The Princesses of Iowa

by M. Molly Backes

  “Anyway,” Jake said, “Mr. Tremont’s a fag, so I seriously doubt he’s man enough for anyone.”

  The crowd went crazy. Voices jumped out at me from the swirl, gossiping and eager and too loud and drunk.

  “He’s gay? But he’s so hot!”

  “They always are. It’s the shoes.”

  “Dude, he was climbing all over Jake tonight, did you see?”

  “He was protecting that faggy freshman kid. Jake was about to throw down.”

  “Oh man, that’s probably why he kicked you out of class, Randy. ’Cause he totes had the hots for you!”

  “Sick, dude!”

  “Mr. Tremont’s gay?”

  “I told you that, Nikki!”

  I felt sick. The rumor would be all over school by Monday. It didn’t matter that he’d come to the bonfire with a girl; no one would believe that he was straight now, even if he married Padma tomorrow.

  “No worries,” Jake said. “I let him down easy tonight.” The crowd moved closer to hear Jake’s voice over the music and chatter. “Yeah,” Jake continued. “Dude was all, ‘Jake, I wish I could get a dude as hot as you,’ and I was all, ‘Whoa, man, no offense, but you’re not my type.’” Everyone screamed with laughter.

  “Hell no!”

  “You did not!”

  “You’re crazy!”

  Randy held up a double shot, toasting Jake, and others followed suit. Chris handed me another shot — my fifth? Sixth? As usual, Jake had rescued me. He could always turn a bad scene good, like the time my sister broke her arm and he drove us to the hospital, calling my mom on the way. He was so nice. I snuggled into the crook of his arm while his friends tossed insults across the room like footballs. You are. Shut up, dude, you totally are. The music was loud but pretty, and I thought again of the guy with dreadlocks at Lacey’s party, the one who made me listen to the Cure. Listen to that guitar. They’re like, so magical. Jake held me against his side, because he was nice. He made problems go away. Another glass in my hand, full. And then empty. The room was getting strangely dark around the edges, but the music was so pretty. Jake’s arm around me was good — it was good to help stand. Standing up was good, but I would like to lie down. Sleeping is good, too. The music is so pretty, and I would like to sleep sleep sleep because standing is so hard when you’re tired and everyone is so fuzzy and saying such funny fuzzy wuzzy woozy thingy thing things talky talky. Sleepy drunky. Beddy bed, sleepy sleep. Pretty music, pretty drunky, sleepy woozy. Giggly laughy, funny sleepy. So sleepy, so dark.

  “Not enough man for you? Who’s a fag now? I’ll show you. I’m not a faggot. I’m not a fucking faggot.” I opened my eyes slowly. Through the parted, woven threads of my eyelashes, I could see Jake’s face inches from mine, red and twisted like it got on the football field when he needed all his concentration to dominate the game. “Who’s a fag now?” His voice was pinched, hard, and he was talking so fast, so fast. My thoughts were coming so slowly, drifting across my mind like poky little clouds. I wrapped my arms around him; I held on to him. My mouth found his and stopped his words, and his kisses were hard and he was hard and my face was wet and his face was wet and my hands pushed at his cheeks to dry them. “You’re not,” I whispered desperately. “I love you.” His face was hard and wet and it was dark under the trees in the black night in the wind in the grim moonlight and he was so sad — he was dark and familiar and sad and I held on to him, and his voice was broken it was raw it crumbled in the wind. Why don’t you love me? asked his broken voice, and there was rain on his face it was raining. Why don’t you love me? and he was reaching for me his hands sliding up my skirt ripping tearing pulling at his belt fumbling with the buckle pressing me against the tree we fall the sidewalk so hard so dark the wind and the clouds and the hard ground. Ow Jake, that hurts, Jake, no please not here.

  “What’s going on?” Strong arms wrap around Jake and pull him away in the rain. “Paige?” Jake struggles and it’s all happening again. Mr. Tremont pulls him away and I’m scrambling backward, pulling at my skirt and my hair in the rain.

