Girl Wonder

by Alexa Martin

  While she was gone, I watched a couple of goth girls striding through the mall like they owned it. Their steel-tipped combat boots clicked the floor in unison. Ornate crucifixes dangled from their necks. They were noticeably out of place at Bellevue Square, and I wondered if they’d come here to feed off the reactions of the other shoppers.

  They gave me an idea.

  When Amanda came back, she was beaming. “I just remembered. We have a Tin Man costume up in the attic. The school put on a production of The Wizard of Oz when Keith was a senior. I could paint your face silver. You could wear gray tights.”

  The Tin Man? The trusty Tin Man? Stiff? Rusty? In need of lubrication? Could anything be less sexy?

  Just then, a frazzled woman walked by. She was literally dripping shopping bags. Two young children—obviously hers—trailed in her wake. One of them tripped and landed on her mother’s Prada heel. The woman spun around abruptly, her nostrils flaring like a horse’s. “Do you need me to show you how to be good?” she asked.

  The kids went mute. Their eyes were like puddles as they tried not to cry.

  “Actually,” I said, turning slowly back toward Amanda, “I’ve decided you’re right. We should be different tonight. I’m going to be a dominatrix.”

  Neal’s brother Bailey lived on the sixth floor of an apartment building over by the University of Washington. Though he was a student there, he was out of town this particular weekend, chasing his born-again virgin girlfriend, Mindy. Bailey had given Neal the keys to his apartment and some other stuff that I was trying hard not to think about. Neal was carrying this “other stuff ” in a film canister in his pocket.

  “Bailey must be so frustrated,” Amanda said.

  Neal was rooting through the pantry for snacks. “They have these rules. Blow jobs are okay as long as she doesn’t have to swallow. It doesn’t count as sex if he only goes partway in. I seriously think he might propose to her this weekend. Ugh.”

  There was a picture of Mindy on the refrigerator. I leaned in closer to look. She was wearing a pink sorority sweatshirt, had long ash-blond hair, and was holding a pumpkin to her chest. Nothing in her expression suggested a manipulative nature. But then, she was older than me. Who knew what life had taught her to do?

  Neal found a box of Ritz crackers and tossed one of the bags to us. They were so stale they didn’t crunch. Amanda took one bite and spat hers out in the sink.

  I cleared my throat. “What made her decide to become a born-again virgin?”

  “Bailey’s cute,” Amanda said, as if I hadn’t spoken. “When does he get back?” Without taking his eyes off of her, Neal took a long swig from his beer. Amanda laughed. “I know what you’re thinking. But you’ve got it all wrong. I feel for Bailey. All that frustration could give him an early heart attack. If I could help in any way—”

  “You’re such a harlot,” Neal said dryly.

  Unable to think of anything witty to add, I wandered into the den.

  It was dark except for the glow of a purple aquarium. Water burbled rhythmically out of the filter. Tiny striped fish drifted through the portholes of a miniature shipwreck. A couple of bottom-feeders rested on the turquoise sediment, gills heaving, their whiskers splayed out to the side. I found a shaker of fish food and spanked out a few flakes. The fish darted to the top of the tank and mouthed up the specks in seconds.

  My face was hot and flushed. I pressed my forehead to the cool glass, closed my eyes, and tried to imagine myself underwater, my body shrunken to miniature size, my hair floating upward like kelp. Anxiety pulsed through my body like fire. Was I ready for this night? I was envious of the fish, for their immaculate little world. They were safe. Protected. Admired just for existing.

  From the kitchen, I heard Amanda say something to Neal about blue balls. “You don’t know what you’re talking about!” Neal laughed.

  Across the room, there was a small fishbowl sitting on top of a bookcase. I walked over to look. Its sole occupant was a stunning steel blue fish with long fins that billowed around its body like a million gossamer threads.

  “That’s Brutus,” Neal said, coming into the room with Amanda.

  “Poor guy,” I remarked. “He’s all alone.”

  “Brutus is a Siamese fighting fish. They’re very territorial. If you were to put him in the aquarium with the other fish, he’d go ballistic.”

