by M. C. Atwood
Another laugh barks out of me, comes from deep inside my stomach. Turns out, Dylan’s outclassed me by a million. That church the devil-man mentioned is for evangelical rich people. Dylan, my alt-’80s-band-T-shirt-wearing eyeliner-sporting freak of a boyfriend is an evangelical rich dude.
He and my dad can have lunch. Talk about how worthless I am.
Music starts out of nowhere. A waltz, but fast and lively, and I realize it’s coming from the instruments in front of me. Happy, fast, lively music in the rich, velvety room. Probably something like Ashley’s room.
Ashley. What the . . . ? I mean, kind of flattering, totally confusing, a bit of a turn-on, as long as I’m being honest, but holy shit. And then I think of all of them. Paul, Dylan, Ashley . . . Violet. Fucking Violet! Who knew? I start giggling. Good god, what a bunch of freaks we are. Freaks thrown together.
Freaks who fought together.
And then I stop laughing right away. They all fit together. Not like me. Not like me and my EBT card, my rags for clothes.
I can’t find my hard edges. I can’t find anything. I’m empty.
I can let this House kill me now. I look around the room and for once there is nothing around that could possibly harm me. Unless violins can walk . . .
Violet was right to pick being alone.
I take a last look at my face in the mirror. Tired, baggy eyes—my future—looks back at me.
Time to put an end to that. Time to find out what this House can do. If this House can do what it has promised to do since the Wheel House wheel started turning.
I walk out of the rich room where I don’t belong.
DYLAN
After the white light blast that the douchetroll somehow made with his hands, the next thing I know, I hit the ground hard on my back on pavement or cobblestone or something boxy and ouch-y. My head bounces off the ground and I grunt from the impact.
Fuck-a-doodle-doo.
I’m in some place that looks like the Streets of Yore, only different. There’s an old-timey organ and a storefront that says delivery on it, where a horse stands attached to a wagon. It stomps its foot.
Oh, God. Another horse. Nice horsey.
I don’t remember this part of the House at all. I have no idea where I am. Or where anyone else is. Including Gretch.
My heart breaks in a million pieces when I think of the look on her face. If I shake my feet I’ll hear the glass shards of my heart, I swear. My Gretchen.
Where is she? Where is anyone? We should not be alone. We should not. No matter what. Violet chose wrong.
Holy shit. Violet. With Rhinefart? Poor girl.
“You’re alone, alone John Luke,” a voice says. The hairs on the back of my neck stand up. The voice is whiney and uber creepy, like that Skeksis from The Dark Crystal, an old film Gretch and I watched a million times together.
I whip my head around and see the horse stomp again. Cobblestone, wagon, organ, jester in glass case, fake leg sitting in a storefront . . .
I flip my head around to the jester, who is almost exactly my height. It laughs all of a sudden. “Ha! It’s me who is talking, John Luke! It’s me, it’s me!”
The jester is in a green and red stripy outfit with yellow mixed in. His hat curves toward his face and there are bells all around it that jingle as he talks. His chin is mega-huge and so is his nose. But his eyes, yo. His eyes are fucking nutso. Like, Courtney Love nuts.
He smashes himself up against the case. “Let us out, John Luke. Let us out, yes? We are like you, we are like you.” His nose squeaks against the glass.
I back up. “Dude, what are you talking about?”
He does a little jig in his case. “We dance. We dance for our supper.”
I shake my head. “Dude. I don’t dance. And I’m not, like, plural.”
The guy stops and cocks his head like a curious dog. “Are you not? Are you not, John Luke Dylan?”
I wince. Anger shoots through me. Who is this little jester guy? Who is this guy to tell me what’s what?
“I’m NOTHING like you.” I practically scream at him. “I’m not plural, I’m not two-faced. I had to lie. I had to lie to everyone. Because I’m not John Luke. I’m not John. I am Dylan. My parents would never understand. Gretch wouldn’t have understood either. I had to lie. I had to lie to make everybody feel better.”
