by B. B. Easton
“I’m not anorexic,” I declared, turning back to Nurse B. “I eat. I eat every day.”
Well, maybe not every day, but...
Nurse Bitchface turned her judgmental attention to me and said, “Miss Bradley,” hissing on the S sound to emphasize that I was still a child. “Anorexia is when someone intentionally maintains an underweight state. Unless you have a terminal illness or a tape worm, which you do not have, intentional caloric restriction is the only way to maintain a weight this far below normal.” She stared at me, daring me to argue with her again.
“Anorexic?” My mom tried the word out and—from the look on her face—decided she didn’t like the way it tasted.
“Mrs. Bradley, please remove all bathroom scales from your home and have Brooke keep a food diary. Her nutritionist will need to see it. Please buzz the nurses’ station when Brooke has urinated, and be sure to schedule those appointments before you leave.”
Nurse Bitchface left, and the room was suddenly way too quiet.
I didn’t want their “help.” I didn’t want to go to the behavioral whatever or the goddamn nutritionist. I had finally gotten rid of my gut and I was not growing that shit back. They couldn’t make me. My body looked like an alien’s before—all belly and no breasts. I wasn’t going back to that.
I needed to change the subject before my mom made me talk about it. Although the silence in the room told me that she didn’t exactly want to talk about it, either.
“What I was going to tell you, before,” I said, “is that Juliet is here. I left work early because Juliet was having a baby. A little boy. She let me name him Romeo. And his middle name is Jude, like the Beatles song…”
I was rambling—anything to keep from addressing the emaciated elephant in the room.
“I saw the whole thing, Mom. It was horrible. I had to hold her leg up while she pushed, and there was so much blood. And the sack—whatever the baby was in—looked like a mushy brain when it came out and it was, like, the size of another baby. It was so gross. I am never having kids!”
My mom gladly went along with my grossly obvious avoidance tactic and even laughed at my dramatics. That’s just one of the innumerable things I love about that woman—when presented with the option to laugh or cry, my mom will choose laughter ninety-nine times out of a hundred.
“If I had seen something like that when I was your age you probably wouldn’t be here right now,” she said with a knowing smile. “There’s no better birth control than seeing what happens when you don’t use it.”
My mom climbed up onto the bed next to me—which was probably against protocol—wrapped her arm around me, and coaxed my head onto her shoulder. I hadn’t realized how much I’d missed her.
After a minute or two she asked me how Juliet was doing. I told her that she was going to be okay, but she was really upset because her boyfriend didn’t come to the hospital. What I didn’t tell her was that her boyfriend didn’t show up because his body may or may not be locked inside the trunk of his Corvette in a junkyard in downtown Atlanta.
My mom sighed and shook her head. “Some men are just assholes, honey. When your Nana went into labor she had to take a cab to the hospital and deliver your daddy by herself because Pop was fall-down drunk at a party and wouldn’t leave.”
I’d heard that story before, from my father. I thought about his poor mom, delivering her first child all alone, with no family nearby and with no idea what to expect. It made my heart ache for her. At least Juliet had had her mom and me. I wasn’t the father of her baby, but I probably did a better job comforting her than fucking Tony would have.
My mom squeezed my arm and said, “Your daddy may not be good for much, but I will say that when I went into labor that man stayed right by my side the entire time. He let me squeeze his hand while I pushed, and he even cut the umbilical cord to help bring you into this world. And do you know what he did when he saw you for the first time?”
“He cried, didn’t he?”
My mom laughed. “Your daddy cried like a baby and sang you a Jimi Hendrix song through his tears. It was the sweetest thing I’ve ever seen. I didn’t think I’d ever get a chance to hold you.”
My eyes filled and overflowed onto my mom’s navy blue and white tie-dyed T-shirt. August’s face appeared in my mind. He’d always reminded me of my dad. Sweet and sensitive and so, so sad. August would have shown up at the hospital for me, whether it was his baby or not.
“It’s not fair.”
I didn’t realize I’d said those words out loud until my mom stroked her thumb across the back of my hand and asked, “What’s not fair, baby?”
