Circling the Drain

by Amanda Davis

  She goes out with Tony Giobambera, I said softly, then regretted it, because Fern’s eyes lit up like a pinball machine and she leaned towards me expectantly.

  Silence. What was there to say about Tony Giobambera? Somehow I think he actually sees me, not just the fat loser I used to be, but me, Faith, a person? I can’t breathe properly around him? I want him to save me?

  He’s kind of popular, I said. She leaned back and scribbled.

  10. Present yourself in a positive manner. A lady is her own best fan!

  In the afternoon I get called into the guidance office to talk about my record. To explore ways of accenting my candidacy for college. To make myself a more attractive applicant. The fat girl waits in the hall.

  You used to be in the choir, before your difficulties…

  It seems I have no extracurriculars and now that I’ve moved over the rocky areas and into such a better place, mentally speaking, it’s time to put the past behind me and think about the future! A good academic record can be a great academic record with just a few civic activities…

  So what am I supposed to do, I ask the guidance counselor, Mrs. Twine, who is far too cheerful for the good of anyone. Run for Student Council president, or something?

  That sounds like a very good idea, Mrs. Twine responds enthusiastically.

  No! (I’m angry, I can’t help it.) No, it does not sound like a good idea. You have absolutely no idea what a good idea is. I am a joke! Running for Student Council would be so stupid…

  I trail off leaving us both uncomfortable. Listen, Mrs. Twine says, I understand your nervousness. You don’t have to run for Student Council. You could join a club. How about that?

  Something cold and alert washes over me. Thank you very much for your time, I say, and rise to leave. I extend a hand and Mrs. Twine, looking confused but happy as ever, takes it in both of hers.

  Faith, she says, it’s all going to work out.

  And I want to believe her. Despite everything, I want nothing more in the whole world than to believe this stupid, optimistic woman.

  11. A lady has a generous heart. She knows forgiveness is the key to friendship

  Berrybrook was what you would expect. It was a long white hallway. It was concerned and pointed questions. It was sitting in a circle with other angry teenagers trying to explore our rage.

  It was one long pale blur.

  I was kept on an extended plan, fed a special diet and made to exercise. My mom probably coughed up a lot of money for that, but Daddy died with good insurance, so weren’t we lucky?

  I told them what I needed to, but never let on that my head floated like a balloon, far above my body, that from up there I looked down on my exercising self, the nutty group of us talking about our pain, that even my clean white room was seen from somewhere near the ceiling.

  But what was hard was when it ended. They told us all along it would be difficult. Still, I wasn’t prepared for the sharpness of the outside, the strong smells, the noise, the color. All of it plowed me over. That alone was enough to inspire complacence. As if I wasn’t already complacent enough.

  12. A lady has a dainty appetite. A moment on the lips, a lifetime on the hips

  There’s just no way to talk about some things.

  I know what you mean, the fat girl says, slurping a milk shake. You’re lucky you have me.

  We’re sitting on the low wall again. The football field is off in the distance. From here it looks like a postcard, a painting. It looks like you could roll it up and cart it away, leaving space for something else to replace it. But that’s not the case.

  Some things are meant to be buried. Collected and washed into a deep pit, with hot, molten tar poured over them to change their shape and substance forever. I’ve worked very hard to forget, but I can’t. The thing is, I remember.

  Homecoming. I wore my favorite blue sweater and sang the national anthem with the choir, my breath cloudy in the cold November air. After the game, I walked around with Miranda, until I got winded and lost her in the crowd. While I rested, a group of junior guys offered me punch, red punch that tasted like Popsicles. We wandered towards the bleachers. They were friendly, they made me feel normal. That’s the part I remember clearly.

  Yeah, that’s a problem, the fat girl agrees, swishing her cup around, trying to find more milk shake. But there are ways to change things.

  She turns to me with an intensity that’s scary, like everything in her has melted into anger.

  I cough.

  You are such a crybaby, the fat girl sneers. Her frustration with me is palpable. Okay, back to the real world, she says, and I wipe my eyes and follow her to Chemistry.

