by Kim Zarins
Cece throws herself down on her seat with a thump.
Meanwhile, Cookie blinks like a baby animal new to daylight while everyone waits for his story.
COOKIE’S TALE
“What?” he asks. “What did I do?”
Lupe twists in her seat. “It’s your turn, doofus!”
Cookie blinks in sweet, clueless surprise. “A story? My own?”
“Your very own widdle story,” Bryce answers.
Cookie nods. He rests his head on my shoulder, and I try to lean away, but the more I lean, the more he falls on me.
“Come on!” Saga swats him on the head, and his hat falls off, waking him up.
“O-kay,” he says slowly.
I like water.
He pauses, just for a moment.
Water in a Dixie cup is nice, but I mean on a lake. Still water is still water. When you’re lying on a boat and you hear the slap of water on the hull. Slap . . . slap . . . slap. So chill. Usually, when you hear the slap . . . slap, you see the sunbeams reflected on the water and your boat and wherever. It’s like the sun-slap, you know? But with light, not water.
Rooster angles to see around Bryce. “Yo, is there a point here?”
“It’s poetry, man,” Cookie says.
“Well, can you add some sex?”
Cookie nods like he’s nodding off. He uses my shoulder to prop his head up. He closes his eyes and murmurs all his musings on sex right into my ear. He’s like the little mouse in the classic Alice in Wonderland movie. The one that gets jam on his nose and feels all right with the world. For Cookie, it’s a joint, not jam, and the smell is so strong that I look to my feet, where the backpack and my inhaler should be, only I left all that with Pard. I’m okay. It takes a while to ramp up, but the tightness is there inside my ribs as Cookie cuddles up to me and gets poetic on sex.
Sex is nice. Really nice. And slow. Skin on skin is like the slap . . . slap of the water on the boat and of the sun on the boat. Wet and light.
I mean a sailboat. Not a powerboat. Because there’s also the wind-slap. Sails like desires shudder in the wind.
Blinking is the best part of sex. I like how women blink. And bracelets.
Once, when I was hiking, I swear to God, I found a whole field of plants. You know, special plants. I got into them and rolled around. It was so nice. I cried and it was fine, because the plants were swaying and upright and warm in the sun. I just want to sniff the world.
Cookie seems to be done, though it’s hard to say.
Kai laughs. “This is one baked story.”
“That—that was not a story,” Reeve says, nostrils flaring. “It was insanity. We have just listened to insanity.”
“Slap . . . sss . . .” Cookie sighs dreamily. If he’s hurt that everyone on the bus hates his story, he doesn’t show it. He nuzzles me, which is pretty freaky after his sex talk. His breaths get deeper as mine get shallower. My chest feels tighter now. Itchy. I’d sneak in a puff if I could, even with Cookie and Saga right there.
Cece cuts in. “At least it wasn’t offensive like all your stories.”
Kai’s eyes pop open. “Not my story.”
“Emily should never have been forced to marry a zombie. If you can’t even see that, what’s the point in talking to you?”
Mr. Bailey calls out, “Let’s calm down. You can disagree, but you can’t fight.”
Cece raises her voice. “Women are worth fighting for.”
“Let’s get back to smoking pot, since we can all agree on that,” Rooster says. “How about it, Cookie?”
I jostle him. My cheek brushes against his hat, and a mop of fine black curls spills out.
Mr. Bailey can’t help but smile. “I thought my classes bored him, but even here he sleeps. Amazing.”
Bryce bats his eyelashes. “Aw, would you look at dat? Widdle Cookie take a nap-nap on widdle Jeffie pal.”
Everyone turns to look at the snugglefest.
Pard’s eyes pop, and a manic smile lights up his face.
The girls all coo over Cookie and me. Briony whips out her phone, then Reiko and Lupe.
I can’t win.
I don’t smile, and the girls chide me for this. It ruins the pictures, they say. I don’t reply—waste of air—but my glum face makes it look intentional. Asthmatics are good hiders, and no one notices my shallow breathing or how quiet I am. My tight lungs are sending me a clear message: Back off from Pot Boy. It doesn’t help that chain-smoking Saga is thigh to thigh with me, which sounds great—which is great—except the combo of ashtray and pot is poison. I should change seats.
