The Disturbed Girl's Dictionary

by Nonieqa Ramos

  “Okay.” I throw a hot dog at the half-open door. “Now’s your chance, girl. Run!”

  “Bitch, I meant to me!”

  But the dog don’t run. She curls up by me, yawns, and stretches out.

  I rub her back. “I’d say you crazy, but who am I to talk?” I grab the remote and make a blanket cave for us. “This is as good as it gets around here.”

  My mother looks at me funny but don’t say nothing. After a minute she disappears into her bedroom.

  Something fuzzy tickles the back of my brain, but I keep it out of focus. Hit my head with the remote and the TV turns on. I’m in a cave. I’m in front of the firelight. I can’t talk. I think but not in words. All I see is cold hard stars. All I have is a dog to chase away the wolves.

  Bury

  Verb. What, you thought it was gonna be “funeral”? Bite me. Because. I’m tired of the letter F.

  On Sunday afternoon Mr. Guest pulls up. Asks if we want to go for a ride. “We could go to the park. I got take-out.” (“And some party favors,” he whispers to my mom like I’m deaf.) “Bring the dog.” He shakes a bag of dog treats. “Let’s bury the hatchet,” he says to Washing Machine.

  Fuck you, says Washing Machine.

  “Macy!” my mother barks. “I need you to get Washing Machine in the car.”

  Me: Hysterical laughter.

  My mother: “Okay, what do you want?”

  “World domination. To be beamed up into a fucking space shi—”

  I rub my arm where she smacks it. “Fine. I want to skip the pep rally Friday.”

  “Macy, last thing I need right now is CPS banging down the door—”

  “If I’m there by ten they can’t count me absent, so CPS won’t get called.”

  Big sigh. “Deal.”

  Five minutes later I’m in the back of Mr. Guest’s car, holding the dog. Mr. Guest holds my mother’s hand. Now I’m mad. All that nasty stuff is one thing, but holding hands is worse. I let the dog go. Oops.

  Washing Machine snaps at Mr. Guest. My mother tries to grab her, but the dog’s all teeth and spit. Mr. Guest is driving out of his lane.

  “That’s fucking it!” Mr. Guest cries. “Take the wheel.”

  My mom guides the car back into the lane.

  Mr. Guest punches the dog. Clamps one hand around its jaws and uses his other hand to roll down the window.

  “Stop it, Manny! What are you—!”

  He chucks Washing Machine out the window.

  “Oh my God!” My mother pummels Mr. Guest with punches. But he shoves her away and gets both his hands back on the wheel. Lets the car roll to a stop.

  “Both of you! Get out.”

  We scramble out and he drives off. We backtrack along the side of the road till we reach Washing Machine’s crumpled little body. My mother crouches down by her. We hear a whimper.

  “We got to find a vet!”

  “Ma. I’m not sure we could even move her without her insides spilling out.” Not to mention that we don’t know where to find a vet and can’t afford to pay one. But I don’t say that because my mother starts bawling.

  “I had a dog when I was little. Don’t know what happened to her after my mom dumped me at the group home.”

  Is this for real? The woman is actually crying. “Take off your hoodie, Ma. We’ll wrap Washing Machine in it.” She’s still warm. Maybe . . . ?

  We walk through the park, thinking maybe we can ask one of the ladies walking their dogs where to go.

  “Ay Dios mío,” a little old lady says, “poor thing! Did you find him by the road?”

  We nod.

  “I tell you where to go. The doctor there has a heart. She’ll help.”

  Fast-forward to the vet’s reception room. A nurse carries Washing Machine into a exam room. The receptionist gets Kleenex for my mother. The doctor asks to speak to me. “So here’s the deal. The dog is holding on, but she’s not gonna make it. The most humane thing we can do is to put her down now.”

  I relay this to my mom.

  She bites her lip. “Okay.”

  We stand by the table where Washing Machine is laid out. In the quiet of this room, you can hear her breathe. I swear she looks like she’s smiling, and I get real sick—like dolphins are swimming in my stomach. Like my baby sister is swimming in my brain. I want her to be on this table so I can hold her hand, instead of her dying alone behind the bars of a crib. My mother strokes Washing Machine’s head and I wonder, is she thinking the same thing? I’ve see the dead, but never the dying. I’m scared.