  13. Nobody likes a sad sack! Cheerfulness is the road to popularity

  The day stretches on and on until finally it ends. The moon hangs low and bright in the dark sky: it is time to sleep until I have to do it again.

  But the fat girl slumps in a chair in the corner of my room, eating popcorn with butter from a large porcelain bowl. Her face is greasy from stuffing handfuls in her mouth. Her flesh ripples and hangs. She is so disgusting.

  Things aren’t going anywhere, she says, kicking the chair.

  This is not the first time I’ve seen her here, but usually she waits for me to leave the house, or at least my room, before she shows up. I stick my head under the pillow.

  You know I’m right, her muffled voice sneers. Don’t even try to ignore it.

  I sit straight up. I’m pissed. I scream at her: How could I know that?! How the fuck could things go well when you won’t leave me alone?!!

  She licks her fingers.

  You horrible cow! I scream at her, beginning to cry. I’m so angry I can’t help the tears. You miserable piece of shit!

  In comes Mom, barreling through the door. Faith! she cries, concern in her voice—but I see the truth in the stupid expression she’s worn since I came back.

  My mother’s afraid of me. She’s afraid of her daughter the monster and she can’t hide it.

  Get out, I tell her.

  I mean, how am I supposed to explain the fat girl, dripping butter in a puddle on the carpet, when my mother can’t even look at me?

  You should knock, I sniffle, and swallow my anger. When I look at her it’s with a face of stone.

  Hello, I’m sixteen and entitled to privacy, I announce. She holds the doorknob like she could swing in or out. Make your choice, Mom, I whisper deep inside my head, but I know she won’t choose what I secretly want.

  I’m right: she backs out of the room, closing the door quietly, leaving me alone with the fat girl and the ache in my chest.

  Things are just never going to be the same, the fat girl whispers. I almost hear sympathy but then she pops M&M’s. Hey Faith, she giggles, what do these remind you of?

  Fuck you, I counter, but she’s right, of course. The fat girl always speaks the truth. Things are never going to be normal. Things are never going to fly straight or land right or flow from day to day without seeming like a cartoon.

  There’s no relief. Each day is hot and airless, a festival of shame and humiliation just like it was before, only now I’m invisible.

  Time works wonders, the fat girl says through mashed potatoes, and I want to hit her. Sorry, she says, but it does, I’m just saying.

  I lie there, crying softly, until I fall asleep.

  14. It is important to know your best features. Remember: everyone has inner beauty!

  There were no mirrors at Berrybrook. To relieve us of the eyes of the outside world and add to the illusion that inside Berrybrook we were safe, we were not supposed to see ourselves. I was not shown the removal of my outer layers, though I felt my body become firmer and evaporate, felt whole parts of me fall away.

  When my mother drove me home that first day out, the world seemed to be made of marshmallows: everything was spongy and bright. She came through a town that was exactly as I’d left it in an ambulance many months before. She relayed little bits of information: There�
�s a sale on jeans this Thursday. You need new clothes. Your Uncle Harry broke his leg. I didn’t speak.

  She pulled into our driveway and our house seemed to quiver. It was a giant stone reproduction of the house I’d imagined for so many months. It didn’t seem real.

  I waited for her to unlock the door, then bolted to my room. It was extremely clean and I knew it had been pillaged for clues to my unraveling.

  While I leaned in the doorway, movement caught my eye. There, in the corner, stood a skinny, stringy-haired girl with huge, terrified eyes. When I moved my hand, she moved hers. I looked to the side, she did the same. I stepped towards her and she grew larger. When my mom came in a few minutes later, she found me weeping with my head to the mirror. I couldn’t tell her any of it: I was walking through absence; I felt surrounded by loss; I was missing, even though I was there.

  My mother smiled and put her hands on her hips. Dinner? she offered. We were much too careful to talk about anything.

  15. Nothing is achieved without determination and sacrifice. Remember: no pain, no gain

  The fat girl is full of information. I think about what she says, about what it would mean to strike back, but I can’t imagine it would make me feel better.

