Promiscuous

by Isobel Irons

  “Sure,” she shrugs, telling me with her body language that she could care less about the intricacies of my teenage drama. “Whatever.”

  When Ramona is gone, I draw myself up to my utmost height. Then, I reach down and pick up a steel ice cream scoop. I’m determined to keep my cool, freeze him out, ice him off...whatever ice cream puns mean showing Trent that he has zero power over me. Sub-zero power, less than zero.

  “What can I get for you and your life-partner today, sir?”

  That wipes the stupid smile right off Alan’s Cro-Magnon face. “Did you just call us gay?”

  I raise an eyebrow, waiting to see if Trent will keep it together, or if I’m finally going to have a chance to use the silent alarm button underneath the cash register. I’ve always secretly wondered how long it would take the five-oh to show up and rescue us ice cream maidens, should we ever be in distress. My guess is at least twenty minutes, if not more. That should be plenty of time for me to brain Trent with the industrial blender, and claim it was in self-defense.

  Ramona would back me up, I’m pretty sure.

  But after about five seconds of just staring at me with that lascivious, yellow-toothed smile of his, Trent just orders two mint chocolate chip shakes. I nod, then keep at least one eye fixed on the two beef wads as I bustle around making the fastest and sloppiest milkshakes of my life. I hand them over, and Trent pays in cash. I fold my arms and watch coldly, dispassionately, as they leave the shop and climb into Trent’s pickup truck. I don’t stop watching until I’m sure they’ve driven away.

  Then I finally let out the breath I’ve been holding for what seems like the last twenty minutes.

  ###

  The whole drive home, I’m cursing myself for being such a damn girl about this whole thing.

  Not about Trent, because in retrospect I’m actually kind of shocked about how well I handled that. I didn’t lose my temper once, or say anything that Trent could’ve even remotely construed as a challenge. Except for the part where I might have insinuated that he was butt-buddies with Alan. But other than that, my behavior was totally above board. Classy, almost. In fact, I can’t help feeling like my beef with Trent might have finally died down.

  Now that that’s over, though, I’m back to worrying about Grant. Which only makes me more upset, because I shouldn’t be worrying about Grant. At least not like that. I shouldn’t care if he’s interested in me that way or not, because at the end of the day, my plan only relies on him taking me to prom.

  I can’t believe I let myself get my hopes up, especially when I’ve got eighteen years of experience telling me that hope is like a donut. It fills you up for a few seconds, and gives you a momentary sugar high, but then you crash. Hard.

  On top of that, I let myself get sidetracked from my ultimate goal. I was supposed to be doing this to get back at Becca. But I haven’t been rubbing Grant in her face. I’ve been sneaking around, meeting with him in libraries, falling for him on my own time.

  And worst of all, I’ve been enjoying it. I’ve been basking in the fake glow of legitimacy, telling myself it’s all going so well, but really I’m not much better off than I was a few weeks ago. I’m still broke, and driving a shitty ass car, with little or no idea of where I’ll be or what I’ll be doing six months from now.

  By the time I get home, I’ve worked myself up into a frenzy of self-hatred the likes of which I haven’t experienced since Margot tried to off herself. I’m angry all over again, and not just at myself. I’m angry at Grant for standing me up, at Margot for getting herself locked up in a psych ward and missing our first and last school dance, at my dad for dying, at Becca for being her foul, nasty self….

  And I’m mad at my mom, for once again staying out all night with some dude I’ve never met, and forgetting to turn the damn porch light on.

  I growl a string of murderous, but impotent curses at my mom and my life in general. Then I get out of the car and trudge up the driveway, fumbling in the abyss-like recesses of my bag for my keys. Man, shit was so much easier to find when I still had my backpack, with all those lovely pockets.

  I stop in my tracks, because it’s too much effort to walk and search at the same time. My trailer is totally dark inside, and probably cold, and I try not to imagine what it might have been like if Grant had come over. What might have happened. Maybe we’d hold hands, or even kiss. Wasn’t that what I’ve been hoping for? What the hell was I thinking? What kind of guy would want to make out with anyone in such a dump?