I looked up and saw her face change as she registered my heartbreak.
“August killed himself last night.”
My mom squeezed me tighter. “Oh, God. I’m so sorry, honey. He was such a nice boy.”
“He was so nice! It isn’t fair!”
My mom shushed me and played with my hair while I cried, and when that didn’t work to dam up my tears, she sang.
My mom was a simple woman. She loved her man, no matter how neurotic and anxious and obsessive-compulsive and reclusive he’d turned out to be. She loved her baby, no matter how she dressed or who she fucked or how much she cursed or what trouble she got into. She loved her plants, her pets, her weed, and her wine. She loved the Beatles. And when she prayed, she prayed to a woman, not a man.
But as gentle and loving and accepting as my mother was, she was also the strongest person I’d ever known. Strong enough to cradle her skinny, broken baby girl with a smile, sing her a song about taking something sad and making it better, and put her back together again.
When my mom went to fill out my discharge papers I quickly called Lisa at work to let her know that I was in the hospital. She, of course, told me not to worry about the car. She and her boyfriend would come up there later and get it. I blew out a sigh of relief. My mom was cool and all, but I still didn’t want to have to explain why I was in the possession of a Pontiac Grand Prix when I didn’t even have my license yet.
Before she hung up, Lisa made sure that I knew that she was “prayin’ for me.” There seemed to be a lot of that going around.
My mom hit up the Taco Bell drive-through on our way home and ordered half the menu. I ate until I wanted to throw up, but I didn’t, for a change. After dinner, I kissed my mom, hugged my oblivious dad, went to bed, and didn’t get up until dinner the following night. After which, I went right back to sleep.
On Monday morning, I woke up in a panic. Looking at the clock on my nightstand to see what time it was, I realized there was a handwritten note blocking the digital numbers from my view.
I called the school and told them you were still sick.
Rest up.
Love,
Mom
God, I loved that woman.
I sat up, feeling reborn. Like it had all just been a bad dream. Out there in the woods, with my sweet, easygoing parents, I was separated from the real world. Sheltered. And safe.
I took a long, hot shower, and for once, I didn’t fantasize about Lance or cry about Knight. I didn’t worry about Tony or mourn over August. I simply delighted in the feeling of hot water coursing over my body.
Not everyone has this, I thought. I’m so lucky.
I ate a massive bowl of cereal, and it was as if I were tasting all of the flavors for the first time. I noticed the sounds of birds singing outside while I put on my makeup. And when my dad drove me to work that afternoon, the colors outside my window seemed brighter somehow.
Maybe August was right, I thought. Maybe I am going to be okay.
I threw myself into my job. I made a pyramid out of martini glasses so tall that I had to stand on top of a bar stool to finish it. I turned the labels of every single candle so that they were fronted and perfectly aligned. I arranged the throw pillows in the pillow wall by color and texture and size. And at the end of the day, I dusted off my pants, helped my manager lock up, and inhaled the thick
, humid spring air outside as if it were a Caribbean breeze.
Then I choked back vomit when my eyes landed on Knight, leaning against the grill of his truck in the back of the employee parking lot.
My renewed optimism leaked out through my pores in a cold sweat, forming puddles of what could have been inside my boots.
I could almost feel his hands around my neck again, taking me to the place where it doesn’t hurt anymore. To the place where August went. It felt better there than here, where my fingers ached from the absence of his fuzzy blond buzzcut. Where my chest echoed hollow heartbeats that went unanswered. Where the fading tattoo on my finger hurt worse than the needle that had put it there.
I wasn’t afraid that Knight would hurt me again. I was afraid that he would leave me whole.
My manager looked at me, then at the skinhead lurking at the edge of the employee-only parking lot, then back at me.
Leaning toward me she lowered her voice and asked, “You okay, BB?”
Unable to tear my eyes away from the specter in front of me, I muttered, “Yeah. It looks like I don’t need a ride after all. I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”
She hesitated, so I forced myself to turn and face her. Faking a smile, I said, “Thanks anyway, Lakshmi.”