  “Et tu, Brute?” Amanda asked. To me she explained, “That’s from Julius Caesar. It’s what Caesar says when he realizes that he’s been betrayed—”

  “I know the play,” I said coldly. “I’m not illiterate.”

  Neal tapped on the glass. Brutus got huffy and puffed out his gills.

  Amanda sat on the couch and started flipping through a magazine. “Hey, Char,” she said. “There’s an article here about learning disabilities.”

  “Why would she care about that?” Neal asked.

  “Hasn’t Charlotte ever told you why she’s not in GATE?”

  My face grew very hot. “Shouldn’t we be getting dressed?”

  “What’s the rush?” Amanda said. “The rave won’t start before midnight.”

  Just then the intercom rang. Saved by the bell. Diego had arrived, along with this other kid from the team, Tyler Hyatt, a sophomore whose parents had forced him to do debate. Though he’d won a lot of awards, he usually hyperventilated before rounds and had to breathe into a brown paper bag to calm down. Tyler and I seldom talked, but I’d always felt a certain kinship with him. He’d come dressed as Darth Vader, which I found a strange costume choice for a person with a history of breathing problems.

  Diego was Elvis (or an Elvis impersonator). When he walked through the door he pointed at Amanda, did a couple of hip thrusts, and crooned “Love Me Tender” into his fist.

  Amanda laughed. “You wish. Too bad you ain’t nothin’ but a hound dog.”

  Neal was leaning over a cutting board. I watched him from the other side of the kitchen island, but he was too engrossed to see me. Using an X-Acto knife, he divided up a thin strip of segmented paper that looked like a tapeworm. No one noticed when I excused myself to the bathroom.

  Sitting on the toilet, I buried my head in my hands. My skin prickled. This is what you want, I reminded myself. After all, had I not told Neal I was ready?

  Ten minutes later, Amanda banged on the door. “I have our stuff. We can get ready now.”

  I didn’t say anything.

  She knocked again. “Char? Are you okay?”

  I opened the door a crack. “I think I might have a fever.”

  She elbowed her way in and pressed the back of her left hand to my forehead. “You’re cool as a cucumber. Look,” she said, rolling back her tongue. Underneath lay a tiny white square. In her right hand she held a beer cap that contained another square. “For you,” she said. Sensing my apprehension, she added, “Don’t worry. It’s only half a hit.”

  I cleared my throat. “Is it Ecstasy or acid?”

  “Acid. Neal says it’s better. More intense.”

  “Are you just doing half?”

  “No.”

  “Then why am I just doing half?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe Neal thinks you can’t handle a whole hit.”

  I lifted my chin. “I think I want the full experience.”

  She shrugged and trudged back to the kitchen, returning a minute later with an entire square. Without saying a word or taking my eyes off her, I dabbed it under my tongue.

  Amanda’s dress was even more amazing outside the store. The fabric was cool to the touch and oh-so luxurious. The hem was exquisitely fine. The skirt was heavy in a wonderful way, with the weight of opulence. “It’s perfect,” she sighed when I zipped her up.

  She allowed me to do her makeup, something I was fairly good at, thanks to the fact that when he was younger, James Henry sometimes allowed me to dress him as a girl (we pretended he was my little sister). It took me forty-five minutes to tease Amanda’s hair into an Audrey Hepburn updo. If she walke
d under a magnet she would’ve been lifted off the floor with all the bobby pins I used. But my work was impeccable. You couldn’t see a single piece of metal. To make sure her hair stayed in place, I sprayed on half a bottle of Aqua Net. Amanda could dance as hard as she wanted tonight without fear of a single hair moving. She was stunning.

  Lucky lucky lucky.

  “Your mom would be proud,” I said. “You look very—” I tried to think of something to say that would annoy her just a little. “Virginal.”

  “Whoa,” she said, waving a hand in front of her face. “So that’s what a tracer is.”

  “I don’t feel anything yet.”

  She opened the door to the bathroom. “I’m going to talk to the guys.”

