by M. C. Atwood
“It appears you CAN’T trust any men, dearest Gretchen. They’re all just like your dad.” He winks at her. “John here is not from a broken, alcoholic home like he’s told you. He’s from a Bible-thumping, holy-rolling, food-stamp-hating, no-fornication, women-in-their-place, promise-keeper kind of home.”
Gretchen’s expression is so vulnerable, I have to look away. She looks like she is going to pass out.
The sweat has pooled in my bra by the tape. Please tell me he’s done.
Then he trains his eyes on me.
DYLAN
My baby won’t look at me.
The whole world just dropped out from under my feet. My sun, moon, stars. Gretchen won’t look at me. I barely hear what the demon dude says after I see the look on Gretchen’s face.
But the asstroll stares at Ashley, taking a nice long break from talking, to let everything sink in. Gretchen sits down. I move toward her, but she puts up her hand and I know this gesture. It’s the heartbreak gesture. My heartbreak. The don’t-touch-me gesture.
Babe is hurt. Because of me. I can’t breathe.
There are reasons, I want to shout. There are reasons why, I think-scream.
But now the demon dude is talking again. He’s clocking Ashley. I get the game now, too late. I get the game, now that I’m destroyed. The game is “Secret secret, who’s got a secret.” Ashley has started shaking.
I’m expecting a long windup, the way he tortured Gretch and me. But instead, the dude points his cane at Ashley and says, “She’s gay!”
We all flip our heads to Ashley. She takes a step back on her towel boots.
The demon walks around and giggles. “Now, that is hardly scandalous in this day and age. But consider this, peer court! Consider that Ashley came here specifically to meet an Internet paramour for some, what sexual education manuals call, ‘heavy petting.’” He lifts one eyebrow and puts a finger to his creepy shark mouth. “Our Ashley enjoys leading on these poor girls—girls who think she may be the one, the sweetheart of their hearts—and using and discarding them like so many Gucci purses.”
He stops again. “‘But,’ you might say, ‘while this is not exemplary, kind behavior, certainly it is not horrifying.’ My dears, you would be wrong. Ashley here follows her daddy dearest soon-to-be senator’s stance in public: Down with the gays. Marriage between one man and one woman. Homosexuality is a sin for depraved monsters and godless heathens. And all that delicious folderol that religion has devised to separate humans. Sound familiar, John?”
He winks at me. I wince. That sonuvabitch. I look to Gretchen again but she has her head in her hands now. I don’t believe that, Gretch. Believe me. Believe in me.
Demon dude takes another lap and looks at Paul. Who physically ducks.
But he whips his head around to Ashley again and says, waving his hand lazily, “Oh, and she’s in love with Gretchen here.”
My body jerks. Whaaaaa???
“Paul!” says the demon dude. Paul tries to speak, “I don’t care what you have to—” But the demon interrupts him.
“Undoubtedly you don’t care. You don’t care at all that you are quite the popular boy at River Red High School in the quaint town of Whispering Bluffs, Wisconsin. Quite the basketball player, quite the laaaaadies’ man. Tell me, Paul, does everyone know that you and your mom take SCA classes? Enact some old Renaissance Faire scenes?” He puts his hand to one side of his mouth and says, “Brings out ye olde jerkin, what what.” He winks at me and then says, “Is that called LARPing, Paul? I am so far behind the terms these days.”
I blink. SCA? And as if he’s reading my mind, the freak show demon says, “Oh, for those of you who don’t know, it’s the Society of Creative Anachronism. Dressing up. And LARPing is Live Action Role Playing.”
He bends down near us and we all back up. He stage whispers, “It’s role-playing for, what you may say in this day and age, dorks. You know. For those too cowardly to live in the real world.”
He bounds up. “Paul here looks dashing with a sword. And tights. Violet, darling, wouldn’t you love to see Paul’s sword?”
Blood has started rushing to Paul’s face, but it’s Violet’s face that keeps me looking. She looks pure-D terrified. Terrified with a capital T-E-R-R.
