The Disturbed Girl's Dictionary

by Nonieqa Ramos

  Kids walk around me. “What’s going on, Macy?” a teacher says all casual like she is asking about the weather.

  I ask the teacher, “Is the clock broke?” She checks her watch and says no. I ask her if she’s positive and she shows me the time on her cell phone. The bell rings for first period. I head to class, snatch a kid’s cell phone, dial Alma’s number. It rings and rings and I throw it. Knock over a desk. Go bang my head against the wall.

  When God feels like I do—there are floods. There is fire. If God felt what I was feeling right now, the clock would explode. The windows would crack. The floor would split open.

  But the windows show the same scene, like somebody hung a old dirty sheet on a line and never took the shit down. The floor is solid. Three million feet have passed over it. Three million more will pass over it. Floor don’t notice when one girl—when Alma should be walking in out of breaf and late but hasn’t, and maybe never . . .

  Maybe this is just a bad dream?

  My eyes happen to spot our health binders and the nutrition poster over them. I jump. The entire class jumps like the ring on a grenade just got pulled. I have had a lightbulb. Maybe, I think, I’m just feeling queasy about Alma’s text because I’m hungry: exclamation point. For the past two days I’ve been living off that half-eaten box of stale French fries from Mr. Guest. (And yes, that included the box.) In health class I learned if you’re hungry you can’t think well.

  I mean, shit, Alma apologized, right? This whole thing is in my head, that’s all. Everything is always IN MY HEAD. But isn’t everything in your head? What does it mean for something to be out of your head?

  I hate thinking about thinking! I bite off my nail. It tastes like French fry. See! I am hungry.

  I look at all the tasty foods on the food pyramid poster. When is the last time I had a carrot? You need carrots for good eyes. Alma is probly sitting right there at her desk, but I can’t see her because my eyes are fucked up. In health we learned hygiene too. We learned that Q-Tip is not just a old-school rapper. It’s something you use to clean the wack out of your ears. Maybe I can’t hear Alma because my ears are stuck up. But that don’t mean Alma can’t hear me.

  Alma! Alma! Alma!!

  “Tell me about Alma,” the counselor says. I jump. Blink.

  “Maybe Alma is in the pyramid,” I say to the counselor.

  “Macy. Tell me about Alma and the pyramid.”

  “Well. Alma is . . . Wait. Don’t condescend to me about Alma being in no pyramid,” I yell at the counselor, who is magically leading me out the door. Alma is at home right now taking care of the kids. Tomorrow Alma will say that she can’t be texting and changing diapers at the same time, and I should know that better than anybody. But she’s sick. I’m the one who told her to stay home when she’s sick, didn’t I?

  The counselor and I are at her office. I’m eating a cheeseburger. Oh! That was why I followed the counselor. The counselor pulls the wrapper out of my mouth. I do not stop eating. I almost bite the counselor.

  I hear a ticking. I see the counselor’s clock. It’s 8:45 and I’m staring at the clock and thinking about everything I’m going to write in this dictionary after everything’s said and done, and Alma reading what I wrote and dotting my eyes (my i’s. MY EYES.) right before my eyes.

  The counselor hands me a pickle, and I throw it at the window. It slides down the glass. I do not eat pickle, motherfoe. Any moment, Alma will be right before my i’s and telling me to take a deep breaf. But Alma is still not fucking here.

  The counselor asks, “How often do you eat paper?”

  “What? What?” is all I can think to say for two minutes. “What, you judgmental motherfoe, paper is from trees. You eat fruit from trees. Did you know syrup comes from trees?” Alma taught me that shit.

  8:48. 8:49. FUCK in caps lock. Something is happening to me. My eyes can see. My ears can hear. I burp. I know I’m awake. I know I’m alive. I know I have to stop the clock.

  I knock the drink the counselor is pumping into me like a I-V to the floor.

  “I have to go to the bafroom!” I announce like I just found Jesus.

  It is the perfect thing to say. Like I’ve said, teachers hate those seven words because it don’t matter if they are true. You motherfoes have to let us go.

  The counselor offers me her bafroom. “Not for what I got to do,” I say. I hold my stomach.

