Twice Shy

by Patrick Freivald

  Ani looked at her locker. "Can I get in my locker? Please?"

  "Oh," Devon said. "This is your locker, Cutter? I wouldn't want to get between you and what's yours."

  "Don't tease her," Leah said. "She might slit her wrists."

  "Aw, shucks," Devon said. "That'd be such a shame."

  "Mrs. Weller’s coming," Rose warned.

  They turned their backs on her and walked away, gossiping, all signs of malice having vanished. Ani opened her locker and knelt down to trade out her books, hiding her face. A shadow fell across her, and she looked up.

  The pity in Mrs. Weller's eyes didn't help.

  "Are you okay?" she asked.

  "No," Ani said. "Just go away, please."

  Mrs. Weller stood there, watching her. Ani shoved her music theory notes into her locker and pulled out her Trigonometry and US History books.

  "Please?" she whispered.

  Mrs. Weller knelt down next to her. "You're a very strong person, Ani. I've never seen you cry. Everything will be better after high school. I promise. Meantime, if you need to talk, my door's open." She stood and walked away.

  Ani's eyes itched. It was as close as she would ever come, ever again.

  * * *

  When Ani got home from Dungeons and Dragons night at the Lair, her head throbbed. If she ever had to listen to one more stinky middle-aged dork tell her breasts about his '20th level cleric with a mace of holy smiting' or whatever crap ever again, she was going postal.

  Her mom was in the kitchen, the contents of her purse scattered across the table. Keys, lip balm, pepper spray, mints, tampons, loose change, tissues, and a small revolver lay in a heap. Her mom was eating a banana, running the paring knife through the fruit and taking each slice with her teeth.

  Ani raised her eyebrows. "Purse explosion?"

  Her mom looked at the piles of stuff. "Just reorganizing." She plucked a crumpled envelope from the heap and held it out. "School picture make-up day is November first."

  Ani took the letter and rolled her eyes theatrically. "Not likely, Mom."

  Her mom nodded at the letter. Ani read it and looked up, furious. "That's asinine."

  Her mom shrugged. "They lost the disk. The whole junior class has to be re-done."

  Perfect. Just freaking perfect.

  Chapter 7

  The following Friday was "Family Fun Night" at the elementary school, and Ani painted faces, "forced" to do it by her mean old mom. It was sort of a pre-Red Ribbon Week kickoff, and all of the volunteers wore their ribbons: bright crimson for drugs and AIDS, lavender for cancer, purple for domestic violence, periwinkle for eating disorders, green for the environment, yellow for the troops, rainbow for GLBT pride, and safety-vest orange for zombie preparedness. You had to look hard to see the red ribbons for which the week was named.

  Ani had cut new lines into the grey flesh of her wrists, now raw and red because of the regenerative cream. Her mother thought it was just to fit in with Fey and her crowd, and because of that, she disapproved but accepted it as necessary. She didn't know that Ani had taken to doing it when she knew she'd be around a lot of people in close quarters, to ease the tension in her mind. The appetite suppression injections made control possible; cutting made it easy.

  She was dimly aware of Fey, Dylan, and the rest of the emo crew lurking toward the back of the haunted house, determined not to have fun whether dragged there or not. She was much more aware of Devon and her friends at the dunking booth, proffering their tan, swim-suited bodies to raise money for the Sports Boosters. Something else I'll never do. It had been almost two weeks since the deep fryer, and while the skin-grafts and regenerative cream had helped, the left side of her abdomen was pulled tight against her ribs and scarred an unhealthy pink.

  She sighed and let her thoughts go. She painted whatever was asked. Grape vines crawling up a young girl's cheek, a spider perched on a little boy's eyebrow.... The squirming canvas and the crappy brushes made it more of a challenge than she expected, and it was super-fun. She clacked her tongue stud against her teeth as she worked.

  She was startled to see Mike when she looked up. She glanced over at Devon, who didn't seem to be paying attention, and flashed her eyebrows at him. He held the hand of a young boy with adorable John Lennon glasses, no more than three or four years old. His vibrant blue eyes burned holes through her reflection; black mascara and maggot-pale skin. They quivered, uncertain. His fear made her want to cry.