The jester laughs. “John Luke Dylan doesn’t belong anywhere. You don’t belong. No one loves you, no one loves you. You are a freak, like me,” he says and then starts dancing, kicking his legs back and forth. “Freaky Dylan Freaky John. Freaky Dylan Freaky John. You don’t belong anywhere. You don’t belong. You don’t belong. Freaky freaky freaky freaky.”
“Fuck you!” I yell and back all the way up. I hear the horse whinny. I try to run, but I don’t know where to go. I start down the hall one way, but I don’t remember this part of the House, so I don’t know where it goes. Gretch would know. Gretch would just make a decision. But I can’t. I don’t know which way to go.
I stop in the middle of the hall in front of the jester, who is now dancing around in a circle in the glass case. Dancing to the song he made about me.
I put my hands over my ears and back up against the wall, sliding down. I can feel the wet down my face and the empty in my insides. No Gretch, no Ashley, no Violet—poor Violet, all alone, all alone—no Paul, no one to help me find my way.
And then the jester stops and says, “Oh. We know how to get out.” He head-butts the glass and shards fly at me.
PAUL
Violet.
All I can think of is Violet . . . with that asshole of a teacher? With a TEACHER? With THAT TEACHER? I shudder at the thought of that jerk touching her. How did she stand it?
She said “alone.” She chose alone. She didn’t choose me.
I’m not sure where I am, some room that is all red, with ornate mirrors and instruments and lanterns and chairs and a carriage and two stuffed saber-toothed tigers in front of me. Music starts up out of nowhere and I jump.
The instruments in front of me are playing by themselves. I think I see one of the tigers twitch, but the light is low so I hope to God I am dreaming it.
Good god. John. Dylan. Gretchen. Violet. Even Ashley. Where are they? Shame spirals through me. They know now. Now they know. I tried so hard to pretend to be someone different.
And she chose “alone.” Probably because I’m a total and utter dork. My throat lumps up. Soon I’ll be a crying dork. Who has no courage. That’s about right.
The music pauses and I hear someone or something clear their throat. I look around and there’s no one. The throat clears again, followed by a titter.
Then I look down. It’s a mini-horse/centaur thingy. Actually, two of them. One of them looks like he’s half-sea-captain like the ones from the whale room and half-horse, and the other one looks like she’s half-19th-century-hooker/half-horse. They barely reach my knees. I say, before I can help myself, “May I help you?” And then I think, They’ll bite your kneecaps off. I back up just a bit.
The man centaur turns to the hooker. “What a polite young man. Nowadays, more young men should be polite like him.” He stands up straighter and puts a hand inside the jacket of his uniform, like he’s posing for a picture. “I believe you may be of help, son. We are wondering if you can kindly show us the way to the carousel? It appears that the young lady and I,” he pauses and winks at the hooker who giggles and stomps a hoof, “have gotten distracted,” more titters from the woman, “on our way there.” He suddenly looks serious. “They need reinforcements, you know. The angels are ruthless.”
I feel my face scrunch up in confusion. I don’t even know where to start. “The angels?”
The horse/man snorts and his face turns red. “Indeed! The dirty rotten bastards.” He looks at the woman and says, “Pardon my French, Millie.” But her eyes blaze and she re
ars up on her hind legs, then puts her hooves down.
“You bet them angels ain’t no good. Right murderers, they are,” she says. I can’t place the accent. It’s like American cockney, if that’s a thing.
The man-horse says, “I’m Captain Tidbittles and this is Millie. Now, I have heard tell you have a sword? If this is the case,” Captain Tidbittles moves forward and lowers his voice, “I’d be beholden to you for your whole life, sir, if you would but lend it to me to fight this good fight.”
Now it’s my turn for my face to go red. “Where did you hear I have a sword?”
