Bullies like Me

by Lindy Zart

  I would say that I love Alexis Hennessy. I would say that, if I was allowed.

  THROUGH THE FOG OF MY brain, I feel her shaking, and the tiny bumps on her flesh. My wet clothes have iced her skin and dampened her pajamas. I tear my mouth from hers, and drop my hands, taking a moment to get my breathing and body under control. I want to strip her clothes from her body, and feel her around me—and that is the last thing I should do.

  “You’re freezing,” I say stupidly.

  “So are you.” Alexis unlocks her arms from around my neck, putting space between us as she shows me her back. “I probably have some bigger clothes that will fit you, if you want me to put yours in the dry—”

  Her words drop to oblivion, like they found an unknown cliff and took a dive. I kick off my sodden shoes and cross the room to her. “Alexis? Is something wrong?”

  She stares at the wall near the doorway to the hallway, still as stone. It doesn’t even look like she breathes. I follow her gaze, seeing the chalkboard, reading words I don’t understand.

  How could you leave without telling Lexie goodbye?

  That is what’s written in yellow chalk on the black board. The handwriting is bold, straight, all capital letters. I look from it to her, and I touch her arm. She jumps, takes a shuddering inhalation of air, and slowly looks at me. Tears hang from her eyelashes. Alexis looks shattered. She looks like I haven’t seen her look in a long time.

  “What does it mean?” I ask quietly, brushing a tear from her cheek as it falls.

  She shakes her head. “I can’t—I can’t talk about it right now.”

  “Okay.” My eyes drill into hers. Why can’t she tell me? Why can’t you tell her? “But when you’re ready, I’ll be waiting.”

  Wiping at her face, she hides the brokenness like it was never a part of her. “You better be.” She focuses on me. Her eyes twinkle with mischief. “Take off your clothes.”

  My body twitches. “What?”

  Alexis smiles. “There’s a bathroom around the corner in the hallway. You can get undressed in there. I’ll bring down some clothes I think will fit.”

  I somehow tangle one leg with the other as I stumble for the bathroom in a supremely suave way. Looking at Alexis instead of where I’m going, I thump the side of my head against the doorframe. She’s oblivious, which is good for me. I pause by the door. Alexis lingers in the kitchen, her eyes back on the chalkboard. The sadness, and something else, has taken residence on her face once more.

  I slowly close the door on her solitary sorrow.

  Inside the cream room with the pink and yellow fish shower curtain and bathroom accessories, I peel off my wet clothes, leaving on my boxers. The washer and dryer are near the door. Hesitating briefly, I open the dryer door, shove them inside, and turn it on. When minutes go by, and there is no word from Alexis, I open the door, and there she stands. Her hair is tamer than when I first got here, and she’s dressed in jeans and a yellow shirt. With clothes in her arms as she heads toward me, she pulls up abruptly when her brain realizes what her eyes are seeing.

  I give a weak wave.

  “You’re naked,” she blurts.

  “I’m not—” The clothes are thrown at me, landing on my head. I yank them down. “You told me—”

  “Put those on. Now.” She won’t look at me.

  Frowning, I observe her creamy skin as it turns a startling shade of red. I used to lift weights, and was active with sports. It gave me a physical form I took for granted. When I look in the mirror, I don’t see the muscles and definition I used to have, even if some of that remains. Alexis appears to see it, and like it.

  “Why?” I ask faintly, my voice or words pulling her eyes to me.

  “W-what?”

  “Afraid you won’t be able to keep your hands to yourself?”

  I wink, and it’s like I’m back there, in that other dimension, being that other guy. I can argue that that other guy is me, and I’m probably right, but he’s dangerous. I try to keep him concealed. Bad things happened when he was out.

  But Alexis shakes her head, and I exhale with relief. She’s not interested in him. She wants me, the real me. The guy who doesn’t play games. “Get dressed. We can attempt to make some food. I’m hungry, and you’re a guy, so it’s pretty much a given you’re hungry too.”

  I lift an eyebrow. “Attempt to make food?”

  She pushes against my arm, turning me around, and then closes the door once I’m inside the bathroom.