  He bravely stepped up and asked for a heart on one cheek and a rocket-ship on the other. She got to work, her stomach knotting with Mike so close. He was somewhat standoffish with his posture, but the conversation was pleasant.

  "This is Bill. Debbie's son." Debbie was his dad's most recent live-in girlfriend, one of a million he'd cycled through since he'd left Mike's mom when Mike had been in fifth grade. Mike lived with his mom, but spent one weekend a month with his dad in the city—it was supposed to be more, but never was.

  "Your dad brought you?" That's a nice change.

  He shook his head. "No. He asked me to watch Bill for the weekend. Apparently he's very busy 'remodeling' with Debbie, and didn't want kids underfoot."

  "Gross," Ani said. "Is he at least paying you?"

  Mike snorted. She finished the heart, showed it to Bill in the mirror and, with his approval, started on the rocket ship. She painted the grey base as the knotted feeling rose in her stomach. Something about Mike made it difficult to control herself. She pushed the feeling away; she had a few minutes.

  "So how's soccer?" Not a good topic, but it would distract her.

  "Uh... Over, Ani. We just lost in sectionals."

  I know, she thought. 3-2 in overtime vs. Red Jacket. I just can't let you know I know.

  "What do you care, anyway? You've barely been to a game in two years. Not since..." Palms up, he motioned to her clothes and body. "Not since this."

  "I don't care, Mike. I was just making conversation." The knot in her stomach tightened again. It wasn't all nerves. She patted Bill on the shoulder, showed him his face in the mirror, and hustled to the bathroom, ignoring the rest of the line.

  Inside the stall she drew lines across the top of her left wrist, each cut grey, dead, unnatural. The pain was dreadful, terrible, perfect. She closed her eyes. Her body shuddered in release as the blade crisscrossed over old wounds, slicing half-healed scar tissue with bursts of delicious agony.

  After three cuts, she felt better. These were deeper than the last, and the flesh separated more than she'd intended. Annoyed with herself, she pulled the needle and thread from her purse and started making sutures.

  "Ani?" Oh, crap.

  Her eyes widened. "I'll be out in a minute, Mom!" She stitched faster.

  "Are you okay?" There was real worry in her voice.

  Just what my social life needs, Mom. You yelling at me in the bathroom in front of what few friends I actually have.

  She didn't try to keep the annoyance from her voice. "I'm fine. Just give me a minute."

  The door slammed, then silence.

  * * *

  Wind clutched at her clothes as she got in the Audi. Ani hadn't even shut the door when the interrogation began. "What was that about, young lady?"

  "Nothing, Mom."

  Her mom adjusted the rear-view mirror and pulled out onto the neon-washed street, headlights flashing off fallen leaves scattering in the wind. "It's never nothing. I know you didn't have to use the ladies' room, so spit it out. What were you doing in that stall?"

  "Jeez, Mom, chill out—"

  Her mom slammed on the brakes and the car lurched to a stop. Her eyes were cold fury as she held up a finger. "I will never chill out. Never. And you will be honest with me. Always." Ani waited in sullen silence for her mom to drop her hand, but she didn't. "You're young, so you might sometimes forget that our deal is a deal, and so it works both ways. All of your privileges are subject to your compliance with the rules. Understand?" She dropped her hand. Ani looked at her lap.


  "I understand."

  "You will follow the rules, or they will find out and they will burn you. It's not your fault you were born a carrier, it's mine, but it is your responsibility." She put the car in gear.

  "I know, Mom."

  "Good." The car started moving. "Now answer the question."

  "Mike was being a jerk. I just wanted to get away from him for a minute." Sorry, Mom, there's some things you just wouldn't understand. "I just want to be normal again." At least that was true.

  Her mom started to cry, silent rivers of water down her cheeks. She reached over and patted Ani's hand, then put her hand back on the wheel.

  Ani tried not to gape in astonishment. Twice in two weeks. Menopause? Or something else?

  "I'm doing my best, baby. You lived as a carrier for fourteen years. Nobody has ever done that. Nobody knew it was possible. I'll make it better. I'll change you back. I will."

  "I know, Mom."

  "I love you, sweetie."

  "I love you, too." I just wish I knew what was wrong.