  The counselor gets on the phone and waves for me to go. I know she’s calling for backup, so I know I have all of five minutes to pretend to go to the bafroom and sneak out a back door.

  The back door is a door through time.

  Secret

  Noun. Abracadabra.

  If you’ve ever gone to a magic show you’ve seen a man in a top hat and cape. He can make pigeons disappear into his pocket. He can make rabbits disappear into a hat. He can swallow a diamond ring.

  I’m standing in front of Alma’s house. There is a long band of yellow plastic ribbon around the house that says, POLICE LINE. DO NOT CROSS. I’m late for the show.

  The magician has been here. He took her couches. Her coffee table. Her kitchen table. The carpets. The curtains. The walls. Except for one with a window. Still has fingerprints on it. Somebody’s smiley face.

  A dude walks by laughing at his phone screen.

  “Yo,” I say, “you know what happened here?”

  His eyes drop to the machete in my hand. He almost drops his phone. “Uh, the police don’t know nothin. But my girl knows Giselle. Word is the kids were alone. Giselle thought her oldest daughter was watching them. Nobody knows where she’s at.”

  He looks left, then right. “Kids got tired of waiting for the young lady to cook and decided to make something for themselves. Set the kitchen on fire. Older ones ran out the house, went to the park. By the time the fire department and the mother got there, three babies was dead. Cremated in their own cribs.”

  “Cremated? Our babies?”

  I can smell the fire. I can hear the babies choking. Screaming for Alma, who for the first time don’t come. Screaming when the fire touches their skin. I scream to outscream them. I slash at the air. The dude is gone. I have my machete but I have no one to kill. I can’t kill fire.

  I fall to my knees in white ash. Tanya, Alma’s mini-me. Willy who liked to jump off the fridge, or was it Wally? Wally’s Lambie. Or was it Willy’s? Did he have his Lambie? My girl with her curls. She’s here too. Wind stirs up dust and scatters Tanya, Willy and Wally, Lambie, Baby Girl into the air, over buildings, streets.

  I stand up. Breathe in ghosts. Hold my breaf for as long as I can.

  I would give up five years of my life if I could bring back Baby Girl. How is Alma dealing . . . Does Alma even know?

  Alma. Alma is alive!

  I use my machete to sift through the ashes. I want to find something of Alma’s but there’s nothing. The ground has probably been combed over by everybody and their mother already. I pick up three teddy bears clean as Canada snow. There’s a pink one and two blue ones. These are the bears someone laid out for the dead babies. I make the sign of the cross and lay them back down in the ashes.

  Alma is still alive. I glance back at the window. The magician was here. But magic is not about making things disappear. Any asshole can lose shit. Magic is about bringing things back. I’m the magician now. I will make her reappear.

  Sky

  Noun. Rhymes with Why.

  I can’t sleep because of Alma. I look up at the sky for hours, but I can’t bring myself to ask. These are the same stars that I looked at when I asked for Zane. These are the same stars I looked at when I asked for my daddy.

  Twinkle twinkle little star

  A bunch of dust is all you are.

  Swan

  Noun. One time Miss Black told us this story about a lady who’s cursed to be a swan forever. She only comes out at night to dance.

  If this was a movie I would hack into the school computers. This would tell me if Alma is still enrolled at th
e school. I would tap the school phones. This would tell me if CPS has descended on her. I would know what I know now because I bribed the school’s secretary with a snack pack of Chili Cheese Fritos, which I know she would sell her soul to El Diablo for.

  This is not a movie.

  It is Wednesday, and I’m not at school. I have things to do. Because I have to do something. I’d rather do the wrong thing than nothing. I’m not thinking. I’m doing. Moving. If I move fast enough I can move faster than fate. Fuck fate. I got my sneaks on, bitch! Eat my dust. I’ll bury you in it.

  Fill in the blanks: My mother is on the with .

  Guest: Crunch.

  Me: “Alma—she’s gone.”

  Guest: Slurp.

  My mother: “Gone where?”

  Guest: Burp.

  Me: “I don’t know.”

  Guest: Scratch.

  My mother: “Well, I’m sure she’ll show up. She’s a good girl.”