  “We eat out a lot, or I make easy stuff where you just put the food in the microwave or oven. I can’t bake—or cook,” Alexis explains through the wood of the door.

  “That makes two of us.” I look at the gray tee shirt and jogging pants.

  “I can boil water,” she says cheerfully.

  “This should be interesting,” I mumble, thinking of the too-small clothes I’m about to attempt to put on, and not about our future cooking endeavor.

  Alexis laughs when I come out. It makes her face light up. She stands near the stove, using a turner to stir something in a pan. It smells like burnt butter. “Do you like pancakes? I have a boxed mix. I figured it can’t be too hard, right? Just add water.”

  I tug at the constricting clothes and walk to her. The tee shirt is skin tight, and the jogging pants are too short, ending inches above my ankles. I turn my gaze to the stove. Inside the pan is some kind of white powdery substance with pools of water intermeshing with butter surrounding it. “You’re supposed to mix it before you put it in the pan.”

  “Oh! Shit.”

  My lips tug upward as our eyes meet. Curiosity has me asking, “What were you thinking?”

  “I don’t know.” She shrugs. “Just dump and go, I guess. I should have known it wouldn’t be that easy.”

  The smile grows when I note the smear of pancake batter on her forehead. “I know how to make somewhat edible scrambled eggs. Do you like those?”

  “Yeah,” Alexis says with a sigh, grabbing the handle of the pan and dumping its contents in the wastebasket. “But I like pancakes better.”

  I make us eggs, neither of us commenting on the crispy, brown edges, and we eat.

  “Where is your dad today?”

  Alexis pauses with her fork mid-raised, her eyes darting to the words on the wall.

  Knowing she might close the topic before it really begins, I plow ahead. “He wasn’t around last Saturday either. Is he usually gone on weekends?”

  She lowers her fork, the food on it untouched. “He’s gone as often as possible.”

  I set down my own fork. “Because of work?”

  “Because of me.” Alexis blinks, looking uncertain of her words.

  Not knowing what to say to that, I say nothing. I wait, examining her lips as they tremble. I know Alexis is gathering words. Whether she speaks them or not, I can’t say.

  When it’s apparent she won’t say more, I lean forward and whisper, “Tell me something wonderful.”

  She turns to me, absently wiping at the pancake mix on her forehead. With her pursed lips, it gives her a quizzical look. Her eyes move over my features, landing on my eyes and staying there. She takes a deep breath, and says just as quietly as I did, “I like looking at your eyes. They make me think of the ocean, deep and never-ending. Full of undiscovered wonders.”

  And hidden passages that hide monsters.

  I swallow thickly. “Tell me something wonderful about you.”

  Alexis answers promptly, as if the words were waiting to be said. “I am grateful to be alive.”

  I straighten, my back pressing to the chair. I open my mouth to ask what she means. Careful, a voice inside tells me.

  Alexis pushes her plate to the side. She closes her eyes. “I tried to kill myself.” Her eyes fly open like she doesn’t understand how those words came from her mouth.

  My throat tightens, darkness hovering on the edges of my vision.

  “That’s why I was sent to Live.”

  Her voice is faint, like she�
�s cried so many tears that it altered her vocal chords. I swallow, and it burns. The eggs feel like rot in my stomach. The scent of them makes me nauseous. Words. Stupid, senseless words. That’s all I have. I choke them down, knowing the futility of voicing them. Alexis doesn’t need to hear what I have to say; she needs me to listen to what she has to say.

  “I, um, my dad and I…because of his job, we moved here last August. I’d only been to one school since I was four, and then my junior year, I was in a new one.” Her knee bounces, knocking into mine. I let it. Alexis’ hands are splayed on the tabletop, her gaze riveted to them.

  “The kids—” she breaks off.

  I close my eyes. Dread cascades down my spine.

  “I got picked on. A lot. Every day. I wasn’t used to it. I didn’t know how to respond.”

  My nails dig into my thighs. I don’t want to hear this. I don’t want to know. Not this story, not this kind. No. At the same time, I feel I owe it to her to listen. I do, in quiet pain. My own pain. Her pain. And the boy from my dreams. His pain is here too.