  I’m stroking Washing Machine’s fur, but I feel my sister’s curls.

  My mother and I carry the dog in a box to our backyard and bury her.

  Next day, I get to school, wave to Alma and George, and lay my head down.

  From behind me: “What’s that on her pant leg?”

  Some dude: “Oh, shit. It looks like dried blood!”

  “Fuck,” I say and run off to the bafroom. Because it is dried blood. I lock myself in a stall. I’m laughing. Not sure where the laughing stops and the screaming starts.

  Alma: “Macy! Macy, talk to me.”

  The stall door flies open. I scream again.

  Alma screams back.

  We scream together.

  Till a teacher is standing outside the door screaming, and I’m laughing again. Every cell in my body is vibrating. Every hair is standing up.

  For once I yelled into the dark and it wasn’t just my voice that answered back. I want to cover my ears and listen to it all the way home.

  Fuácata!

  Noun. Synonyms: In your face!

  You put everything out of reach.

  Errday of my life is Friday 13th.

  You take one look at me,

  Want to throw away the key.

  But I’m the gingerbread man, bitches.

  You can’t catch me.

  Funhouse

  Noun. Like the kind with warped mirrors and scary clowns

  Manny stands in the doorway kicking snow off his boots: “Qué pasa?! Miss me?”

  I grab a pan from the stove.

  My mother grabs my arm tight and says to the Dog Killer, “Manny! You’re back.”

  Manny: “Never left. I just had to see a man about a horse, remember?”

  My mother: “I must have missed that.”

  I catch the look in her eyes. Hate.

  Manny: “Here. I brought you flowers. And candy, baby. Let’s have some fun!”

  Me, gripping the pan: “Yeah. Fun never stops with you.”

  Manny throws the flowers on the table. “Hey. What’s your problem?”

  My mother pulls the pan out my hand. And actually holds it—my hand. Squeezes it. I’m frozen. When was the last time we held hands? Memories are shuffling like a deck of cards.

  “Nothing,” Yasmin says to him. “Let’s go to my bedroom.”

  Manny leaves behind him the smell of somebody who’s bathed in cologne but hasn’t showered in a couple of days. My mother, one step behind him, turns around and holds up her hand.

  She mouths, Wait.

  Fun and Games

  Nouns. Our house, our rules.

  There are two rules to the game.

  Police can’t be called.

  CPS can’t be alerted.

  Instructions:

  Put empty beer bottles under couch cushions. Smash that shit. Sprinkle over floor from bedroom to door.

  Text Mom to wear shoes and hide Manny’s.

  Call George in the middle of the night. He shows up in pajamas. Like real ones that match and shit. Even slippers. He sits on the couch in the dark. All he’s got to do is stand up when the time’s right.

  (Me in a whisper: “Thank you.” George whisper-singing: “I’ll be there! Just call my name . . .”)

  I HEART George.

  I’m feeling pretty Gifted and Talented by the time my mother creeps out the bedroom door. She flinches, squints into the dark: “Who dat?”

  “Our stunt double
. You got the shoes?”

  “Yeah. Manny didn’t even notice.”

  “No, for real?” (Insert sarcasm.) I open the front door. “Now on my count. Run back in the bedroom. Tell Manny your husband’s home, oh shit, blah blah blah.”

  My mother nods.

  5, 4, 3, 2 . . .

  “Oh my God, Manny, Augustine’s home!”

  “What the—when—what—?”

  Manny bum rushes out the bedroom. Crunch, crack. “Ahhh! My feet! What’s happ—ahhhh!”

  George stands up in the dark. Makes like he’s cocking a shotgun.

  Manny crashes through the doorway, leaving a trail of bloody footsteps all the way down the street.

  A neighbor is standing on her porch.

  I shout: “Burglar!”

  Neighbor: “Serves him right, S.O.B.!”

  Things settle down. I grab the broom and make a path for George.

  George: “I’ll be there for you! When the rain starts to pour!”

  Winner takes all.

  Funeral

  Noun. Yeah, motherfoe, I was saving it. Why fun is in that word, I’ll never figure out.

