by A. R. Rivera
People like big things just as much as they like scary things. Big monsters, especially. Godzilla, King Kong, Jaws—they were all huge and got movies made about them. That marshmallow monster from that Ghostbusters movie was everywhere for a while, but everybody ignored the kids he crushed in the streets.
Years after being eaten alive by my very own monster, I still remembered everything. I was still digesting. The feeling would never leave me. Like an elephant, I would never forget what my mother said when I told her. “You’re lying! Why do you always ruin everything?”
I know the spiel: none of it was my fault. It was them. Not me. I didn’t need to feel like the pariah, the reject, the mistake. I didn’t have to lie in bed at night with my ears covered, I knew it. But knowing would not make the feelings stop. Nothing could do that.
“. . . Avery, you’re my best friend.”
Angels’ voice broke my trance and I looked back to catch her eye. “Prove it. Talk to me.” I pointed at her tight pose. “You curl up like that when you’re upset and since Jake told you about that chick, you’re curled up all the time.”
I really disliked the way Angel thought she needed Jake to survive. She was stronger than she knew, but she would never learn unless she freed herself from that dependency. Independence was a muscle and it needed to be worked in order to grow. Not that I could knock my friends’ taste. Jake was hot. Super-hot, in every way, even the way he seemed to reciprocate Angels’ feelings. But it didn’t mean it was good for either of them.
I was glad Jake and the guys were heading out to California. Angel needed time to get to know herself again. Since she met Jake, everything had been about him and I missed the days when it was about me, too.
Angel set a hand over her forehead. “I drank too much.”
The line sounded very much like one of Analog’s early songs, which made Angel smile, so I jumped on it and started singing, “Too much, too much drinking! Better call a cab or we’ll never make it home!”
+ + +
27
—Angel
The lights wake me with their morning buzz.
I sit up just as my breakfast tray slides through the door. Oatmeal, canned peaches, a pat of butter, packet of sugar, cold piece of toast, 2 sausage links and a box of orange juice. No wonder most of the prisoners are fat. I shove the food away, disgusted. The morning dose of meds will make me puke but I’d rather suffer that than touch the slop they serve. That lime gelatin gave me nightmares.
Back at Canyon View, after breakfast it was shower time. Here, one of the regular guards comes to escort me to the prison library. He says I’ll be taken for a shower around ten.
I’m not allowed to mingle among the regular inmates. They keep me separated at all times, for my safety, they say. From everyone except Avery. She always seems to locate me, goes out of her way to bother me. If I’m in my cell, on the toilet, or even out for exercise, she’ll find me wherever I am and try to talk. But I won’t listen.
The prison library is small and plain. Well, comparatively small. Canyon View, the place I’ll be going back to once I’m done with this formal rejection, is a much larger facility and has a library at least twice this size. They have reading groups and a section where you can listen to music.
In this library, my task is to take the books from the return carts, mark them as returned inside the log book, and set them aside to be re-shelved by someone else. It’s not interesting, but it keeps me busy.
Everything is done before my shift is up, so they let me leave early.
Just as I am about to get thankful that Avery didn’t show up, I spot her walking out of the hall that leads to the showers and nearly jump out of my skin. She walks quickly past, wearing her orange jumpsuit and towel-turban. The bile is rising in my throat and I can’t avert my eyes—maybe because she doesn’t say anything to me or even look my way.
After my own shower, I’m taken back to the small plain room before the review board. With lights gently flickering, the cameras are already recording as I’m led inside by an orderly and two guards.
The woman has her hair back, still just as tight as yesterday and it makes me wonder if she ever gets headaches. I can’t wear my hair like that without feeling a thump, bump, thump, in my brain.
The quiet man is not as quiet today. He’s not particularly chatty, either, but I do get to hear his voice at full volume when he knocks on the one way glass that covers the back wall, asking a question to someone he must know. “Hey! You getting it, or what?” I don’t see an earpiece, but he nods, as if he’s heard something from beyond the glass and then turns to face me.
My fingers brace the scratchy arms of the chair, turning white, going numb with anxiety. Now that I’m in here and thinking about what I need to say . . . . Cold trickles through me as I try to think. I’ve been dreading this part of my confession, putting so much energy into the idea of telling that I hadn’t really considered the actual words to use.
Shaking my head, I say the only thing that comes to mind. “You have no idea how much I hate her.”
“Who?” Tight Bun asks.
Me. Avery. “That doe-eyed girl in the trailer. Serving up spaghetti and smiles.”
“Why?”
“Because she’s an idiot.” I was. “She had no idea what was really going on.” I didn’t. “She had everything and let it slip right through her fingers.” I did. I hate myself for it.
“Could you elaborate, please?” Quiet man asks, adjusting himself in his chair when I meet his eyes. “We are attempting to understand.”
I nod, gesturing to the chains that keep me bound. “Most people think they know what it’s like to be this way because they read about regret. They can study and imagine, fixate on the demons; but at the end of the day, they get to go home. They don’t know shit.” I’m being passive-aggressive. They know I’m talking about them. “But I know. I understand everything now.”