Saga pecks me on the cheek and says, “You’re like a daddy.”
And I can’t get up right after she says a nice thing like that.
That’s when I see Pard drawing me. I can tell a mile away by the intensity on his face, the way he can look at my eyes without making real eye contact, which makes me feel painfully visible and unseen at the same time.
“Don’t.” The furious word comes out of my big mouth all tiny, but he stops. He keeps looking, though, memorizing me before the pose is gone. I should ask him to pass me my backpack, but I’m too angry. Also, it would take too much air and draw too much attention.
Alison seems to notice his sketchbook for the first time. “Wow. Like, wow.”
Pard frowns. His sketchbook is a private thing. She takes the book and flips a page. Then she flips out.
“Oh my God! Rooster! He drew you naked!”
Everyone looks shocked, except Cookie, of course, and Mr. Bailey, who’s facing forward with his head down, like he’s sneaking in a bit of phone time.
“The fuck?” Rooster is out of his chair, fast, and the next moment, Pard’s like a squirrel dangling from a bear’s paw. Arms over his head, Pard clutches the book as long as he can before Rooster yanks it away.
Mr. Bailey turns around, all teacher-serious. “What’s going on back there?”
“Nothing, Mr. Bailey,” Alison says, all innocence. “Just looking at some art.”
“Pard drew an image of Rooster sans clothing,” Reeve reports.
“Pard,” Mr. Bailey says, “that’s inappropriate.”
“Why is that inappropriate?” Cece demands. “Thank God someone here is finally objectifying men instead of women.” And she launches into another rant at Mr. Bailey about inappropriate stories and behavior.
Meanwhile, Rooster’s mouth hangs open at the picture in his lap. A dozen heads angle to see, but he slaps the book to his chest. “You don’t like living, do you?”
Pard looks like a terrified tiny person trying to appear brave.
Rooster takes the book in both hands and rips it an inch down the middle. Alison snaps, “Don’t, Roo! Don’t do that. Roo . . .”
Rooster is caught between wanting Pard to die and wanting to please Alison. He breathes hard through his nostrils like a bull seeing red, and it’s not from the exertion of ripping the book. It’s from the exertion of not ripping the book.
“Roo . . . give it back,” Alison says, her hand extended.
There’s a whisper of ripping paper as Rooster tears out a leaf from Pard’s book and stuffs it in his pocket. That must not have satisfied him, because the spine of the sketchbook twists under Rooster’s banana-thick fingers. He’s going to wring out the sketchbook like a dishrag.
Alison touches his forearm. “Roo . . . the book . . .”
More deep animal breathing. I envy the scale of his lung capacity. You could film him to make air-porn for asthmatics.
Rooster leans into Pard’s space. “Never draw me again. And apologize for the anatomical errors.”
“What errors?” Pard sees the dangerous look on Rooster’s face and changes his strategy. “Oh. Those errors. Sorry. It’s easier to draw naked people when they’re actually naked.”
People look unsure whether he’s just saying that or has experience, but Alison’s intrigued. “You draw naked people?”
Pard shrugs, all sophisticated. “Of course.”<
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Rooster flips through the book, looking for naked people. “Here’s one!” I feel a stab of non-asthmatic panic. What if Rooster finds me in there naked? Pard’s stealth-sketched me during PE lots of times, just to annoy me, and I’ve wondered if he sometimes draws me when I have no idea he’s doing it.
When Rooster adds, “Eh, these naked people are just a bunch of geezers,” I can breathe a little again (who am I kidding?—I am pretending to breathe). I feel a whoosh of relief, but also . . . what? Kind of let down? Like it was odd Pard didn’t have me in there, like I’m thinking Rooster made a mistake. At the very least I must be in there clothed. I mean, it would be odd if I weren’t there at all.
Rooster pokes one of the pages. “Check out this old woman with saggy breasts. Gross! I bet you love drawing naked people, you perv.”