  For a few seconds, I consider turning around and getting back into the car. Driving across Lazy Acres to stay at Margot’s house. Nana is probably still awake, watching Leno or something. I could crash in Margot’s bed. Maybe it will help remind me why I’m doing all of this. But then, I shake my head. It’s not that late, but I’m tired. Maybe if I just go straight to bed, things won’t seem so hopeless in the morning.

  Finally locating my keys, I dig them out of my bag and start to climb up the steps to my front porch. Something rustles behind me, in the bushes. I turn, but there’s nothing there.

  Probably just my next door neighbor’s one-eyed cat, Patches.

  Patches is always trying to keep from being brought inside at night. Margot and I have this theory it’s because he’s sick of Mr. Ellison feeding him old sea rations from when he was in the Navy. But then, the half-blind old veteran probably can’t afford to buy real cat food with his shitty pension, so maybe the damn cat should just be grateful for what he—

  Before I can fit my key into the lock, something grabs me by the hair. My head is whipped back, then forward again, as I’m slammed face-first into the door. Something heavy crushes against my back.

  All the air leaves my lungs in a loud gush, and I drop my keys. They hit the porch with a clang. I open my mouth, dragging in air, planning to let it go again in a blood-curdling shriek. But any sound I might have made is cut off when a hand mashes against my face.

  “Don't scream.” Trent's voice growls thickly into my ear. So I don't. Instead, I focus all my energy on trying to bite his hand. I kick as hard as I can away from the still locked door, pushing him back a few precious inches, until I can move my arms again.

  Terror clutches at my brain, but I push it back, letting pure hatred rush through me instead. It solidifies in my veins, taking the form of a single word.

  No!

  I clamp down on his fingers with my teeth, as hard as I can. When he lets go, I scream it, as loud as I can.

  “NO!”

  No, I don't want this.

  “Let go of me!”

  This is not my fault.

  “Get your fucking hands off me!”

  This can't happen. Not again.

  “Somebody, help me!”

  I do not deserve this.

  “Help m—”

  Trent’s hand closes around my throat. He spins me around, and the back of my head connects violently with the aluminum siding of the trailer. It’s the worst kind of déjà vu. I see stars, and behind them, Trent's face. His lips are pulled back in a smile of anger, as he shoves his arm sideways into my mouth. His letterman jacket is too thick for me to bite through, and I struggle against him, as the taste of leather fills my mouth, making me want to vomit.

  “I said don't scream,” he repeats. “There will be plenty of time for that later, you filthy little slut.”

  Closing my eyes, I bring my knee up toward his crotch as hard as I can. But he blocks it, again, and my head gets slammed even harder against the wall for my trouble.

  I blink, and I'm down on the ground.

  I blink again, and he's on top of me.

  I'm losing time, and even though my brain seems to be moving in slow motion, I know what's about to happen.

  I try to raise my arm, but the muscles only twitch.

  I try to scream, but only air comes out.

  Suddenly, I'm blinded by yellow light, and Trent's weight is no longer crushing me. I struggle into a sitting position, pulling myself up
against the wall, eyes wildly searching for my attacker. But all I see is the porch light from next door, and a pair of old, brown slippers a couple of feet away.

  In that moment, I condemn Rule #1 to the deepest circle of hell.

  “Don't worry girl,” Mr. Ellison, my next-door neighbor, says gruffly. “I scared him off. You want me to call the cops?”

  For a few long seconds, I think about it. I really do.

  But as much as I'd like to see Trent's ass get fried for what he just tried to do to me, not even my dizzy, possibly concussed brain can imagine a scenario where he doesn't take me down with him. I attacked him first. It's on record. There were witnesses.

  No one in their right mind would believe me if I said he's threatened me before. And earlier, at the ice cream shop, I was actually polite to him. I’ve gotten too good at pretending. Ramona didn't even suspect a thing.

  “No, I'm okay,” I tell him.

  And because he's not only a war vet, but also a veteran trailer park dweller, he nods and turns to go back inside his house. No questions asked.

  “Hey, Mr. Ellison?” Slowly, gingerly, I pull myself to my feet.

