh along with Blyss, but I did. She pulled him over on his back and kept at it, with a singsong voice, “Gussy will never be a real girl like me / Wussy Gussy has no pussy. . . .”

  Gus’s eyes gathered tears. He begged, “Please quit. You’ve been at it every day, all year. . . .” His pleading inspired Blyss to continue singing even crueler things to him. When he wouldn’t get up or stop sobbing, Blyss asked me to help carry him—which I did. I wanted to prove I was stronger than Knight, that guy who was into her, and she could count on me for anything.

  I grasped his legs. She held on hard to his arms. We swung him back and forth, back and forth, until we gathered enough momentum to throw him in a Dumpster. He landed with a loud bruunk. The kid didn’t even put up a fight. He was weaker and frailer than I had originally thought.

  Blyss kicked the Dumpster and we began to walk away, back home I thought, until she pulled me to the side. We ducked in silence behind a cherry bush farther down, watching Gus climb out of the trash on his own. When he passed us, he was filthy, smelling of sewer, with rotted globs of slimy food clinging to his hair and dress. We trailed him. He sniffled as he wobbled home, wiping gunk that dripped down his body.