Pard’s voice is thin and savage. “I do. I love drawing the human form, and old people are gorgeous: their wrinkles, their spotted hands, the way their bodies still hold on to their sex. Drawing is the sexiest thing a person can ever do.”
His words have a strange effect. Some girls nod their approval, but the guys aren’t derailed so easily from the topic of lust and naked people.
“You sound way too excited about old ladies,” Bryce says.
Rooster cuts in. “The big question is, do you draw yourself naked?”
Pard flinches. It’s barely anything, but for him, it’s huge.
“No.”
“Why not?” Bryce asks.
Pard doesn’t say why, just holds out his hand. “Give me my book.”
Rooster persists. “Cock not long enough?”
Mr. Bailey cuts in. “Rooster, I heard that. Give him his book.”
“Maybe draw yourself some balls,” Rooster quietly adds, like he’s giving an art tip, while handing back the book.
Mr. Bailey cuts in. “Okay, that’s enough, gentlemen.”
“Gentlemen,” Pard mutters. “Right.”
CECE’S TALE
“Anyhow, we’ve wandered off topic,” Mr. Bailey says. “Cookie’s story has ended prematurely, so let’s move on. Our next name is Marcus—”
“Objection!”
Cece waves her arm in the air. She’s shed her jacket, probably having heated herself all up earlier.
Saga lets out a surprised hiss, and then I notice she’s not disgusted by Cece’s dumpy sleeveless dress, but by her armpit hair in plain sight. It’s like Cece wants everyone to have a good look.
People whisper. I don’t know how Parson can sit next to Cece’s armpit and wait attentively, as if he wants to know what she’s objecting to. Maybe being this ultra youth group leader fanatic has made him see Christ his Savior in everyone, regardless of shaving habits. Meanwhile, my Jedi mind powers focus on lowering Cece’s arm, but my asthma is ruining my concentration.
Sad but true Southwark fact: Cece is about as unpopular as you can get. She doesn’t use chemicals, so she won’t use deodorant on those unshaved pits. If anyone male opens a door for her, she won’t walk through it. If she catches guys debating who the hottest girls are, she barges over and lectures them. Someone asked Cece who her date was for prom, and she said she didn’t have a date. “So you’re going stag.” And she said no, she was going doe.
Everyone braces for a speech.
“This name-drawing thing is a joke,” she says. “We’ve had four men in a row. And now you want five? Let’s have some women speaking here. Enough with mansplaining. It’s our turn. Four women in a row to even the balance.”
Rooster wrinkles his nose. “Mansplaining,” he grumbles. “Anytime a guy opens his mouth, it’s automatically that. Anyhow, we’re all getting a turn, so what difference does it make who goes when?”
Lupe looks from Cece to Rooster like she’s trying to make up her mind, and then, with her lips puckering like she’s reluctant about it, she joins Cece’s side. “No, she’s right. It makes a difference. What if all the women go last when everyone’s sick of listening? Then what? Drawing from the hat was supposed to keep it mixed, but it’s not so mixed now.”
Mr. Bailey taps a pen to his chin. “Let’s vote. But I’d like Marcus to get thrown in there somewhere. How about two women, then Marcus, then another two women? After that, we’ll try it randomly again. Keep in mind we have more men on this bus.”
Cece nods. “I know that, but if women can tell stories now, maybe the men will be less offensive when it’s their turn.”
“Okay. All in favor, raise your hand.”
Everyone raises their hands except Cookie, of course. And Mace.
“All opposed?”
No one raises their hands.
“Mace, are you abstaining?”
Mace shrugs the bare minimum. “Sure,” he says, surly and deep. He’s still alone in his original seat. No bed swapping for him.
I get a chill from the way he just doesn’t care about anything. It’s not just today. He and Pard have stopped eating lunch together after three and a half years. Pard’s with the theater kids now, and Mace goes somewhere else. Alone, or with guys as mean-looking as he is. I don’t know if he and Pard were real friends or just lunch buddies, if they had a fight or just drifted, but it’s weird to see them sitting in the same row but ignoring each other. Friend-breakups can be the worst.