  “I was hurt by the way I was treated. I felt…hopeless.”

  She stops talking, and I finally look at her. I force myself to observe the memory of her tragedy. Alexis stares back, her eyes large and turbulent, her nostrils slightly flared. Her eyes go unfocused as she inhales. She sounds scratchy when she next talks.

  “I remember trying to talk to my dad about it. He told me to make more of an effort, to not let it get to me. He made it seem like I was exaggerating, and worse yet, that their cruelty was my fault.”

  Her dad is a jerk.

  “I lost weight.” She picks at her shirt. “I looked horrible, like I was sick, and a lot of the time, I did feel sick. My nerves were a mess. I stayed home from school as much as I could, but my dad only let that go on for so long.”

  Breathing seems irrelevant at this point. Shallowly, hardly, barely, just enough to survive, I breathe.

  “One night, I went into his bedroom. It was late. I was crying. I told him—I told him I wanted to die.” Alexis smiles, and it guts me. That’s the kind of smile I never want to see on her lips. It’s full of grief. “He told me that I didn’t mean that, and to go back to bed.”

  A single tear makes its way down her face. I feel like crying myself.

  “The next day, after he left for work, I grabbed scissors and cut off my hair. I stared at myself in the mirror. I didn’t know who I was looking at, but she wasn’t me. She was someone I didn’t like, and I wanted her gone. I wanted it all over. I couldn’t stand feeling like I did, not for one more day. I took a bunch of the painkillers my dad has for back problems.

  “The pills were large and white and hurt my throat. I took them until I couldn’t take any more. The room…the room started to turn gray, to fade, and I couldn’t hear right. Everything was distorted. I was dizzy. I became scared.

  “I called my dad, told him what I did, and an ambulance came. I was taken to the hospital. I had a tube with charcoal shoved down my throat to make me vomit the pills I took.”

  She curls her fingers, and hides her hands beneath the table. “Since the day I almost died, I’ve wanted nothing more than to live. I’m lucky I got a second chance.” Alexis gives me a sidelong look, gauging my reaction to her confession. “You know the rest. Enough of it anyway.”

  I try to catch my breath, to appear normal. I almost laugh. Normal isn’t close to what I am these days. My head pounds, and it tastes like the fire burning my throat turned to ash in my mouth. The story she told me could have been from any terrorized kid, but it wasn’t. It was from her. From Alexis. She was bullied. I drop my head, digging the heels of my hands into my eyes. Needing the sting, deserving it.

  My voice is rough when I finally speak. “How did it get to that point? To the point of giving up?”

  I’m asking for selfish reasons. What was the final act that tipped her over the edge? Maybe if I understand her, I can understand my own demons.

  “I forgot who I was, Nick.”

  Such a simple, unhelpful response. I’ve never known who I am, but there are times, generally when I’m with Alexis, that I think I know. I know who I want to be, if that counts for anything.

  “I still don’t feel like I know. I’ve changed. I’m different.” Her eyes capture mine as I look up. “I feel split in two. Divided. There is who I am when I’m with you, and who I am when I’m not.”

  “Which one do you like better?”

  Alexis drops her eyes quickly, and still, not fast enough. I saw the ache pulsing in the blue depths. The glimpse of something deadly beneath that, like the foreseen annihilation of hope. It makes my insides cold. She’s told me part of it, but she hasn’t told me it all. I sense that. I know that. I would do the same, if I had something to hide. And I do.

  “I just want to live in a world where there is no one but you, and me,” she whispers with a catch in her voice.

  I reach across the table, needing to touch her. But she’s out of range, and it’s just as well. My fingers move through air, and I let them fall to my side. My words feel like lies, no matter how true I want them to be. I am a fraud. Still, I say them anyway.

  “Doesn’t it feel like that when we’re together?”

  I want this to be real. I want this to be me.

  Her eyes fly to mine, surprise and hope shining in them. Turning them from blue to every shade of loveliness. Making it seem like I can have happiness. My own. Ours. Not borrowed. Not something I have to give back, or that can be taken away.