  After she left, I donned fishnet stockings, bloodred stilettos, a thigh-high miniskirt, a black leather corset, and a studded collar —all of which I’d found at a store across the street from Bellevue Square called the Dragon’s Lair. The costume used up all my Christmas money, though the sales clerk assured me not to worry. “You can’t put a price on transformation!” To lessen the sting of the cost, she’d given me a discount on a whip.

  Next, I ratted my hair into a black halo, rimmed my eyes with dark eyeliner, and applied ruby lipstick (the shade was called Vampire Bride).

  I was dismayed when I stood back from the mirror to admire my transformation. My costume was just that—a costume. I didn’t look shocking. I didn’t look different.

  There I was. Myself. Plain old Charlotte Locke.

  Boring. Mediocre. Average.

  I walked out to the kitchen. The remaining squares of acid were scattered across the kitchen counter like bits of confetti. I still wasn’t feeling anything.

  My friends were gathered around the TV, watching an old rerun of The Love Boat. Charo was the special guest star. No one was paying any attention to me.

  Finally, Neal looked up. “Wow. You look…interesting.”

  Diego whistled.

  Amanda eyed me up and down. “That skirt is dangerously short. Careful.”

  Was there some greater meaning to her warning?

  “The acid isn’t working,” I muttered.

  “It takes a while to kick in,” Neal said.

  I stood by the side of the couch, waiting for him to make room for me. When he didn’t, I sat down on the armrest beside him. He was now in costume too, though I wasn’t sure what he was supposed to be. He was wearing a wife-beater shirt, wristbands, baggy jeans, a mullet wig, and a baseball cap advertising chain-saws. On his arm he’d painted several tattoos, one of which said I Love Pamela Lee. Sensing my confusion, he said, “I’m trailer-park trash. Can’t you tell?”

  I lashed my whip.

  A horn blew. The Love Boat slipped away from the landing. Passengers swarmed the upper deck, throwing streamers out over the railing. Their shouts and laughter blurred together like the sound of a great crashing wave.

  “All aboard,” Amanda said.

  Neal saluted her. “Aye, aye, Captain!”

  We were riding the elevator. Bouncing on my toes, I tried to push us down faster. “It’s not working,” I said through clenched teeth.

  “Relax,” Neal said. “If you don’t chill out you’re going to have a bad trip.”

  Have a bad trip, have a bad trip, HAVE A BAD TRIIIIIIIIP!

  Covering my ears, I ducked to avoid the words. They were coming at me fast, like balls out of a pitching machine. Everyone was staring. I discovered I could hear their thoughts. “I am NOT uptight!” I tried to scream. But the letters slid around my tongue like marbles.

  The elevator opened to the front lobby. As I stepped out, the room dissolved. I fell to my knees and buried my face in my hands.

  “Charlotte!” Neal said sharply. “Look at me. Look at me!”

  Peeking through my fingers, I saw his pupils. They were as black and still as the ponds in Florida where the gators lived. “Quit trying to control the trip. That’s what’s making you wig out.”

  I stared down at my hands. They were smeared with lipstick. Or…was it blood? Slowly, I curled my fingers into a fist. The veins in my wrists popped out in 3-D. I looked back at Neal and cocked my head to the side, studying him. Was it really Neal?

  His pupils sprang out at me suddenly, as if released from a jack-in-the-box. I leaned over and vomited into a palm plant.

  “This is crazy,” Amanda said.

  “You okay there, Vader?” Diego asked.

  Tyler was crawling around on the floor, trying to grab up fistfuls of carpet. He pointed at Neal. “I’m sick of you!”

  “Better take away his light saber,” Amanda muttered.

  “They’ll be okay once we’re outside,” Diego said. He was always so calm. “The fresh air will help. We can walk to the rave.”

  “Does that sound nice, Charlotte?” Neal asked in this soothing voice, as if I were a toddler. “Some nice fresh air?”

  All I needed now was a pacifier.

  The rave was a giant circus—only it was the audience who was the main act. Lasers flashed like gunfire. Music thrummed loud and wild. The bass shook the walls and floor and ricocheted through my body like a runaway pinball. For the first time in my life I understood music. I was the music.