  The sky’s a dirty sponge. With all the cracked ice, the ground looks like it’s covered with broken glass. Alma and I are sitting on a park bench eating Doritos. Well, I am at least. For these five minutes I’m feeling full. For these five minutes the sun is in front of us, the shadows at our backs. It’s cold, but the cold is on the outside, not in my bones. A prostitute is wobbling through the rubber chips toward the slide in the tot lot.

  Alma watches. “I don’t get how that happens. When did she start? When did she decide?”

  “Probably just happened to her.”

  “No. Life does not just happen.”

  “That phrase shit happens exists for a reason, Alma.” I squint. “Damn. She fancy. That’s some—fur coat.” I stand up. “Hey! Hey, girl!”

  Alma: “Macy! What are you doing?”

  What I’m doing is chasing a prostitute through a tunnel. Up a ladder. Down a slide. I trap her in the play dome. She is throwing rubber chips at me.

  Prostitute: “What the fuck do you want?!”

  Me: “That is not your coat. Where did you get it?”

  Prostitute: “It’s my coat!”

  Me: “You are wearing my mother’s purple fur coat. And if you don’t tell me where you got it I’m going to suffocate you with it.”

  Prostitute: “Your mother? This was Velvet’s coat. This was—Oh shit! You’re the girl she told me about. The girl with the muffins. Oh shit. Oh shit. You don’t know.”

  Alma finally catches up to us. “Macy! Let’s not know! Let’s go.”

  Me: “Where is Velvet?”

  Prostitute: “She’s dead. Our pimp found her at the junkyard. In a fucking tub.”

  Me: “What the? What?”

  Alma covers her ears with her big furry mittens. “Oh God. Now we know. We’ll always know!”

  Me: “WHY DO YOU HAVE HER FUCKING FUR COAT?”

  Prostitute: “We were taking turns with it. She was my bestie.”

  Me: “Take me. Take me to where—you found her.”

  Alma: “No, Macy! This has nothing to do with us.”

  I turn to Alma. “Go home if you want.”

  “No! If you’re going, so am I.”

  The prostitute takes us past the titty bar called Hole in the Wall. Under the gutters there’s patches of gray grass like the scruff of a wet beard. We move on past potholes of snowy soup. Rag weeds blow around the Super S like old lopsided weaves. (See S for Super.) Spiderwebs like a ripped stocking stick on a bush. Finally, we find one skinny tree.

  We’re standing in front of the junkyard now.

  Prostitute: “Stand on the tire hill. Look past the strollers. You’ll see it.”

  Alma: “Macy. You can’t go in there. What about the dogs?”

  Prostitute: “Animal control took them away. Because of the police. And everything.”

  Seconds later, we’re tripping up the tire hill. The sun is gonna set and I know we have to make it quick. Alma has babies to put to bed.

  Me: “I see the tub.”

  Nancy (Alma asked her her name, damn it) says, “I can’t. Not again.” Nancy throws the coat in the air and books it. It lands on a stroller and Alma pushes it toward me.

  Me: “God, no matter what you’re always pushing a stroller.”

  Alma: “Shut up. Are we really going through with this?”

  Me: “We have to. If not us, then who?”

  Out of nowhere, bam, the baftub is there. I think about my baftub at home and how many times Zane and I slept in it pretending it was a pirate ship or some shit to get Zane to fall asleep. For once, couldn’t a baftub just be a baftub?

  “Nobody should die like this.” I kick a broken bicycle.

  Alma hugs me hard. I don’t let go till she do.

  “Alma, get me fire.”

  Alma disappears and comes back with a coffee can filled with gasoline. “You do it.”

  I lay the coat inside the tub. Pour gasoline all over it.

  We write our names on the side of the tub. Alma was here—Macy was here—Velvet was here. Damn it.

  We light that motherfoe up. Baftub looks like a Viking funeral boat, smoke sailing out the junkyard into the sky.

  Gas

  Noun. Rhymes with never last. Yes it does. Miss Black says that’s a near-rhyme, you ig . . .

  “Ain’t you supposed to be at work?” I say to my mom when I get home.

  “No. I don’t like it no more. It’s cold now so Chuey moved us inside. Now he wants us to dance. Anyway, Jaime says he don’t want me working for Chuey no more. He’s got things lined up. Gonna give me money to stay home, if you can believe that?!”