Girl turns and tries to sprint toward Ben Franklin. She tries to actually run. Holy shit. But demon dude appears in front of her, a streak that turns solid. She yelps, skids to a stop, then falls backward. She looks up at him. He slams his cane down right between her legs.
“But I think our Violet here has the most delicious secret, don’t you, Violet?”
She has started crying and whispers, “Please don’t . . .”
Despite myself, I am leaning forward.
Demon dude says, “Ashley, you and Ms. Violet here have some things in common. Like, partaking in the occasional . . . sensual leisure activities.”
I see Paul take a step closer.
He goes on. “See, our Violet here is having an affair, too. But only with one person, unlike you, Ashley. Our Violet here seems to attract the older man. In this case, the older married man.” He stops and puts a finger on his chin. “Tell me, Violet, because I forget: does Mr. Rhinehart have any children?”
The silence falls like a predator, eating us up.
VIOLET
When I learned to ride my bike, my dad wouldn’t let me have training wheels. He said it would “toughen me up,” but he said it in shrink talk. As in, “teach her autonomy, victory through perseverance, which will grow into a healthy sense of self.” What it gave me was a lot of scraped knees.
I take that back. It did do all those things. I remember sticking my tongue out and pedaling pedaling pedaling, my hands wobbling on the handlebars, rough tread of the grips scraping along my palms, the fishtailing of the back wheel. I remember doing this and falling down over and over until I finally did do it. I learned how to ride that ever-loving bike. By myself. And though I would never say it to my dad, he was right. I’m glad that’s the way I learned.
But something that I wouldn’t ever tell anyone—something that I remember more than anything else, even more than the victory of winning the Battle of the Bike—is the feeling of falling. That moment when you know you no longer have control. The wobble of the handlebars gets bigger and bigger, swings wider and wider, and pretty soon you can’t get a fix on what’s in front of you. Just green and pavement and then the unmoored feel of falling. That free float for a few tiny, interminable seconds, when you are neither here nor there, fish nor fowl, as my gran would say. You are no one. You are alone. Unloved. Unanchored. Unable to breathe. Doomed.
I am falling.
I hear Paul from far away say, “Violet?” His face ashen, his brown eyes—beautiful, kind, forgiving, pleading?—are set in an expression of disbelief. Betrayal.
And then I see it. What I was afraid of most. What has kept me up at night. What I feel for myself, most days.
Disgust.
I take in a huge breath, gasping like a fish flopping on the shore. Oceanless. I realize I have forgotten to breathe.
Dylan, or John, or whatever his name is, stares at me and lets out a whoosh of air. Ashley says “fuuuuuck” so softly I can barely hear it. Gretchen just stares wide-eyed at me. Paul hasn’t moved.
The House or the Demon or My Death or whatever-it-is waits a beat and then twirls his cane around. My body shakes and my teeth chatter. But it’s like it’s happening to someone else. I can’t feel my lips.
He brushes his hands together like he’s wiping something off and takes a big breath. He looks around the room and puts his hands on his hips. “Well,” he says. “Now that you know who all of you really are, what rotten things lie underneath, would you like to stay together or try to get through my game alone?”
I think of Paul’s look of disgust. Dylan’s lies to Gretchen for years. Ashley’s
hypocrisy. How they all must hate me now. I know I hate myself.
Alone is better. Alone is what I deserve.
So before anyone else can talk, I take a final look around at the people I had just started to consider my friends. I look to the boy I think I could’ve fallen in love with. And I close my eyes as the tears come.
I say: “Alone.”
Faster than I thought possible, the demon claps his hands hard and a flash of light spreads through the room, like a nuclear blast.
My life explodes.
ASHLEY
Jesus. H. Christ. Wherever I am reeks.
After the white flash, I land on my stomach somewhere. I feel carpet under my arms, smelling of years of god-knows-what tramping through here. Probably kid hork and gum and . . . Jesus. I stand up as fast as my bandaged feet will let me. I wince as my weight settles on them, my hands out for balance. Thank god Gretchen bandaged these puppies well.
Gretchen.
I swallow. Close my eyes. Try to fight the burning shame bugs running up and down my spine. Fuck.