  Oh it would, says the fat girl. It would feel really good. She speaks to me like I’m a stupid child. In her lap is a roasting pan with a whole crispy chicken. She severs one wing with a small gold knife. When someone kicks you, she says slowly, you get up and kick them back.

  I don’t know, I repeat, and the fat girl shakes her head.

  What do you want to remember, she asks me, delicately cutting away at the bird, doing what you’ve been told or changing everything?

  Changing everything, I whisper.

  Right, she says, and gnaws on a drumstick.

  Right, I say, and take the knife she hands me.

  16. A lady sits still. A lady doesn’t cause a ruckus

  After my last class, I go use the bathroom. The fat girl is nowhere to be found. Hey, I call out, but nobody answers. The hallways are deserted, the day is over. I wander through the school looking, but don’t see her anywhere. I go outside, to the low wall, but she’s not there, either.

  Then I see her at the bottom of the hill. She is spinning in loops and arcs in the center of the football field. Her skirt swings over the grass, her body is a giant blue swirl. I get halfway down the hill, then stop.

  Homecoming was almost a year ago, I was still huge and lumbering. The bleachers, that night…The whole of it sweeps up on me then, sudden and hazy: We stand with our red plastic cups, breath fogging the air. The guys are so friendly and I feel charming. They laugh at everything I say, and punch each other in the arm, clustering around. We talk about something, our voices colliding, our steamy breath forming tiny clouds that spiral up and drift off into the night. A boy with blue eyes whispers, Where have you been all my life? I hiccup, giggle. I can’t stop grinning. I toss my hair. They buzz around me, all smiles.

  She’s nice, one boy says to another. Everything is rubbery and unreal. The blue-eyed boy puts his arm around me and leans in close. You’re so pretty, Faith, do you have a boyfriend? he whispers. I flush, unsteady. Does someone love you like you deserve to be loved? No, I think. More punch, someone offers, and I take a long drink. The guys nod their heads, closing in around me. A tall boy’s voice is loud and clear. John, you know what they say about fat girls, right? My head thick and cloudy, I can’t really breathe. What do they say? answers a boy in a red parka. I don’t know what to do. Fat girls are hungry, says another boy with a ratty mustache. Fat girls are hungry, an echo. I turn to leave but they have my arms. C’mon, Faith, Blue Eyes says, I thought you liked us. I don’t feel well, I whisper. My heart pounds.

  Feed the fat girl! Someone pushes me to my knees. Someone else has my arms, his nails jagged, a striped silver ring on his middle finger. Right in my ear, You tell anyone and we’ll kill you. I stare at buckles and pockets. He pinches my nose so my mouth falls open. Then the terrible sounds of zippers and one after the other they come at me, chanting. Feed the fat girl. Over and over I gag, I can’t breathe. We’ll tell what a slut you are. Then I’m shoved to all fours. I stare at hands, at sneakers and boots, the cuffs of pants and jeans. The fatter the berry the sweeter the juice. And laughter. The fatter the berry the sweeter the juice.

  17. A lady’s immaculate reputation is her most prized possession. Remember: there are good girls and there are bad girls

  I don’t get down the hill. I get halfway, am nauseous and swallow it down. I sit hard on the ground. Far away a lawn mower hums. I smell fresh cut grass, honeysuckle. The field is utterly empty—the fat girl is nowhere, is gone.

  I can’t breathe right. I close my eyes, cross my fingers and wish desperately for a sign, any sign, that things will be okay. Then I feel a hand on my shoulder.

  I shriek.

  Tony Giobambera leaps away from me. Sorry, he mumbles, uneasy. I saw you sit. Are you all right?

  Yeah, I bellow. I try to say, I’m fine, but instead begin to cry.

  Here, he says, helping me to my feet. Here. He puts an arm around my shoulders and leads me to the bleachers. I smell him: cigarettes, sweat, something musky and male. We sit side by side. I don’t know what to do.

  Huh, he says. He shoves his hands in his pockets. What’s wrong?