“Understand what?” My lawyer asks and I notice he’s wearing that chicken frying white jacket again.
I roll my eyes. The point I’m trying to make is far too serious to be distracted. “The more love you give a person, the more power they have to hurt you.” I sigh, aiming to detaching myself and explain. “When you look at . . . a painting,” I’m struggling for an image. “If you keep your eyes wide open and still don’t see the whole picture, what does that say about your ability to interpret its’ meaning? What if I see a sailboat and someone else looks at the same painting and sees a lighthouse?”
I could not see what was happening. I think I literally blinded my own eyes to maintain sanity.
“Sorry. That’s a shitty metaphor. What I mean is, with my specific . . . situation—being in the midst of something that is so glaringly obvious to you—it probably seems like a lie when I say I didn’t know, but it’s the truth. I had no idea what I was up against.”
“Tell them what you were up against, Miss Patel.” My lawyer directs.
This is what happens to me every freaking time: I get flustered. Embarrassed—humiliated might be a better word—that I can’t find a way to express myself. This is the point where I have to say the hardest hard shit.
I sense the sheen of sweat coating the back of my neck and building up on my temples. My mouth feels so dry. My throat is swelling. I don’t want to say anything, and worse, I don’t know if I can. I wonder briefly if it’s possible to skip over it and try to think up something else to offer.
Nothing comes to mind and I think: maybe I won’t say anything at all. Maybe I’ll just sit here and pretend to be invisible and after a while they’ll move on.
I want to tell them what Avery was doing. I want to shake my fist at them all and spew the filthy details, but they already know. Studying me as they have, it’s been obvious from the beginning. Still doesn’t make any easier to say.
I bite my lip, aiming to think every word before I speak it, so they will understand. “All any of us knows is the information that our brains take in. It pro
cesses our surroundings. Right?”
I sound like an idiot.
The one thing I shouldn’t do is the one thing I want to do—shrink into a tiny ball.
+ + +
28
—Avery
Some of my best times were the ones I spent at Angels’ house. Even if Deanna didn’t like me she was still cordial. Even if there was nothing to do over there, I’d still show. I’d sit at the dining table wearing a stupid grin because even being bored over there was way better than doing anything at my house.
“You should totally try that.” I whispered in Angels’ ear, one night as we sat in the living room, watching a movie with Austen. It was Natural Born Killers.
Angel wasn’t paying attention to the movie. She’d started wondering if Jake would stop by during the opening murder scene in the diner and by the time I whispered in her ear, Mallory was splayed on the hood of some car, getting nasty with a guy that wasn’t Mickey. Angels’ glazed look came into focus on the TV. “Try what?”
Austen glanced our way but I pretended not to notice.
“You’ve never wondered?” I kept my voice low, eyes widening. One of my hands was twirling a strand of long, black hair. I gave my best salacious gaze, flashing it at Austen, then back to the TV.
Angel rolled her eyes and got up, making for her bedroom. She was in a sulky mood and there was no talking to her when she got like that—when she had that withdrawn air about her, it was best to leave her alone.
But I was in a mood, too. I tightened my eyes and grinned, daring Angel, begging her to say something contrary to my intention so I could spend the rest of the night proving I was way more brave than she thought. It was just one of those nights when I wanted to let go and do something stupid.
But Angel wasn’t having any of my attitude. She was too caught up in Jake and his asshat ways. Analog Controllers’ tour was starting soon, and she hadn’t been asked to go to California. Then there was his inglorious fumbling confession: those two words might as well have been tattooed on her forehead. She thought I didn’t hear her mumblings under her breath. Whenever Angel was thinking really deep over something, she’d speak her thoughts aloud.
Angel sighed, gave a semblance of a wave, and disappeared down the hall. She was done for the night. I stayed on the couch, sifting the possibilities of this uneventful evening. I had no plans, nowhere to go. Nothing.
I settled for subtly shifting my weight, leaning towards Austen, who still sat on the other end. Yes, he had a girlfriend. But she wasn’t there. His skin was colored like caramel. His hair was too long and he really needed to consider washing his face more often, but . . . like I said, I was bored.
“Moms’ got the night off.” He murmured, and I wondered if he could read my mind.
I tossed a bemused look. “Am I that predictable?”
He shook his head just as Deanna walked in from the back porch, padding quietly through the kitchen, carrying a tall glass of iced tea. It was late and she looked wide awake. Her sharp eyes examined the two bodies on the couch.
“What are you two whispering about?”
“This movie’s weird,” Austen complained. “I’m going to my room and listen to music.” As he got up, his gaze scraped past me.
Deanna snorted, “Good. Remote’s mine.” She fell into the newly open corner of the couch. It was the best spot, directly in front of the TV and right under the vent of the perpetually running air conditioner. There was a standing rule that whoever nabbed the coveted spot got the remote. Austen was the one who started the rule, which was never really enforced since Deanna worked all night and slept most of the day.
“You mind if I change it?” Deanna asked.
“Go ahead,” I waved absently at the TV and crossed my arms. “I’m not into ironic commentaries on violence in modern society.”