  But it was too much for a mere mortal to take, like lightning and earthquakes and tornados all at once. I was going to split apart. And it would be nuclear.

  Neal and Amanda waved their arms, whipped their heads, and stomped in time to the beat. They were exquisite. Primordial. Prehistoric. All of us—we were beasts.

  Tyler—who knew where he was? Lost to the night as well.

  “Where’s Vader?” Diego asked.

  Amanda shrugged. “Survival of the fittest, man!”

  Diego stood behind me. His hands rested on my shoulders.

  “I’m keeping you upright!” he said when I glared at him over my shoulder.

  “Why can’t you be Neal?” I whimpered, but the words came out all garbled.

  The crowd was growing. The walls bulged to accommodate.

  Diego pressed his stomach into my back. His arms came around my waist. I could feel him—his thing—hard against my butt. He started grinding it against me. As soon as I could, I untangled myself and bolted for the bathroom. The line was wrapped around the door. Several of the stalls had out of order signs. A girl dressed as a fairy darted past us all and puked into the garbage.

  I pushed my way outside. I was a tiger. Panting.

  “Watch it!” a gnome shouted as I elbowed him in the head.

  Once free of the otherworldly throngs, I stumbled around the corner of the warehouse and ducked into an alley. It was refreshingly dark. Cool. Empty. The walls pulsed with music. I kept expecting them to burst, and for the crowd to roll out over me like a tsunami. I upended an old crate, sat down, and stuck my head between my knees.

  There was this loud ringing inside my ears. The bell tolls for thee, I thought, remembering the John Donne poem my father often quoted.

  When I finally sat up eons later, I noticed a gaggle of people clustered around a side entrance. They were smoking cigarettes. Laughing. Guzzling water and alcohol from bottles. One of them was a DJ I recognized as a kind of local celebrity. He was making out with some groupie girl. From where I sat, no one could see me. I inched my crate closer.

  Jesus.

  The girl making out with the DJ? She wasn’t exactly girlish.

  The curly hair. The tilt of her chin.

  Hi, Mom.

  The Catholic schoolgirl uniform was one of mine. Who knew that migraines could turn around so fast?

  Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit.

  Somehow I found my friends. Or they found me. What mattered was that we were all together again. They took me back to Bailey’s apartment. “You’re tripping,” Amanda said. “This isn’t real, Char. Snap out of it.”

  I started to cry.

  She led me to the bathroom and instructed me to wash up. When I splashed my face, I breathed in some water and start
ed to gasp and choke. Then I was vomiting, and Amanda was holding my head, stroking my hair, and telling me it was going to be okay.

  How could I have doubted her?

  She was my friend. My best friend. I was beyond lucky to have her.

  Lucky lucky lucky.

  When she flushed the toilet, I noticed that the particles swirling away formed strange geometric designs. I leaned closer to get a better look. My head dropped down into a dark sucking tunnel, a tunnel with no light or exit, only black empty space, terror, and a nasty urine smell. A black hole to end all black holes.

  * * *

  Charo was trying to tell me the Love Boat was sinking.

  “You need to get into one of the lifeboats,” she said. I begged her to sing the Chiquita Banana song. “You’re not listening!” she snapped.

  I shrugged. “It’s just a stupid show. It’s not even on anymore. It’s not real.”

  She studied me with pity. “You’re not real,” she said, rolling her R’s.

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  She smiled sadly.

  “Tell me what you mean!” I shouted.

  Isaac the bartender walked up. “Is this girl bothering you?”

  Charo crossed her arms and stared beyond the railing, pouting. “I am sick of trying to help the passengers. They are such children.”

  He readjusted the crocheted poncho that was falling off her shoulders and helped her climb into one of the rafts. “You can’t take it personally,” he said. “Not everyone wants to be saved.”

  “I was just fooling around!” I pleaded, but they were already gone.

  Scanning the deck, I saw that it was now deserted.

  “Come back,” I whispered. Water started lapping overboard. The ship sank some more. Then, with a great creaking moan, it heaved and tilted forward. I clung to the railing. The horizon was jagged with black waves.