“Okay, hun. If you’re sure. See you tomorrow.”
She cast one last suspicious glance at Knight, then hopped into her modest sub-compact and left me there. Alone. In the back parking lot. With the thing that went bump in the night.
Those cold, dead eyes were back, only the monster they belonged to was twice as big as the one I used to fear. He looked like Bruce Banner halfway through his Incredible Hulk transformation. Sleeves torn, muscles literally bulging off of other muscles. And his neck had all but disappeared.
That’s his armor, a voice inside me whispered.
And suddenly I saw him, clear as day. Knight was wearing layer upon layer of armor. It was as if every time something had gotten past his defenses, Knight thickened the wall between Ronald and the outside world. His attitude, his aggression, his steel-toed boots, his skinhead wardrobe, his shaved head, the tattoo of a giant shield on his back, his knife, his bat, his room full of guns, his monster truck, his muscles, on top of muscles, on top of muscles—every layer probably had a story behind it. Some trauma, some catastrophic disappointment that he swore he would never let happen again.
Judging by the amount of muscle mass he had put on in two short months, what he went through in the junkyard—and after—must have taken more of a toll on him than I’d realized.
I flashed back to his drawings, hanging on my mother’s classroom bulletin board next to mine. Knights and weapons and blood and dragons. Ronald had finally become a Knight, but he was slaying all the wrong dragons.
I felt my body begin moving toward him as if pulled by a magnet. I struggled to resist, to think of a way to escape, to swallow, to breathe, to stop my traitorous feet from delivering me to my doom, but I was helpless.
Stopping just beyond arm’s reach, I took a deep breath and readied myself for whatever fresh hell awaited me.
Knight’s nostrils flared as he inhaled through his nose. His jaw was clenched shut, so I knew whatever he had to say was going to be painful. He was already shutting down, and we hadn’t even spoken yet. I usually tried to make him laugh whenever that happened, but I wanted to live in that silence a little bit longer. It was safer in the silence.
Knight looked away and took a few deep breaths through his nose, then swallowed hard. Looking back at me he forced out the words, “Are you okay?”
I didn’t know how to answer that. I thought I was okay, or at least getting there, but the pain radiating off of Knight had blanketed my shimmering, iridescent soul in a shroud of gray.
“I’ve been better,” was all I could think of to say.
He inhaled again, deeply, searching for more words. Or maybe he had the words, and he was searching for courage to say them.
Gripping the chrome bumper on either side of his thighs, Knight finally said, “I saw you.”
“I know. I saw you too. And I saw your fucking girl—”
“No,” he interrupted. “Here. I saw you here. Getting out of his car.” Knight’s jaw flexed and his eyes blazed with something that made my blood run cold.
“Knight—”
“I saw you! Right fucking here!” Knight pointed down at the poorly lit pavement beneath our feet. “Getting out of his fucking car!”
“Knight—”
“What did I say? What did I fucking say?! I told that motherfucker if he ever gave you a ride again I was gonna kill him! Didn’t I?!”
Oh my God. He did hurt Tony.
“Knight.” I put my hands in the air the way one would after being cornered by a rabid dog. “I swear to God—I haven’t been in a car with Tony since you said that. I haven’t even seen Tony.”
“Bullshit!” Knight slammed his hand down on the hood of his truck. “Don’t fucking lie to me! Tony dropped you off, right here, the morning after your little fucking boyfriend’s party!”
The combination of Knight’s irrational anger and his mention of Trevor’s party had my hands balled into fists at my sides and my eyes temporarily blinded by a bright bloody shade of red. It was as if the word party was a psychological trip wire that set off a bomb inside of me that I hadn’t even known was there.
Kaboom!
“FUCK YOU!” I screamed, my voice taking on a shrill vibrato that bounced off the back of the store and signaled that my ass was about to come unhinged. “How the fuck are you going to come here and act jealous about somebody driving me to work after you drove that whore to my friend’s party so that she could jump me?! Did you have so much fun choking me out in front of half the school that you decided to let your girlfriend have a crack at it, too?!”