  Me: “Well, shit, I can tell you really thought this through!”

  I stomp into the bafroom and stare at the mirror, just like I used to stare out the window with Zane. Flashback time: you knew I’d get to it eventually.

  I’m staring out the window with Zane.

  My mother says, “STOP, you’re going to see something.”

  By “seeing something,” she means be a witness. I already am, but I ain’t going to say nothing about nobody.

  “Get away from there,” my mother says.

  Zane says, “I’ma wait. I’ma wait.” What he means is he’s going to wait at the window until Daddy gets home from prison.

  My mother tells us to shut up and get in the car. I ask her does she have enough gas.

  She says, “NOW.”

  We both get in the back. She turns the radio up.

  If the car music is turned way up you don’t think about running out of gas. You don’t think about how you have nowhere to go. You just drive.

  “If we run out of gas,” I say to Zane, “we can just up and move. It would be a adventure. Wherever the car dies is where we live. If it dies at a pizza shop, we live by the pizza shop.”

  “Pepperoni!” Zane claps. “Pepperoni!”

  “Oh shit,” I say. “It would be fate. Our mother could get a job. AT THE PIZZA SHOP.”

  If Zane had a tail, it would be wagging. He opens a window. Sticks out his head and lets his tongue hang out. (See B for Blessing.)

  Sometimes at night Zane and I would stick our heads out our bedroom window and howl at the moon. I still do sometimes, thinking maybe somewhere he’s howling back.

  I start to relax. I keep checking the gas gauge and making wishes. Let it die at the Chinese restaurant. At the skate rink. At the bowling alley.

  But then I start thinking. It would still be us. Same shit, different bowling alley.

  I want it to be like a shipwreck. A plane crash. When the car dies I want to end up in the middle of nowhere. Where the food is nothing we’ve ever eaten, the language nothing we ever speaked. Maybe if we could just start fresh knowing nothing and no one, then we would figure everything out. I start thinking about Canada again. I start to relax. To tune out.

  So do
es my mother. She’s jamming to the radio up front and hits the window button by accident. The window closes on Zane’s neck. And then the car runs out of gas.

  Me: “Ma!”

  Zane: “Gwrft . . .”

  God: “Did you not say you wanted—?”

  My mother steers us to the curb. Hammerfists the button. Jams the key in the ignition: “It won’t open! Oh my God!! OH MY GOD!!!”

  Me: “You’re gonna break the key!”

  My mother: “What do we do? Oh my God!”

  Zane turns white, then beet red.

  Me: “I don’t know. Get in the back and hold him so he stops moving around so much.”

  My mother: “Okay! Shit!”

  We switch places, her in the back, me in the front.

  I know breaking the window won’t work. Daddy showed me how to mess with the wires a bunch of times, but I’ve never done it alone. I move the seat back so I have room to work.

  The car turns on. The window goes up. Zane throws up. I channel the Force, jackhammer the button. The window goes down.

  Zane slumps over. We have to get to a hospital.

  What my mother says to the doctor is we kids were probably messing around with the buttons. That she’s going to sue the car company. Maybe we could sue—if the car wasn’t a 1982 model repossessed from seven generations of migrant workers and abandoned at a 7-Eleven before my dad got it.

  The doctor asks why Zane’s head was sticking out the window in the first place. “If he was in a seatbelt, and a booster seat . . . as required by law,” he adds.

  “He’s never been right in the head,” my mother answers. “He must have . . . wiggled out of his seatbelt—and thrown the booster seat out the—no . . . Wait—”

  I put my head in my hands. The doctor calls CPS. My mother says it’s discrimination. Really LOUD. The doctor says he’s going to call security. She starts pulling me out the door.

  Me: “Ma? We can’t just leave Zane here!”

  “He’s not going anywhere, Macy. We gotta bounce. We’ll go home, get his things, come back.”

  I keep stopping as she drags me out Zane’s room. Out the hospital.

  My mother: “Would you hurry up? We might need a jump.”

  I look up at the building where Zane is sleeping in a bed with a neck brace. Where Zane will wake up and not know where he is.