  “Paige, are you okay? Was he trying —” And Jake pulls free and spins around, his arms swinging, his fist in Mr. Tremont’s lovely face and Mr. Tremont bending over yelling, “Shit!” and Jake screaming, “Fuck you, man, you fucking faggot!” sprinting off through the dark thunder sky and Mr. Tremont holding his face and I should help him and I should help Jake he hit Mr. Tremont he was trying to hurt me and everything is broken and I’m running stumbling falling running running running.

  My head was pounding; every muscle in my body ached. My eyes were open and I was sitting, sitting and shivering and awake, and how long had I been sitting there? My arms were around my knees, wrapped around my knees, and I was sitting on the curb. On the curb. Where was I? My head was pounding. Oh, I hurt. Did I pass out? I was awake. Did I black out? Did I fall on the ground? Maybe I had a concussion. Everything was so fuzzy.

  Gingerly, I tried to push myself into a standing position, wobbling in the street. My body cried out in protest, every muscle felt bruised. My hands did a slow inventory of my body, my arms, my forehead, my chest. My dress was ripped, but I was in one piece.

  I stood up, wobbling in the street. Oh, I hurt. I hurt.

  Where was Jake? What happened to Jake? We were outside, we were by the school, and then we were running. I lost him. I let him go. I had to find him. I stumbled toward the parking lot. Where was Jake?

  I passed his truck in the parking lot and it was still there. Was the party still going? It started to rain and I tried to run but I was still drunk, too drunk, and I fell, gagging and choking, throwing up in the bushes until there was nothing left, nothing at all.

  Up again and drunk and running, running blindly down the street through the pounding, freezing rain. I ran until my feet bled and my hair clung to my face and shoulders in heavy dripping ropes and sometimes I stopped to throw up again and I wasn’t very drunk anymore but I was crying and I was aching and I was so cold and I had to find Jake and I couldn’t think about what happened — where was he and why did I hurt and I was crying and I had to think about something else, Think about something else, what time is it and when does Cinderella lose her coach, when do her footmen turn back into rats and when do her fancy glass slippers turn into running shoes and how long did she have to run and what if someone was chasing her, what if there was a car coming there’s a car coming there’s a car coming what if it’s the police, they’ll find me, they’ll call my parents, they’ll send me away again, they’ll send me away, it’s the police.

  Panicking, I threw myself over the embankment, rolling to a stop at the base of a weeping willow, where I curled up into the smallest, tiniest ball I could become and held myself still like a little mouse. Maybe they won’t find me maybe I’ll be safe.

  The car stops. Headlights in the rain. Footsteps crunch on gravel.

  “Paige? Paige Sheridan?”

  He’s coming, oh my God he’s coming down the hill, don’t find me don’t find me don’t find me.

  But he did find me and his hands were softer and his voice was softer. “Paige? Oh my God, Paige, what happened?” And it wasn’t the police at all; it was Ethan. He helped me up the hill and put me in his car and I was shivering, so he wrapped me in his coat and I tried to make a joke but it didn’t work, my words were wrong, and he tucked a blanket around my legs. “Do you need to go to the hospital? Oh my God, Paige.” He pushed the hair out of my face — it was wet and heavy but his hands were light. “You’re bleeding! What happened? Should I take you to the emergency room?”

  “No!” What would my parents say, what would everyone say, I’m a princess, I can’t go to the hospital. I was drunk, it was an accident. It’s a bad dream, it’s a memory, it’s not happening, it’s a dream. It was an accident. Another accident. When will you learn? What would my parents say? They’d never forgive me. They’d send me away again, forever. “No,” I said again. “Please, just take me home.”

 
; He clicked my door closed so quietly and went around to the driver’s side door, slid into the car slowly, like he was worried that I’d be afraid but I wasn’t afraid. Not of him. “Are you sure?” he asked softly.

  I nodded, tucked in his coat. It smelled good, warm and safe, and I saw the stars through the window as the rain stopped.

  “How can you drive?” I asked, turning to look at him.

  He frowned, confused.

  I pulled the blanket tighter around me. “You’re a freshman.”

  “God,” he said, and I was struck by how pretty his voice was, how much like warm syrup. “I’m a senior. You know that, Paige.”