Deanna commenced channel surfing. It was late and there was nothing on except cable movies already in progress and re-runs of old sitcoms.
We could hear Austen’s music creeping up from the hallway. I nodded my head, singing along to Cult of Personality. I loved the guitar hook. During the second chorus, I turned to Deanna.
“Is it okay if I go listen to music with Austen?”
My question was met with her easy smile. “Go ahead.” Deanna stopped the clicking the remote, settling on an old episode of M.A.S.H.
I smiled, casually lifting from the sofa. “Thanks.”
“And close his door, would you? I don’t need that noise.”
“But it’s Living Colour.” I reasoned, sounding slightly disagreeable, as if closing his bedroom door might impede my listening capability.
Deanna scanned the dim room and gave a wide wave towards herself, gesturing to her dark skin. “I got plenty color.”
I hummed my way down the hall, glancing into Angels’ room as I passed. She was wearing headphones and dragging a blanket into her closet. I stopped for a moment, waiting for her to notice me. I assumed she’d look on quizzically and then I’d give an exaggerated wink before dancing into Austen’s bedroom. But that didn’t happen. She just sat on the floor of her closet and curled her knees to her chest.
I continued on to Austen’s room and closed the door behind me.
“What are you doing?” Austen asked, wide-eyed, from where he sat on his bed. He held an open binder on his lap. It looked like I was interrupting him trying to study.
His eyes were wired with surprise, but followed my hands as I slid them down my hips, along my thighs.
Austen’s cheeks flushed. His eyes darkened. “You’re pure evil.”
The temperature in the room shoot up, like the earth suddenly shifted closer to the sun. I almost told him he could call me Sheila if he wanted, but decided to lift my skirt up around my waist instead.
“You might even be the devil.” Austen whispered, closing the binder.
I was on him before he set it on the bed side table.
+++
It was almost like I never left. I was back in the living room, my curiosity—and only my curiosity—satisfied, just as the ending credits of M.A.S.H began to roll.
“Back so soon?” Deanna smiled and patted the cushion beside her.
“Yeah, Austen’s taste in music is terrible.”
She chuckled. “I tried to warn you.”
29
—Avery
I was not taking anything that wasn’t offered.
He never loved me. Matter of fact, by the end I’m sure he hated me. Truth be told, Jake only responded to what I did; Angel was the one he pursued.
Part of me understands why she hates me, but another part is still unsure why it bothered her so much. All things considered; we were best friends. We shared everything.
+++
The night air was sticky. I’d walked for a long time and my feet were hurting almost as much as the ever-present ache in my chest. It was throbbing so badly I couldn’t sleep. I had already drawn the lovely lines on my hip, but it did nothing. I was afraid I might go deeper and threw the razor blade I took from the pencil sharpener out the window, into the dirt before climbing out.
I had to get up and move. I was too restless and there was only one thing that could relax me, but I had no idea what that thing was so I just started walking.
I came upon Troy’s house without meaning to. All the lights were off; none burned from inside or over the porch. Both his parents’ cars were on the driveway. I imagined his sleeping house, how peaceful and cool it must feel inside.
I thought of climbing over the back gate on the side of the driveway like I used to. I almost did. I was at the top of the driveway, dragging a knee up on the hose mount to hop the fence when I heard a distinct clinking noise shoot from the other side.
I cautiously looked between the slats of the wooden gate and saw two electric eyes darting back, accompanied by a low growl. The mean Rottweiler they usually kept inside was out, roaming the yard. I turned on my heel and booked down the driveway. The dog barked as I hustle
d over the empty road onto the sidewalk across the street and up, until Troy’s house was out of sight.
I wondered if Troy did it on purpose; if he had shoved Lucille outside to keep me away from his window. The possibility was gnawing at me, making me want to punch Troy’s face until it was as bloody as I felt. The anger burned so hot, I was sure the flames would consume me from the inside out if I didn’t find something to distract me.
I kept on walking, sticking to the right-hand side of the road, following the sidewalk out of the neighborhood until I came to another development. One with slightly older homes in the standard and slightly varied lay-outs, though they all essentially looked the same. I recognized the track homes right away and moved along the next four blocks to make a left into the cul-de-sac.
The white passenger van was on the driveway. There were no lights on inside that I could see, but they didn’t have a dog. I walked over the gravelly yard, passing the cactus with a broken wagon wheel at the base. Without pause, I passed through the unlocked side gate and into the back yard.
When I got to his window, it was wide open as if he had been waiting for me. The bent frame of the screen easily popped out. I poked my head inside.
His bed was up against the outer wall, just a few feet from the window. Set right in front of me was the nightstand. I licked my lips and climbed inside.
The first time it happened, I hadn’t planned it either. As a matter of fact, I never planned anything. I pushed—I pushed knives into my arms, I pushed teacher’s buttons, I pushed my luck in hundreds of ways—but I never planned to. Jake was no different.
Perched on top of the bedside table, I watched him breathe. In. Out. Slow. Shallow.
The air inside Jakes bedroom was muggy—just like outside. I hopped down from the small table, hearing the scrape of my shoes over the wooden top. There must have been gravel stuck in the treads.