Captain Tidbittles takes a step back with his four hooves. “Pardon me. I meant no disrespect. Scuttlebutt around here says you carry a sword? And I say to myself, I say, ‘Well, that must be a brave man, that. Carrying a sword around, ready to help people out.’” He looks at me and winks. “Help a captain out, in particular.”
Millie snorts. “You was helping me out with your sword earlier, wasn’t you, Cap’n?”
The two break out in giggles that sound like whinnies and snorts combined. But I feel like the weight of the world is on my shoulders.
“I wish I could help you out, man. But I don’t have a sword.” I swallow and look up. “I pretend. I playact. I pretend at everything. I pretend I’m brave.”
And then I add, “But I’m not.”
The captain looks to Millie and she opens her eyes wide and then looks away. He turns back to me. “Well. I apologize. You must not be the young man everyone is talking about. The one who helped stave off the beasts of the ocean and the small beasts of the doll variety. Very well. Millie and I shall have to face the angels with just our intrepid will and our hearts.” He stands up tall again. “Which are mighty, I might add.”
They start walking (trotting?) away and then for some reason, I can’t quit talking. “See, my dad died when I was little and I saw it happen. I couldn’t do anything. And ever since, I’ve been pretending, you see. I’ve just been pretending that I know what I’m doing. And I don’t know who I’m supposed to be, you know? I feel scared all the time. I can’t save anyone though. I can’t even . . .” I choke on the words, but it doesn’t matter because the captain and Millie have trotted away through the door, looking back at me with slightly alarmed looks.
I sit down against the wall and put my head on my knees, letting tears drip down my nose. My mom will miss me. She’ll have lost a husband and now a son, too. And I’ll never know what it’s like to kiss Violet.
Violet. What would she think of me now?
What do I think of her?
But who am I to judge? I talk a big game, but in real life, I’m just a scared little 8-year-old boy who misses his dad. It seems I am only myself when I’m dressing up like someone else.
Violet would do better without me. Rhinehart though? But then the thought runs through my head, thoughts my mom talked about with me over and over. The minute I hit puberty, she sat me down to talk about two big things: trying to survive in a racist world, and how to treat women and girls. She made me repeat two phrases when it came to the girls’ part: consent is key; consent always. Used to embarrass the shit out of me. Like I’d have to be told not to violate a girl who is passed out. But she also talked about power and how shitty people abuse it. And DING DING DING—this is exactly the type of situation she meant. Rhinehart is a goddamn adult. Like, an adult TEACHER. There’s a power dynamic there for fuck’s sake. Anger shoots through me. Yeah. Not right. He took advantage. He took advantage of Violet. Kindhearted, sweet, tender Violet. He took advantage of her.
That asshole. That motherfucking asshole.
Suddenly, I’ve got to find Violet. Even if she hates me, even if she thinks I’m too dorky to be with. Because maybe she thinks it’s her fault or something. And that’s not right. I may not know how I’m supposed to be in the world, but I do know that. I do know that.
My mom’s and my favorite Shakespeare line makes me breathe in deeply and sit up straighter. It’s time for me to screw my courage to the sticking place.
Oh, yes. Time to find Violet.
I wipe my eyes and my nose, getting ready to stand up. The music has stopped. I stick my hands on the floor and prepare to get out of the room. And then I look up.
Right into the eyes of a tiger.
Another tiger stands right behind him. Low growls ripple through their throats.
They are so close; I can feel their breath huffing on my face.
“Oh, shit,” I say.
VIOLET
A bunch of saints look down on me. The saint directly above me says, “Well. I guess we’ll just let the sinners have the run of the place then.”
One next to her says, “Now, dear, we must have mercy, you know. Even for the lowliest of the low. The worst of the worst. Murderers, rapists, pedophiles, and even her.”
Before I can stop myself, I say, “Hey! What do you mean, ‘even her’?” The saint looks down at me, almost kindly.
“You’re so awful, you see.” The other saints, about ten in all, nod their heads in agreement.