  Lies. It’s all hopeful, naïve lies.

  “Yes,” she breathes. “It does.”

  I think maybe Alexis lies too, and worse than that, I think she lies to herself.

  Thirteen

  Alexis

  FOR SUPPER SATURDAY NIGHT, DAD brings home fried chicken and mashed potatoes from the grocery store deli. We eat in silence, my eyes finding the question on the wall again and again. He asked that for me. And yet, he says nothing while in my presence. When I look at him, his eyes are down, his attention solely on the food before him, and it’s hard to imagine that he cared enough to write that on the chalkboard. He doesn’t seem to remember writing it, or now even see it.

  In person, he is forever indifferent.

  But, what if, underneath it all, he mourns as much as I do?

  “How are things going at the factory?” I ask to fill the uncomfortable quiet.

  A grunt is his reply.

  I try again. “Will you be home tomorrow?”

  He nods.

  “Nick came over today.” I pop a forkful of mashed potatoes in my mouth as I wait for him to respond. I add more pepper from the shaker on the table, and take another bite. I’m not telling him to cause conflict. If anything, I want to talk to him about something, someone, who is important to me. He’s my dad; this should matter to him. Some reaction would be nice.

  His shoulders stiffen. “The boy from the center?”

  “Yes.” I pull off a piece of crispy chicken skin and chew on it, an explosion of flavors erupting in my mouth. Hesitating, I tell him, “He’s really nice. You’d like him.”

  The sound of his fork clanging against the plate is his only answer.

  “I like spending time with him,” I add softly. I don’t feel splintered when I’m with him. I can forget about the school, and the kids, and every bad thing I’ve done, past or present. Nick becomes the pinnacle of all that is relevant.

  He sits back, folding his arms over his substantial gut, and scrutinizes me. My father’s unresponsiveness is gone, and beneath the intensity of his ice blue gaze, I desperately want it back. “Why is this Nick person at the center?”

  A torrent of energy zips through my nerves at the “Nick person” reference. “He flipped out one day and went on a killing spree at the local library. They didn’t have the sequel to a book he really, really wanted to read.”

  Silence greets my words.

  I sigh. “I don’t know. I didn’t ask. The kids th
ere—we don’t really talk about why we’re there.”

  “He could be dangerous.”

  “I could be dangerous.” I mean to sound casual, but I pause and blink. I think of the rock I threw at Clint. I think of the movie theater with Melanie. In the hallway with Jocelyn. I think of how the more I antagonize those who traumatized me, the more I like it. I feel vindicated, like they are owed, and I am providing what is due. It becomes easier to ignore the other voice in my head, the one that cautions.

  But me? Dangerous?

  I’m not dangerous. The person I am at school isn’t real. She’s a character. I just play her well. Really well. I shift on the seat and shove more chicken in my mouth. The look my dad gives me as I chew tells me he thinks I am as dangerous as a hangnail. Maybe I am—those suckers hurt. I can fester and annoy.

  From the way Melanie acts, I must be doing a pretty good job in my role as antagonist. I’m finally getting to her. I see the cracks in her bulletproof beauty. What’s more, I’ve overtaken the writing project. The three of them don’t seem to mind. If they were smart, they would. They don’t know I’m telling my own story, and theirs. They don’t know they’ll be the ones reading it, because, unfortunately, I’m going to be sick on the day the assignments are to be read in front of the classroom.

  I almost hate that I have to miss it.

  “You have an odd look on your face,” my dad comments, wiping his fingers on a napkin before reaching for another piece of chicken.

  I change the subject, possibly saying the one thing that is sure to make my dad leave the room. But my eyes are back on that board, and if I don’t voice the thought, it’ll eat away at my throat until I do. “Do you think she ever thinks of us, or are we like some part of her past she doesn’t want to remember?”

  The room goes cold.

  “You have to wonder. You wrote that,” I say into the glacial setting, nodding toward the chalkboard. I don’t know why I say it. He knows he wrote it.

  “There’s no point in discussing it,” is his rigid response.