Gretchen.
“What are you doing here?” The voice is loud and takes up the whole room.
I jump and step back.
I’m in a completely red room. A red bench runs the length of the room behind me, and in front of me: a stern-looking, ancient-y Chinese man fronting a huge kettle drum.
I take a look around. Besides the display of instruments and statues in front of me, I’m alone.
For a minute I marvel about Violet. I can’t help it, I feel for this girl. The look on her face . . . And goddamn Rhinehart? I mean, that’s really bad. But . . . not because of her. Rhinehart’s a fucking predator, clearly. I could have told her that the minute I met him.
Violet was right: alone is better, though. Isn’t this what I wanted? Except how come it doesn’t feel good?
To my right, from the doorway, I hear little footsteps, the shush-shush of feet on carpet. Adrenaline spikes through me. Dolls. It’s got to be those asshole dolls.
Except what walks in is not a doll. It’s a little figure, like a gnome, only not goofy-looking. He is about thigh height and he’s got a beard and a green hat that’s long and pointed. Maybe a dwarf? He’s a creature I don’t really understand. In his hands, he holds a mask. He stares down at it, a puzzled look on his face.
He stops near me and looks up, but he barely pays attention to me. He looks down at his mask again, twisting it left and right in his hands. He holds it up to his face and looks through it.
And then he puts it on.
The mask conforms to his face, wrapping around his head like a living thing. The face of it is a big smile, like a cartoon smile or that smiling theater mask thingy. His eyes are dead. He looks up at me again. And then runs out of the room.
From the door he came in, another figure enters, this time my height. He has a trumpet or something in his mouth and he wears a full jumpsuit like a clown, with polka dots and billowy legs and arms. But the colors are muted and he’s got no face paint, so he’s not exactly clown-y. He’s like a serious clown or something. His hat is a triangle and his hair sticks up around the brim. He plays a muted melody, haunting and lonely. Low notes, slow, dissonant. My body reacts to it without my permission. My shoulders slump. My head aches. Another dwarf person walks by his side, looking up at him. This dwarf has a mask on, too—his is stuck in a sad face. He trains his eyes, if you can call them that, on me. Then he looks back up at the trumpet player.
They walk by me without saying a word. Without acknowledging my presence at all. I feel tears on my cheeks.
Alone.
I jump when the guy in front of the kettle drum says again, “What are you doing here?”
I wipe my face. Clear my throat. I can do something about this feeling. I can do something. I may not be the best person in the world, but I can do shit.
“Have you seen my friends?” I ask, hoping against hope this is a nice ancient-y Chinese man with a kettle drum.
He throws a drum mallet at me. I duck just in time.
NOT a nice ancient-y Chinese man.
He laughs an evil laugh. “Friends? You don’t have friends. No one wants to be with you now. Now that they know. Especially her.”
Crying is for the weak, I tell myself. Crying is for people with no self-control. Just like my dad always says.
But I feel tears spring to my eyes again anyway.
Because asswipe kettle drum guy is right. She does hate me. And asswipe demon guy was right, too. I am in love with her. All those days looking forward to her, not to make fun of her. To see her. So stupid. Loving someone straight, someone who hates me. Fuck.
I suck in a breath and muster anger. “Go back to your own country!”
He looks confused. “I am in my own country.”
And then I full-on start crying. I move backward, sit on the bench behind me, put my face in my hands, and let my whole body shake.
“You’ve made her cry,” says a stern female voice. I look up, wiping my nose. A golden figure, a small statuette in flowing robes, on one side of the kettle drum guy is talking. “Shame on you.”
The man sniffs and gestures with his one remaining drum mallet. “She deserves it.” Asshole.
The woman says, “Tsk Tsk. Really. Any more than anyone else?”
“Well,” he says. “She’s mean. And racist.”