  His voice calms me. I grope around for an answer. Nothing, I say, my voice squeaky and weird. We sit quietly for a minute and I stare. He has clear blue eyes and bumpy skin but his lips are perfect and full. One big black curl falls over his left brow.

  I feel like I should say something, anything. I’m real sorry about your girlfriend, I tell him.

  Oh, he looks at me. Yeah…and trails off.

  I don’t answer. In my silence are three things: the desire to preserve this perfect, unspoiled moment, and the knowledge that everything in me that hurts wants a say right now, and how afraid I am of what would happen if I let it.

  I look out over the field. Far away, by the line of trees I see a large blue shape spin and whirl, then fall down. She stays like that for a minute, then rises, lurches wildly and spins again.

  Tony Giobambera lights a cigarette and offers me one. I hesitate, then take it and lean into the flame he cups.

  I drag and exhale. My head flutters lightly off my shoulders.

  A bug buzzes by. I swat it away. The fat girl spins and falls.

  What do you dream? I ask him and he squints at me.

  Dumb things, mostly, he says like it’s the most normal question in the world. Sometimes dragons or really stupid shit, cars, school…

  I straighten my skirt and tilt my head towards him.

  What about you?

  I feel the fat girl’s knife in my pocket, its weight solid and warm. I think about my most frequent dream where stars pepper the sky and I stand on a patch of grass, swelling, and rise above everything until I am immense and powerful and throw fear into the hearts of those below. I hang there, swaying back and forth, an enormous hungry moon able to swallow the world, but I always wake falling.

  Tony Giobambera’s hands are on his knees. His fingers are long and thin. On his right hand is a silver ring. I focus on it, on the pattern of it, but don’t answer. I keep it all to myself, as though the power of words could make things come true. In the distance the fat girl spins and falls, spins and falls. She’s a violent scratch of blue in the clear green day. She knows everything that matters, everything there is. I inhale and blow smoke up into the sky where it dissolves and disappears.

  Nothing dangerous, I tell him. Nothing to be alarmed about.

  There’s a gentle breeze and the knife is warm against my leg. In the distance the fat girl falls. I wonder, with everything I am, if this is the moment I’ve been waiting for.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I am grateful for the support and encouragement of Lois Rosenthal, Laurie Henry, Will Allison, Ben Schrank, Dave Eggers, Adrienne Miller, Irini Spanidou, Peter Spielberg, Ken Fost
er, Jason Lowi, Elizabeth Gaffney, Sheilah Coleman, my family, The Heekin Foundation, The Blue Mountain Center, The MacDowell Colony, and the Breadloaf Writers’ Conference.

  Especially warm thanks for their wisdom and insight (and for taking a gamble on me) to Colin Dickerman, Henry Dunow, Jen Carlson, and Rob Weisbach.

  & most of all, thanks to J. Lumpy Lethem (worth all the late-night miles),

  & Petunia H. Julavits, who renews my faith in everything.

  About the Author

  AMANDA DAVIS’s work includes the story collection Circling the Drain and the novel Wonder When You’ll Miss Me. An acclaimed young writer, Ms. Davis died in March 2003.

  Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins author.

  Praise

  “Amanda Davis delivers the stuff of good short stories: passionate writing, empathetic characters, themes of alienation and loss, and beautiful language that keeps stinging long after you read it…simply told, with the sweet, kooky humor of Grace Paley.”

  —New York

  “Davis quickly garners respect with a promising set of stories. Stark and simply wrought, her fiction follows a series of women dazed by life’s brutalities.”

  —San Francisco Chronicle

  “Amanda Davis’s first collection is an arresting event. These stories amuse you with their wit, move you with their passion, and startle you with the endless resourcefulness of their imagination.”

  —Madison Smartt Bell

  “Inside Davis’s tightly sketched women’s world…girls, in the face of love, are tragicomically powerless. It’s their willingness to be vulnerable that makes them heroines.”

  —Village Voice

  “Amanda Davis writes gently, even poetically, about extraordinary brutality. She has a distinctively creepy, noirish sensibility.”

  —New York Times Book Review