My shallow breath trick is failing. Cookie must go. I arrange his head and shoulder against the wall (no window in the back row), and he mumbles “chicken wire” and sleeps right through it. The attack is still threatening to come, though, and a flutter of panic tugs right where I’m tight. Got to stay calm. With Cookie off me, the light-headed thing will pass. I hope. Saga brushes me with her calf as she crosses her legs and rolls her eyes at me as Cece begins.
Society is way too fixated on defining women through men. I mean, look at the word “woman.” It has the word “man” right in it. Tips you off that there’s a serious problem here. We start out as girls, separate from boys, and as a group, we’re all kids. Later, we buy into pleasing men and become wo-men. If we don’t have a boyfriend and guys don’t think we’re hot, we feel like lesser beings.
That is such bullshit.
I’m so sick of movies that only have a woman there for making out and taking off her shirt. And I don’t buy into giving a woman a gun and calling her badass. Notice she’s also a piece of ass, every time.
Reeve’s story that you just heard? Sick. That woman Briana was raped. That college guy Bert took a down-and-out woman and raped her, and then tootled away in his soggy Subaru. And Allie could be doing better things than waiting for boys to come down the highway. Rooster’s tale is trickier. On the one hand, I’m glad Alison gets out from under the husband’s thumb. But notice she doesn’t just dump him. Her only options are choosing among three men. Do you see how wrong all this is?
But Kai’s story is possibly the worst. What if Emily skipped being bait for Palam and Arc and became a scientist? She could have cured a disease. She could have figured out the whole zombie apocalypse thing and fixed it. But, no, she’s a supporting character, meaning she needs to support the weight of some zombie-lover on top of her.
“What’s wrong with a little love?” Rooster demands.
“The problem is that women are defined by it. They can’t have their own lives.”
I don’t hear anything after that. The lungs have officially been crushed by boulders. My shallow wheezes ramp up into something else altogether. The itch is something I want to claw into, to get the air that way.
I’m not screwing around anymore. Not with this prickle of sweat warning me it’s here, it’s coming right now.
I rise and push past Saga, ignore her questions. I walk like an old man with my hands heavy on the backs of the seats, and the effort makes my head swim. People ask what’s going on, but I can’t answer.
I get to the row with my backpack and crash next to Mace. There are stars in the air, or maybe my crashing next to him has disturbed his eyebrow dandruff flakes. I shut my eyes and expect him to p
unch me in the gut, which would probably kill me for real.
Meanwhile, a girl screams my name. No, it’s Pard. He’s shouting for help and barking at Mace to just do it.
The next moment, the freakiest guy on the bus awkwardly pats my shoulder, then runs his hands along my back. Back rubs calm me down—Mom does this for me—but a rubdown from Mace is weird. But who the fuck cares? I’m wheezing and scratching my chest and can’t. Get. Air.
People are calling and shouting, but my ears home in on the inhaler getting shaken. I turn toward the sound like a flower turns to the sun.
“I’ll take that.” Mr. Bailey’s voice sounds close. “Jeff, I have your inhaler.”
And, suddenly, it’s in my mouth, and I take a puff, that nasty tang I’ve wanted so hard, and hold it hold it hold it. Then I finally let it all go, and the bad air comes out and out, and it’s like the claws gripping me have loosened and let me live. And then I suck in all the sweet air on this whole bus.
“Was that enough? Do you need another?”
Eyes still closed, I hold out four fingers for him to wait that many minutes and let my body process. I have those ups and downs—that wobbly hyper feeling pulling me up, that nausea pulling me down. The shakes as I process this roller coaster. Albuterol kicks my ass.
But when Pard says my four minutes are up, I tip my chin up like a baby bird, and we do it all over again, because albuterol kicks asthma’s ass.
So much air now, huge gulps of it. I focus on my lungs and on the gentle hands that haven’t stopped rubbing my back and try to ignore the side effects.
“More?” Mr. Bailey asks. I shake my head no.
I finally I open my eyes. Holding the inhaler, Mr. Bailey fills the aisle and takes the edge of Pard’s seat. Pard, meanwhile, is next to him in the aisle, down on one knee like he’s about to propose. They both are quiet and freaked. Everyone is.