I look around me. I’m in a blue room, gold trim everywhere. I’m lying on blue carpet that’s flattened in some places. Saints ring around the top of the room. They are dressed in big bishop’s hats, with staffs. They look down on me. Literally.
But then an unexpected emotion shoots through me. Anger. Not guilt, not sadness or shame, not anything but anger. It feels good. This must be what Gretchen and Ashley feel all the time.
“You guys . . . you,” I say. “Eff you!”
The saints laugh. One guffaws like a donkey braying. Really. It’s unbecoming.
A saint says, “Oh, dear. You haven’t any idea, have you? Well. That’s just as well. You should probably grovel for any sort of attention you can get. You are just you, after all. It’s no wonder you had relations with that . . . horrible man.”
I hear one saint say, “Thank the good Lord above I swore off men.”
She does have a point. But still.
“Listen, you,” I say. “I’m not proud of what I have done. But he was . . . I didn’t want to hurt his feelings.” Even as I say it, I cringe.
I was right to choose alone. The look on Paul’s face flashes through my mind and tears form in my eyes. Alone. Like I should be.
Time to be honest. I didn’t want to hurt Mr. Rhinehart’s feelings. But I also liked the attention. I liked that I was chosen. He chose me. No one chooses me. I’m blank, I’m boring, I’m a Forever 21 outfit. He thought I was special.
And now no one else will. Paul won’t.
I’m a whore. An attention-seeking, teacher-boffing whore. Shame spirals through me like a unicorn horn. Deep and painful and sharp.
“I need to go now,” I say to no one and everyone. Better than sitting in this room alone. I will not cry I will not cry I will not cry in front of these jerky saints.
One of them says what I’m pushing down in my mind.
“Do you really think it matters if you live or die? Do you think anyone will really care if you don’t exist anymore?”
My heart sinks to my shoes and I close my eyes. Now tears do escape. “No,” I whisper. “No, I don’t.”
The saint sniffs. “Well, you’re right. You might as well stay here.”
But then, through my sniffles and the loud voices in my head, I hear a roar. Like the roar of a lion or tiger. And a boy’s voice yelling, “GOOD TIGER!”
My heart starts pumping and adrenaline shoots through me.
That was Paul’s voice.
Paul.
No time to even wipe my eyes. He’s in trouble. And dang it if I’m going to let that stand.
Without thinking, I sprint out of the room.
GRETCHEN
When I hear the glass breaking, the tiger roar, and a boy yelling, I don’t even think, I just run. I run through a doo
r that turns into a corridor, and then I hear some sort of heavy drumming start up. I follow the noise and run into a completely red room with some animated old guy and Chinese lanterns everywhere. Ornate fake-gold statues point toward the other door.
“She went that way!” They say.
The man by the drum gives a derisive laugh. “She’s pathetic,” he says as he beats the drum with one mallet.
I yell, “Fuck off, dude,” as I sprint out the door. It feels good. It feels good to yell. Way better than feeling sorry for myself.
I keep going and run into another blue room. I hear voices chattering above. There are saints all around the ceiling. One says in a bored voice, “If you’re looking for the whore, she went that way.” The saint doesn’t even bother to point, just vaguely waves a staff around.
I say to them, “You are assholes,” and I hear a lot of huffing and well-I-nevers as I run through the room.
The tiger roars again from somewhere, but I hear something else through all the music playing everywhere. I hear grunts and glass crunching. And I hear two girl voices yelling out.
Violet says, “Ash, grab this,” and then I hear a huge thwunk.
I round the corner onto a cobblestone street and stop to look at the scene in front of me.
There’s a jester quietly repeating the word “freak,” lying on the ground, and turning in a circle. Part of his head is dented in.
Ashley stands with a wooden leg in her hands, breathing hard. Violet is against the wall, breathing hard, too, blood trailing down her neck again.
And then Dylan comes into my view and stomps on the jester’s face. The thing stops saying “freak” and lies still.