  Chapter 8

  Wednesday was the health fair, mandatory for juniors and seniors. The emos traveled in a herd for mutual protection against the barely-supervised throng. Only Dylan wore a ribbon—red, upside-down, cradling a fake joint. Ani assumed it was fake. Jake had a bag of oranges that had been soaked in vodka for a week, and Dylan had already eaten two as they wandered the aisles of booths crowding the gym.

  They crossed paths with the jocks twice, and she might as well have been invisible. Mike didn't even look at her when Keegan bought an orange from Jake for five bucks. Devon didn't stop looking at her, her lips curled up in an ugly sneer. Leah and Rose muttered and glared; Ani ignored them.

  A few minutes later, Devon's voice rang out over the PA. "Ani Romero and Tiffany Daniels, please report to the Eating Disorders Booth. Ani Romero and Tiffany Daniels, to the Eating Disorders Booth." Girls tittered in the background. A boy yelled, "Awww, SNAP!" from across the gym.

  Fey blushed, her face twisted into a mask of rage. "You know what would be great? If that bitch died in a car fire." Ani bit her lip, stifling agreement.

  "I got this," Dylan said. He stalked off in the direction of the PA system.

  Fey stared after him, her mouth agape. "What the hell is he doing?"

  Jake shook his head. "Can't be good."

  Jake headed after Dylan while Fey and Ani made their way toward the exit, weaving through the crowd with as little disruption as possible, ignoring the stares and laughs as best they could. They were almost to the door when feedback tore through the gym, a squeal that ran right up Ani's spine. Someone tapped the microphone, and then Dylan's voice reverberated through the gym at insane volume.

  "Devon Holcomb, please put on a longer skirt. Your balls are showing." The microphone cut off and the sound of a scuffle erupted from the other side of the gym, accompanied by hoots and laughter. Fey grinned as they escaped, only to be accosted by Mr. Gursslin.

  "Where you going, ladies?" He looked bored out of his mind. Ani would be, too, stuck on door duty.

  "Bathroom." Fey touched her finger to her bottom lip. "It's a little testosterone-y in there." Ani gave her best enthusiastic nod.

  He looked them over, considering. "Tell you what. My room's open. You can hang out there until the assembly, as long as you behave yourselves."

  Ani beamed. "Thanks, Mr. G!" They went upstairs and talked about nothing while Thrice blasted from Mr. Gursslin's computer. Emo meets hardcore. Please, someone, shoot these people before they make another CD. Ani let Fey gripe about her life while she composed another pop song in her head.

  At the assembly, Jake gave them the details. Dylan got a chipped tooth and two days of in-school suspension, extended to a week of out-of-school when they found a pocketknife in his boot. Jake didn't know what happened to the joint. Keegan and Mike were given two days out-of-school for fighting, and a week's detention. Devon was let off with a warning.

  * * *

  That night, Ani's mom gave her permission to stay out until midnight. She sat on the playground with Fey, Dylan, and Jake, drinking Genesee Light that Dylan had boosted from Tops. They drank, she didn't. A nice thing about the emo crowd: the peer pressure is pretty understated. Suicidal apathy; the anti-drug.

  "I'm telling you," Fey said, "you should press charges. And sue for damages."

  Dylan fingered his chipped tooth with his tongue. "I'm not that damaged." He took a swig of beer. "Besides, they'll pay. Not with money, and not today. But I'll make them suffer."

  Fey smirked. "You going to read them your poetry?"

  Dylan's hands balled into fists. "You little—"

  "You guys doing anything for Halloween?" Jake interrupted. Fey shook her head. Dylan shrugged.

  "I'll be at the Lair," Ani said. "Travis has some big vampire party there every year, and he's paying double time. You?"

  Dylan's smile was almost a snarl. "I'm going to cover myself in fake blood and shamble down the sidewalk scaring little kids."

  Jake snorted. "You'll get busted."

  Dylan shook his head. "Not with a mask. The cops can't catch me, even if they see me."

  Zombie costumes had been outlawed in most states nine years ago, after a survivor ambushed some trick-or-treaters with a gas can and a propane torch. The ACLU took it to the Supreme Court, said it was an infringement on free speech. The Supreme Court upheld the ban on public zombie costumes, but struck it down for private events. And here I spend most of my time trying not to look like a corpse.