  Guest: “I’ma take a leak.” Exit Guest.

  Me: “Yes. She is a good girl. That’s the problem.”

  My mother pausing her movie: “Yes. Her mom’s problem. Just like you’re mine.”

  Me: “So that’s it?”

  My mother: “What do you want me to do? It’s not my business.”

  Me: “What is your business, Ma?”

  My mother getting up from the couch: “Actually, my fucking business is none of yours, Macy. I don’t know what you expect from me!”

  Me: “Nothing, Ma. NOTHING.”

  I grab my backpack and run out the door. My feet are in charge. I’m just along for the ride. Five blocks later I’m standing in front of the Super S. It’s dead in there. I walk in. I don’t even care if the manager remembers me.

  He looks up. The only difference between now and then is gray in his mustache. And I mean that is the only difference. He don’t look like he’s showered in the past year.

  I pull out my machete and hold it where he can see it but the cameras can’t. He falls back into a bunch of nudie magazines.

  I file my nails on the blade. “Am I pretty now?”

  Manager: “Who are you? What do you want? I’ll call the cops!”

  Me: “Because I want a stamp?”

  Manager: “What?”

  Me: “You’re gonna call the cops because I want a stamp. Just one. NOW.” Manager starts reaching his hands down under the counter.

  Me: “Don’t even think about the buzzer. I’m a expert on those things. Just show me where the stamps are.”

  He points at a case behind him. “Take em all.”

  Me: “I don’t want them all. I want just one.”

  The manager nods and gets me my stamp. I pull the wrinkled letter to my dad out my pocket. Two kids come in for smokes, and I tell them to get the hell out. A kid comes in trying to steal a candy bar and I tell him to take it and get out. Three girls walk in and the manager eyeballs them.

  Me to the manager: “You know, I heard in some countries if you do wrong with your hands they cut them off.” Me to the girls: “He’s a perv. Take what you want and tell everybody.”

  The girls stuff chips and soda in their backpacks, giggle, flip the manager the finger, and run.

  I’m done. I lick the envelope and back out toward the door. “You can call the cops. And if they catch up to me, which they won’t, I’ll have a lot to tell them about you.”

  I run to the nearest mailbox. Kiss my letter, open the drawer, and hold it over the slot. My hand shakes. I start thinking. Shit. I change my mind but when I pull my hand back the letter catches on the edge of the slot and falls in. I stick my hand in the box but grab at empty space. I step back and run. I don’t know where to, but I know it will take a train to stop me. My brain knows what I’m passing: the junkyard, the Dollar General. My eyes see only blur—

  Whah! Oompf! because I think I just got hit by a train. I’m on the ground in front of where? Being murdered by who? Or what?

  Me: “George? Get the hell off me. No offense but you’re killing me!”

  George cries.

  Me: “Oh, man. I didn’t mean—”

  George: “No! No! No!” He stands up.

  I look up. We’re in front of that strip club, Hole in the Wall. Even my mother calls the girls in there skanks.

  Me: “George? I mean. I’m not gonna judge, but—uh—whatchu doin here?” I nod toward the Hole.

  George is pacing back and forth. “Earth angel! Earth angel!”

  Me: “I hate to tell you this. But you ain’t gonna find no halos and wings in there, baby. Unless it gets them more tips.”

  George: “No! No! Alma!”

  Me: “What? What, George? What the hell?” I grab his Chewbacca coat and shake him. “WHAT?!”

  I’ve scared him. His wide eyes are staring at the front door of the Hole. He whispers, “Angel.”

  My body tightens up. I can hear a mosquito breathe. The whole world disappears and it’s just George and me and the Hole.

  Suddenly George is banging against a blackened window. “Stop!” I say. He stops and turns toward me. I need time to think.

  The door to the Hole opens. I see a table with a girl on it. She is crawling. A man is pouring beer on her. The door closes.

  Out steps the tallest white man I have ever seen. His skin is red as a brick and his muscles as hard. Next to him and the gun I can see he’s packing, my machete looks like Alma’s nail clipper. I grip it anyway. I don’t even care.