  I spent some time with that, thinking about it and maybe dozing off a little, and then waking up with an answer, because I know that already and he can’t know I’m drunk I’m not drunk. “Right.” I nodded wisely, my eyelids heavy and my aching muscles finally beginning to unwind a little bit.

  After a long silence, he spoke hesitantly. “Paige,” he said, “may I ask — what happened —”

  “No,” I said softly.

  “Okay,” he said. “That’s okay.”

  He drove and I drifted in and out of sleep. “Keep talking,” I murmured. His voice was an anchor, keeping me safe in the warm car, keeping me out of the rain.

  The drive seemed to last forever. “. . . went to Perkins with Shanti . . .” I heard him say, and I thought about how nice it would be to snuggle up against Jake, to lean myself into the warmth of his chest and arms.

  “. . . dropped her off . . . and thought I saw you running . . .”

  Stars through the window, the window cold and the moon. My dad told me about stars. The Seven Sisters, also known as the Pleiades, are a sign of autumn. We saw them from the boat in Minnesota. Some Native American cultures used them as an eye test; if you could see the two stars in the double-star system, you had good vision.

  “. . . eyes were playing tricks on me, but then I saw . . .”

  Uncle Roger is from Wisconsin, and he told me that Cassiopeia is a giant W for Wisconsin. The ancient Greeks said it was a queen who was tied to a chair, doomed to spend half the year dangling helplessly upside down as punishment. What was she punished for? I couldn’t remember.

  I don’t know when we stopped driving. I vaguely remember telling him about the side door that opened almost directly into the back stairs. I struggled to stay awake.

  An arm around my waist walked me up to my room, and he turned his back as I stepped out of my ruined dress. It was torn and stained, muddy and wet.

  I climbed into boxers and a tank top. “Don’t leave,” I whispered, tugging on his sleeve.

  He glanced up at the clock on my bedside table. “It’s two in the morning.”

  I held on to his sleeve and forced my eyes to stay open. “Please. Stay.”

  He stayed.

  He sat on the edge of my bed, holding my hand and telling me stories as I slept and woke and slept again. At one point I woke up and his voice had stopped. He was stretched out on the very edge of my bed, as far from me as possible. He looked precarious, like he might just roll off at any second. I pulled his arm toward me, tucked myself under it, and slept.

  The next time I woke up I was aching all over, throbbing headache, scabbed and torn feet — but feeling oddly peaceful. I slowly opened my eyes.

  “Paige?”

  I was alone in my bed, no safe anchor on the edge. I blinked, and my mother’s head came into focus from the door. “It’s almost noon, sleepyhead!” she trilled. “We’re off to the club for lunch. I’d ask if you wanted to join us, but it looks like you had a little too much fun last night!”

  “Mmrpf,” I said.

  “I had to swing by Stella’s this morning and noticed your car in the driveway. I’m glad you didn’t drive last night, honey! Very mature!”

  “Thanks,” I mumbled.

  “Want us to drive it home for you? Miranda can do it.”

  “I guess.”

  My sister pushed past her, striding into the room. “Are you hungover?” Her voice dripped with disgust.

  “So, no on lunch?”

  “No.” My voice was like pebbles under a bike tire. I coughed and cleared my throat. “I have to, uh, work on the homecoming float today, anyhow.”

  My sister looked down at me. “You’re repulsive.”

  “Now, Miranda,” my mother said, “you know as well as I do that the homecoming parade is very important to this town. Helping with the float is a community service.”

  Miranda sputtered, seeming torn between several different scathing remarks. Finally, she just huffed and stalked out of the room.

  “Oh, dear,” my mother said, looking after her, “I just don’t understand what’s not to like about homecoming.”

  I didn’t make it out of my bed for another hour after that. When I finally dragged myself into the shower, I found dark-blue and pale-green bruises peeking up at me from my arms and legs. Every muscle in my body hurt. I huddled under the hottest possible water, scrubbing at myself with a rough loofah as if I could slough off all my memories and start over with a new skin, a tougher skin, a smarter skin.

  The day was cool, almost chilly, punctuated by an unsteady drizzle. I felt restless, and a little scared, like I didn’t want to stop moving. I still owed Mr. Tremont a story for creative writing, but I was afraid of facing the blank page. I was afraid of facing myself and my memories. I would study. I was behind where I wanted to be with my physics paper anyhow, I’d been so caught up in Mr. Tremont’s class.