I hiccup and say to the woman. “He’s right. I AM mean. And I’m a hypocrite. And I’m an asshole. I’m probably more than a little racist and if I’m honest I’ve always thought that poor people are just stupid and lazy and deserve to be poor.” My voice has turned into a whine and I’m doing that hiccup sob thing where I can’t catch my breath. I think of all the times I’ve made someone’s life hell. And my dad, my stupid dad—what kind of an asshole is he? To care if someone is gay or not? The shit he’s said about immigrants, about anyone not white. Even I know it’s bullshit. And to be mean to people who don’t have money? Like Gretchen. Who is on food stamps. Fuck. She’s on food stamps and how many times have I . . .
And it hits me. I am my dad. I am exactly what my family wants me to be. A hypocrite asshole. I don’t even know who I am underneath everything.
And now I’m in this goddamn House with bandages on my feet and awful hair and my secret is out to everyone and the girl I’m in love with is straight and hates me and I’m talking to a statuette and a mannequin with a kettle drum.
Karma’s a bitch.
“Listen, little girl. You have time, you know. You are young,” the nice woman statuette says. “This too shall pass. Nothing is as dire as you think it is—time wipes away all. But you must get out.”
I think about that for a minute. Here, I don’t have time. Here, I’m going to die. Probably at the tiny hands of a doll. Alone.
I sit up straighter. Why am I alone all of a sudden? Why did that demon asshole tell everyone all our secrets?
And then it dawns on me: Because we were sticking together. Because we were getting along. We were surviving together. He basically tried to get us to abandon each other. This is the game. It must be. And he’s winning.
Demon douche guy is afraid of us sticking together. Violet guessed it. She guessed it early on and the douche guy is nervous.
Which probably means that Paul, Gretchen, Dylan, and Violet are out there somewhere, each in separate rooms, all by themselves, too.
And maybe they’re in rooms that don’t just have some snarky kettle drum guy making them feel bad about themselves. Most of this House wants to eat us alive.
That’s when I hear glass break somewhere in the House, somewhere not in the room with me.
Something’s gotten out.
GRETCHEN
I’m on my back and all I can see is blue around me. A blue, plush ceiling, like from the 1700s. Blue velvet walls. Even the carpet I’
m on—which smells totally gross—is lush and blue. I stand up and take a look in front of me. Behind a knee-high, ornate wall stand cellos, violins, and cymbals; there’s a white plush ceiling, like the upholstery of a super-swank couch, candelabras everywhere, blue velvet chairs that look more expensive than anything I’ve ever owned. The exact opposite of my home. My shitty duplex on the bottom, with the family with six kids up above, little feet and big feet constantly stomping at all hours of the night. The barking little mongrel of a dog. No rest for the wicked, I guess. I must be pretty wicked.
And here I am, stuck in a room made for rich people.
I look to my left and start—I think I’ve seen a person, but it’s just me in the mirror. My bleach blonde hair is lit from above. It should make me look angelic, really, that kind of lighting. But I just look tired. I have bags under my eyes. My roots are showing, dark and dingy near the rest of my hair. My skin looks gray. I look thirty years older than I am. The words jump in my mind faster than I can squash them down, faster than my excuses and my lies to myself.
I look like trailer trash.
Actually, a trailer would probably be nicer than our shithole home.
I surprise myself with a sharp bark of a laugh. Well. There you have it. The truth. I feel my muscles relax, I feel the furrow between my brows unfurrow. I am who I am. My dad didn’t want me, didn’t think I was worth staying for or even getting to know. He knew already. He knew. No use in trying so hard. I can just let go now, get knocked up, work at Walmart for no pay like my mom. I should probably start smoking. My teeth are too straight, too white. Dylan is always commenting on them.
Dylan.
John.
I sit straight down on the floor, like I’m a puppet whose master has found something else to play with. My strings cut, on my own now.
Dylan.
I don’t feel anything though, not really. Just a draining, like someone pulled a stopper and all the feeling is leaking out. An emptying. I can stop pretending to be in love with him, too. Because as long as I’m being honest, I can, well, be honest—that I loved him at first because he was different. Because he was weird and unique and he fit who I was trying to be. And now he’s like a brother to me because we’ve been dancing this dance so long. We fit each other’s lies. But I’m not in love with him anymore. Whoever he is.