  Brick Man talking to George: “What did I tell you, motherfucker?” The man spits on the sidewalk. “What did I tell you if you stepped foot here again?”

  I step up with my nail clipper. “Hey,” I say, craning my neck to look up at him. “George no hablo inglés, okay? So you talk to me. Where the fuck is Angel?”

  He adjusts his sunglasses. It’s five in the afternoon and cloudy, but who am I to tell him? “Both of you assholes got sixty seconds to get out of here,” he says, walking back into the Hole.

  “George, come on,” I say. Trying to make a mountain move would be easier than trying to move George. “C’mon, man,” I beg. “We’ll come back. We need a plan.” A plan for what, I don’t know, but I do know we have about thirty seconds.

  “We’ll come back, Angel!” George says after using up ten of our seconds, and I’m sweating like I pushed Mount Everest. We head down the street toward the bus stop. We’re about halfway down the block when I hear a car stop back at the Hole. I stop and turn back. George does too. A shiny black car has pulled up in front of the Hole and parked in the fire lane. And what motherfoe should step out?

  Alma’s fucking uncle, that’s who.

  George gets in position like a linebacker. I jump on his back to slow him down. Uncle leans in and barks something at somebody in the car. My body knows what’s going on before my mind can grasp it. It feels like somebody just reached into my chest, pulled out my heart, and showed it to me still beating.

  Uncle walks into the Hole. Hike! George shakes me off and starts running toward his car. He tackles the hood. It dawns on me that this shit is not going to end well, whatever this shit is. Any hope we have of leaving alive will be gone if George fucks up Uncle’s car.

  I’m the running back. I catch up with George and grab him by his fur. I lose my grip but latch on again. I pull on him with all my might but all I end up doing is pulling down his pants. The club door opens again.

  Holy shit. George is being picked up by his feet and dropped on his head into the gutter. Thank God for Ninja Turtle helmets. This bouncer is as wide as the other one was tall. All sudden I’m flying backward and snot is gushing out of my nose. It hurts like a bitch and when I touch it I discover I’m not covered with snot. It’s blood. I’m about to ask someone to pick up the phone until I realize it’s my ears ringing.

  This is not a movie.

  The car door opens. I can’t see nothing because my eyes are tearing and I’m in the gutter now too. My baseball cap has fallen off. The bouncer makes another grab for me b
ut then stops.

  He didn’t know I was a girl till now. My nose stud is gone. Possibly lodged in my brain. Blood is smeared across my cheek. I hear George screaming and pointing at the girl who has stepped out of the car. I can’t really make her out—or anything else for that matter. I couldn’t see two fingers waving in front of my face.

  “Stop, Victor!” the girl says to the bouncer. “Stop! Just . . . I will make them go away!”

  I don’t need to see her. I cup my nose. I don’t need to smell her. I’d know her blind, deaf, and dumb.

  “You got five minutes, Angel.” Uncle looks at the bouncer, nods toward the Hole, and the three of them go inside.

  My vision is still blurry, but my ears have stopped ringing and I hear her. I feel her hand on my shoulder.

  “You have to go, Macy.”

  I look up. George is stumbling forward. He throws his coat over her.

  “Thank you, George,” Alma says.

  My brain is trying to come up with a way to describe what is before my eyes. Alma is wearing—Alma is wearing—Alma. NO. Alma IS NOT wearing. Kleenex has more substance than what’s plastered on her body.

  “Alma! Alma? What the fuck?” Remember this is not a movie. My head feels like a house fire. I think my nose is broke.

  “You have to leave, Macy, okay? Please!”

  “I’m not leaving you here,” I say. I try to get up, but I can’t. “Are you crazy? I wouldn’t leave my worst enemy here, let alone my best friend.”

  “Then . . .” she stutters. “Then. Then I’m not your friend.”

  “Fuck you.” I can stand up now. Suddenly I can think. “George,” I command, “pick her ass up!” George picks her ass up just like that.

  “Macy, please!” she says, wriggling, one of her white shoes dropping onto the street. They look like little-girl patent leather shoes, only the heels are six inches tall. “Macy,” she says, looking back at the Hole and then at me, “They will kill you! Me! My family! Put me down, George! Please! Please!”