  I stared at my physics notes for a half hour before giving up. Nothing made sense, and the words just hurt my head. I got a glass of water and went back to bed for the rest of the day.

  Late in the afternoon I woke to the ringing of my phone. It took me a moment to place the sound and then another to remember where my purse was. I rolled to the side of the bed and grabbed for the strap peeking out from under it. There was a clattering metallic noise as everything dumped out onto the floor and rolled under the bed. “Goddammit,” I muttered, patting my hand around for the flat shape of my phone. When I finally found it, I didn’t recognize the number and stared at it for a moment before answering. “Hello?”

  “Paige?”

  My breath caught in my throat. “Ethan?”

  “Yeah. Hi.”

  I felt myself smiling into the phone, and then I remembered the night before. Shit. “Hi.” I fell back against my pillows and closed my eyes.

  “Uh . . . how are you?”

  What had I told him last night? What had I said? Memories came to me in flashes: Ethan crouched next to me, backlit by headlights; the way his car smelled, like mint and warmth and spice; his reassuring weight on the edge of my bed. I thought of how I must have looked to him — pathetic and wasted — and I flushed with shame.

  “I’ve been better,” I finally said, cringing.

  His voice was soft. “Are you okay? Really?”

  The concern in his voice made me anxious. His words came back to me: I’ve never felt a connection like this with anyone else. . . . And where had that gotten him? I couldn’t let him keep caring, because he’d only get hurt. I wasn’t the person he thought I was. I couldn’t be. I’d made my choice, and I chose Jake. I wasn’t a writer, I was a fucking drunk. What had Lacey called me? A dumb slut? I was a dumb slut, not a writer. I didn’t belong at a poetry reading or writing in a café; I belonged in the smoky basement of some party surrounded by people I hate.

  “I’m fine.”

  “About last night . . .”

  “Thanks for bringing me home,” I said quickly. “You didn’t have to do that.”

  There was a pause. “Of course I did.”

  “It was very nice of you, but I could have walked. I was okay.”

  Another pause.

  I pulled at a string in my quilt. “I should —”

  He interrupted me. “Look, I . . . I fell asleep. . . . I didn’t mean to, but I did. When I woke up . . .” He paused. I
held my breath, squeezing my eyes shut. “You had curled up beside me, tucked yourself under my arm, and I thought . . .”

  I didn’t breathe. It was quiet between us, the long expectant pause of waiting to hear the thing you want the most. I swallowed heavily. “I was . . . very drunk.”

  Silence.

  “I have to go. I’ll see you around, okay?” Without waiting for an answer, I hung up the phone and threw it across the room.

  On Monday morning I was drained like the morning after a night spent sobbing. I drove to school in a daze, not even bothering to stop and buy coffee. The air pushed against me like water, and I had a hard time hearing. I swam against the stream of people and headed to class. The week leading up to homecoming was designated “Spirit Week,” with a different stupid theme for every day. Apparently it was Pajama Day. In the hallways, girls in pigtails and slippers whispered and pointed, and Lacey limped past me with a blank stare. You’re done, her eyes said, but I didn’t even care.

  Halfway to history, the hallway traffic stopped moving, and the normal morning chatter and gossip stopped with a gasp. “What’s going on?” asked the girl next to me.

  I shook my head. “I don’t know.”

  Voices spoke in a jumbled chorus. “I can’t believe it — Who did it? — It’s true, you know — It’s awful — It’s wrong — Did you hear? — Stonewall-type shit.” Curious now, I pushed through the crowd to see for myself.

  Sprayed across a classroom door in angry red letters, sharp like lightning, was one word:

  FAGGOT.

  The crowd swirled around me, shocked and whispering, people edging themselves into the drama as if to elevate themselves by proximity. Planning to lay claim to the celebrity of first witness, most horrified, most outraged. Boys scoffed and girls gasped and in my head voices from the weekend suddenly threatened to overwhelm me.

  Everything blurred at the edges, and the people grew hazy around me, until the only things that remained clear were the jagged letters across Mr. Tremont’s door.