I was shaking. All I wanted was for the full moon overhead to give me claws and fangs and the ability to rip his hulking body to shreds like an animal. How fucking dare he come there and act jealous. Try to justify whatever he did to Tony when he’s out fucking someone else and rubbing it in my face.
I wanted him to die. No, more than that. I wanted to kill him. Knight’s bloodlust must have been contagious, because I was feeling absolutely murderous.
“I didn’t fucking bring her there to jump you! I’m the one who pulled her off you, remember?”
“No, you fucking didn’t! The curb saved my ass, not you! And if you didn’t bring her there to jump me, then why the fuck did you bring her there? Just to show off your pretty blonde meth head with the big tits? Well, I hope you’re using protection, because—”
Knight grabbed me by the wrist and pulled me into his body, wrapping an arm around my neck and a thick hand around my mouth. “Shut the fuck up, Punk!”
I grabbed his hand, but instead of pulling it away from my mouth I pushed it farther in. Then I bit down as hard as I could. The coppery taste of blood hit my tongue just as Knight yelled, “Fuck!” and shoved me away.
He examined his hand quickly, then leveled me with those laser scope eyes.
Adrenaline was pumping through my veins at the speed of light. I threw my purse on the ground and raised both of my tiny fists, praying that motherfucker would come at me. I was done freezing in the face of fear. I was fucking fighting. I’d never known fury until I met Knight. Or cruelty. Or vengeance. But since meeting him I’d gotten a fucking crash course in all three. And I was a quick study.
Knight stalked toward me, then grabbed my biceps and crushed his forehead into mine before I could even react.
I saw stars and winced in pain as Knight continued pressing his forehead into mine. I had to push back with all my strength just to keep my head upright.
“Now you fucking listen to me,” he hissed. “You don’t know shit, BB. You don’t know a motherfucking thing.”
“I know you killed Tony,” I growled.
Let’s do this. I’m ready.
Knight quickly glanced around the par
king lot, making sure we didn’t have an audience, then growled back, “Get in the truck.”
“I’m not going anywhere with you.”
Knight’s face morphed into something lethal. Eyes narrowed to slits. A pulsing vein bulged between them as his lip curled into a sneer.
“Get in the fucking truck.”
I jerked against him suddenly, trying to catch him off guard and break free from his grasp, but it was pointless. Before a scream could even escape my lips, Knight had my jaw clamped shut with one hand, and my arms pinned to my sides with the other. I tried to kick free, but Knight dragged my flailing ninety-one-pound body over to the driver’s side door as if I were nothing more than a child having a temper tantrum.
Which I was.
As soon as Knight shoved me in I scrambled for the passenger side door, hoping I could yank it open and scurry out before he caught me. The moment my fingertips touched the cool metal of the door handle, a vise clamped down on my ankle and yanked me backwards.
Fuck!
I kicked Knight’s hand off my leg with one heavy steel-toed boot while struggling to find a place to grip for leverage. Knight responded by wrapping one arm around both of my ankles and hog tying them together with his driver’s side seatbelt. Frustrated tears seared my eyes as I shrieked and struggled for my life in vain, hitting and scratching at any exposed flesh my hands could find.
Knight straddled my legs and captured my hands mid-strike. Yanking them above my head, he bound my wrists together with the passenger seatbelt, wrapping them until there was absolutely no slack left. Or hope of escape.
I bucked under him and yanked on my restraints as hard as I could, but that only tightened them more. I had to stop struggling to keep from cutting off my circulation entirely, and the defeat broke me. I rolled onto my side, my arms twisted above my head, buried my face in the cracked vinyl upholstery, and sobbed.
A tidal wave of thoughts flooded my mind, all competing to be my last. Thoughts of Juliet and Romeo. Regrets about not telling anyone where I’d seen Tony’s car. Regrets about not turning Knight into the police when I had the chance. Thoughts of August. Would I get to see him again, in the starry place? Thoughts of Lance and his adorable pick-up lines, and Colton, and even Trevor, smiling at me with red lipstick smeared across his beautiful face.