  “Yeah?”

  “Thanks, for not minding your own business.”

  He grunts at me, which I think is kind of like a ‘you’re welcome.’ Then he goes back inside, and slams the door behind him. I can still hear him calling for Patches as I bend over to pick up my keys. I keep my back to the door as I unlock it, searching the dark for any sign of movement. When I’m inside, I lock every conceivable lock, on every conceivable point of entry.

  But it's still not enough.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  My brain feels fuzzy, and somewhere in the back of my mind, I know I'm not supposed to go to sleep. We learned that in health class. No sleeping after a head injury—you might have a concussion.

  But here's the thing: I don't know if I have the ability to control whether I fall asleep or not.

  Fuzzily, I sit down on the couch and examine my options. My mom won't be home for hours, even if she doesn't end up shacking up with What's His Name for the night. I could go over to Margot's, but then I'd have to tell Nana what happened, and she would FTFO. I can't call Margot to come and sit with me, because she's still in loony bin lockup.

  That only leaves one person.

  And considering what just happened, I do not want to call him.

  However, my rapidly failing Jiminy Cricket voice reasons, if it's between calling him and slipping into a coma, I guess that's not much of a contest.

  Slowly, with numb fingers, I dig through my bag for my phone. Then, I call him from the kitchen, while standing—or, more accurately, leaning against the counter—so I don't fall asleep.

  I don’t remember much of the phone conversation, but I do remember that I made him memorize a password, so I would know it was him. Then, I must have blacked out for a little while, because it seems like only seconds before he's here. Banging. Loudly.

  Ouch, my head.

  I pull myself up off the kitchen floor and lurch over to the door, like a zombie. Then, I wait until I can hear his voice before I do anything else. It takes me a second, but I figure out how to unlock everything. My fingers feel funny. When he sees me, his eyes go wide.

  I must look pretty bad, right?

  “Tash, what happened?”

  “Oh, just some guy. He attacked me. Hit my head on the wall a couple times.” I sway slightly to the side, as his face turns into a very un-Grant-like frown. Angry Grant. Grant smash things. I wave a hand at him, feebly. “It's cool. I just need you to sit with me for a few hours so I don't die.”

  He grabs me by the shoulders.

  “Tash, your lip is bleeding. I think you might be in shock. I'm going to take you to the hospital, okay?”

  Hospital, yeah that sounds okay. No. Wait. Hospital means questions. Questions mean cops. I can't go down with Trent for this. Not when I'm so close.

  “No.” I shake my head, and it makes me feel like I'm going to throw up. “No hospital. I can't. They'll want to know things. No dice.”

  I head for the couch, and he jerks me back. It's déjà vu, the bad kind. But instead of hurting me, he cups my chin in his hand.

  “Tash, please. At least let me call my dad.”

  “And let him see my house? No, I don't think so.”

  Grant’s eyebrows push together again. Whoops, I might have said that part out loud. I feel drunk. Like that time Margot and I got into Nana's not so secret stash of peppermint schnapps.

  “Don't worry, I won't tell Nana. I'm taking you back to my house though, okay?”

  Is anything in my brain private anymore? Whatever, at this point I'm too blitzed to care.

  I follow Grant out the door on wobbly legs. He puts his arm around me, helps me down the stairs.

  When I get into his car, he closes the door and runs to the other side. It's warm here. Smells nice. Feels safe.

  “No, Tash, stay awake.” He's suddenly there next to me, shaking me. We're moving.

  “Don't fall asleep yet, okay?”

  “Okay, I won't.” But after a few more seconds, it feels next to impossible.

  “Grant, tell me a story.”

  “And put you to sleep?” He laughs, a short nervous laugh. “No, I don't think so. How about you tell me one?”

  “Okay.” I think about it for what seems like a few seconds. But he shakes me again, so it was probably longer. The scenery outside the car changes, every time I blink.

  “Once upon a time, there was this girl named Gretchen Cader. She was an evil bitch. And that's why I hate eggs. The end.”

  Grant is looking at me funny, but the car is stopped. “Can I go to sleep now?”