  "What if someone shoots you in the head?" Fey asked.

  Dylan's eyes sparkled. "Can you imagine? That'd be awesome."

  Fey rolled her eyes.

  * * *

  Red wine in bottles labeled "blood." Hors d'oeuvres shaped like eyeballs, fingers, ankhs, and werewolf claws. Ani had never seen so many Twilight haircuts and undead slut costumes in her life, and the Lair was packed with sweating, heaving bodies. Travis had been holding vampire parties for twenty years, but in the past few, they'd just exploded. That the youngest person there was at least thirty just made it all that much more pathetic.

  Blood-red candles and strobe lights were the only illumination. The pulsing, flickering beat clashed with the haunting violin melodies of Leila Josefowicz on the cheap stereo. Even with the doors propped open, it was steaming hot. The whole place reeked of incense, perfume, and body odor—much like the black velvet cape Travis had talked her into wearing. She looked at the clock.

  Ten thirty. An hour and a half left. She put her hands in her sleeves and ran her fingertips along the crisscrossed scars. She'd pulled the stitches out a week earlier, and they'd left no marks. She took a woman's coat to the stock room—at least at this party, nobody commented if you didn't smile.

  As she hung the coat, a hand touched hers. Travis jerked his hand back. "God, you're like ice."

  "Poor circulation," she said.

  Travis' face was blotchy, his eyes glassy with wine, and he stood so close she could feel his breath on her face. He looked at his fingers, rubbed them together. "I guess." He closed his eyes tight and leaned even closer, then popped them open. Ani wondered if double time was worth an uncomfortable moment with her intoxicated boss. He licked his lips. "I need you to get another two boxes of hors d'oeuvres and get them in the oven. We're getting low."

  Thank God. "Sure thing," she said, ducking past him.

  She slipped out the back door and savored the cold night air. A siren wailed in the distance, and she idly wondered if someone had shot Dylan. She cut around the store into the alley, where Travis had stacked the food. A cat hissed at her, then bolted for the street.

  "It's chilly." She jumped at the voice, then turned around. A figure smiled in the shadows, and the street light picked up straight teeth with a chipped incisor. Dylan.

  "I thought you were scaring little kids," Ani said. "You sure scared me."

  "I can see my breath," he replied. She saw it too, a curling mist against t
he darkness of the cinderblock wall.

  She turned around and picked up a case, shielding her face from his. "Help me with these, would you?" She turned around and shoved a case in his arms. He took it, but didn't stop looking at her. She picked up the other box and walked toward the door, keeping her back to him.

  "What about you?" he asked.

  She neared the corner. "I'm stuck here until midnight."

  A hand on her arm spun her around. The box tumbled to the ground next to his. He grabbed her by the shoulders and stared into her eyes. His were blue flecked with gold—she'd never noticed before—and his pupils were huge. She breathed out very, very slowly, so that he wouldn't see it. She didn't flinch as he leaned in, close enough to kiss. She breathed in. His warm breath reeked of cheap gin.

  "When you walked out here, I couldn't see your breath," Dylan said. He squeezed, hard, digging his fingernails into her shoulders right through the cape. His eyes blazed. "Breathe for me, bitch."

  She brought her knee up into his groin as hard as she could. He grunted and stumbled back, falling to the side in a fetal position.

  She stacked one box on the other and picked them both up. "Don't ever presume to touch me again, Dylan." He squirmed; his eyes rolled back so she could only see the whites.

  She ducked inside in desperate panic, her heart beating in perfect, mechanical rhythm in her chest.

  * * *

  By midnight, she'd made five more trips to the alley and hadn't seen any sign of Dylan. The party had, for the most part, moved upstairs to Travis's apartment, and after she turned down an awkward invitation to "join in," he told her to go home. She ditched the stupid cape behind the counter, set the alarm, and left through the front door.

  The night was quiet, except for the wind rustling the leaves of the few trees that still had them, and the bitter cold froze her hands through her gloves. She pulled her coat tight, not because she needed it but because someone might see her, and set off toward home. She heard a car coming up behind her, so she crossed to the left side of the road well in front of the headlights.