  “No.” He gets out of the car and pulls me to my feet, toward the porch of the biggest, most beautiful house I've ever seen.

  “Jesus Fuck...you actually live here?”

  He doesn't answer. He seems embarrassed. I blearily follow his eyes to where he's looking. To where an older version of him is standing in the doorway, illuminated by light.

  “Hey Dad, this is…my friend. Natasha.”

  He smiles down at me, like an older and more commanding version of Grant. God, is that you?

  “I think we've met.” Dr. Blue steps to the side and grabs my arm as Grant pulls me up the stairs and into the front room…entryway? More like fucking Grand Foyer.

  Where did I learn that term? Oh, right. Gone with the Wind.

  Grant makes me sit down at the table and take my coat off. He makes a sound when he sees me. I look down. My shirt is ripped a little in the front. I didn't notice that before.

  “You want to tell me what happened?”

  Nope. “Fell. Down the stairs. Lot of stairs.”

  Grant stands up and pulls his dad aside. His face is angry again. Even in my fog, I can hear him whispering.

  “She won't tell me what happened, but I think someone attacked her.”

  “ Does she know who it was?”

  “I don't think so. She lives in...kind of a bad part of town.”

  “Okay, well we'll worry about the details later. How long ago did this happen?”

  “I don't know. She got off work at around nine, I think.”

  “Okay, son.”

  As they're having a heart to heart, I'm staring at the chandelier above the table. It's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. Like diamonds, only the size of eggs. They keep winking at me.

  Fuck you, smarmy diamond eggs.

  Dr. Blue comes over and starts poking and prodding at me. He shines a light in my eyes and asks me a lot of really stupid questions. Name. Date. Who is the president? I tell him his questions are dumb, and he actually laughs.

  Grant chimes in, adding a few. Like, ‘Name all 31 flavors.’ I start to do just that, but I get distracted when Dr. Blue starts prodding my neck.

  “Do you feel any tingling or pain?”

  “No. My fingers felt a little weird earlier, but now they're okay.”


  He holds a bottle up to my nose.

  “Can you smell this?” It's acrid, like floor cleaner. I wrinkle my nose.

  “It smells like ammonia.”

  “Good.”

  Dr. Blue stands up, turns to Grant. “Okay, I think she'll live. But let's go ahead and keep an eye on her tonight, just in case. Will you go ask your sister to make up the guest room?”

  Grant nods, and leaves the kitchen.

  I look at Dr. Blue, suddenly full of fear, again.

  “But...I'm not supposed to sleep. Won't I like...die, or something?”

  Dr. Blue smiles kindly. “No, I don't think you have a concussion. But even if you did, that's sort of an old wives’ tale.”

  “Oh. Well that's...good.”

  He ducks his head, lowers his voice, just like Grant that first day in detention. “Natasha, are you sure you don't want to tell me who did this?”

  I look at his face. He seems so nice. But then, so do a lot of people.

  “No...I'm sticking to that stairs thing.”

  He sighs, looking more sad than disappointed. “Okay.”

  Just like that. Like he's trusting me to know what's best for me. He's letting it go.

  I wish my mom would learn a thing or two from Grant's dad.

  Grant comes back with a stack of blankets. "Gen's busy studying. I'll go ahead and get everything ready."

  "Okay, but consider your feet glued to the floor tonight, buddy."

  “What?”

  My head hurts so bad. I must be addled, because that made no sense. Grant just nods though, like it made perfect sense. Perfect family. Perfect sense. I don’t belong here, it’s obvious.

  "Yes, sir."

  Grant gestures for me to follow him, so I do. He takes me down the hall, and I can't help but stare at all the family pictures I pass. Grant's family is like the freaking model family of America. All they're missing is a fluffy dog with a red bandanna around its neck, for fuck’s sake. He leads me into a bedroom that's bigger than my living room and kitchen, combined. And yet, for some reason, he seems embarrassed about it. How is that possible?

  “Um, there's a bathroom through that door.” He hands me something soft and light blue. I realize it's a nightgown, one of those old fashioned ones with the crochet around the top. Like Nana wears.