Trapped with a Way Out

by Jeffery Martinez

  Nick, his friends, and his cousin watched the 8th grader and the girl smoke, until they noticed an adult was wandering through the trees towards them.

  Jake and his friends sometimes had parties at their little hang-out. Vincent would stick around, not drinking, not even the Sprite, though he was accustomed to seeing the beer cans, accustomed to leaving early as the teenagers got stupid-drunk (and started doing mischievous things to other people's property).

  Vincent sat on a stool as Jake leaned against the wall and listened and nodded at someone's conversation. Vincent was listening, but didn't know the people who were being named, or exactly what the speaker was complaining about. The speaker said some name, and, suddenly, everyone but Vincent booed together.

  Startled by the loud outburst, Vincent was still distracted by a high pitched voice that had joined an instant behind most of the others. There were girls here. That wasn't unusual, when there was beer (girls like free beer). Vincent leaned to the side to see who was entering the room, but passing bodies blocked his view, and then the newcomer sat down between two bigger teenage boys on the couch.

  Hesitantly, and self-consciously, Vincent slipped quietly off the stool and stepped to the side, enough to spot the verythin and very tall girl with shoulder length hair. He recognized the dyed hair, and then the ox-like nose ring, eyebrow ring, matching lip ring, triple-pierced ears… though, Vincent blinked, the exposed mid-drift, with the fake red ruby in a belly-button ring was new. But Vincent had encountered her before. She had flicked cigarette ash on his head, and then brushed dirt and twigs on him, when he'd stood against the retaining wall at the track and field, cornered by the three (most aggressive) bullies in his class. She wasn't in his class, but someone had just handed her a beer, and one of the teenage guys had just slung his arm around her.

  She really didn't look out of place, though she and Vincent were the only middle schoolers in attendance. The girl was drinking her beer as Vincent silently back peddled to the stool. Once perched on it, his heart hollow and pittering with apprehension, Vincent swallowed and leaned over towards Jake.

  "Hey, uh Jack-bean." He had to say it twice, since his first attempt had been drowned by a sudden wave of laughter. Jake gradually stopped laughing, but he was still smiling.

  "Yeah, what's up?" Jake sipped his beer, not looking at Vincent as he continued to attend to the other conversation.

  "A girl from my school is here."

  "Mhm," he swallowed, nodding towards the teenager who was still speaking from a cushy armchair, with other teens sitting on the back or arms of the chair. "That's cool. Good for you, now you'll have someone to talk to."

  Vincent looked over at the couch, and could only see the guy who had his arm around the girl. "No. I think she's gonna be too busy with her boyfriend."

  "Aw," Jake was still attending to the conversation. But then a few things clicked in his brain, and he looked at Vincent, all his humor and all signs of a nice 'buzz' leaving his face. "Wait." He paused, straightened, and stepped away from the wall, scanning the room before looking to Vincent again. "Where is she?"

  Vincent pointed to the couch, "Behind him – I forgot his name."

  Jake stealthily (for a giant) moved to the center of the room, as though he were going to the table for another beer. But then he spotted the lanky red-head next to Glasses (named thus, because he'd been the only one in their group with glasses for a while, and was prone to breaking them). He saw the beer in her hand, and, pointing to it, asked Glasses, "How old is she?"

  'She' glared at Jake immediately, while Glasses slowly noticed Jake. "Huh? Oh! She's alright. She's with me."

  Jake didn't take that for an answer. "Someone said she's in middle school." Those on the couch, or on the arms of the couch, or those who had been watching Jake, looked at the girl and at her boyfriend who was shaking his head.

  "Yeah," he held his hand out, as though someone was trying to interrupt him. "Yeah, yeah- she is. But she had a shitty 5th grade teacher who held her back. So she'll be turning 15, like, next month." He pointed from the girl to himself hastily, "So we're only just over a year apart. I turned 16 last month. She should've been a freshman this year."

  Glasses lost his smile as Jake frowned harder. Jake winced, looked at the others without seeing them, and then locked eyes with Glasses. "We don't give beer to anyone under fifteen. We've got soda-"

  "Oh, f* this sh*t! You serious?" The girl's shrieking silenced the room as others turned about, excited to witness some kind of fight or drama. Some teens outright laughed as they saw who the girl was screaming at, and then laughed at the completely terrified expression on Glasses' stricken face.

  Her jerking hands swung bangles and bracelets and anything else that hung from her wrists, making a metallic and bead- or chain-like rattle. "You shut the f* up," her hand jabbed in Jake's direction as his face creased. "Shut the f* up, and mind your own goddamn business."

  "It's a rule we have around here-"

  "I don't care!" The high pitched voice sliced through Jake's calm tone. "I don't give a f* about your rules! What? You think just because you're such a big b*stard that people have to listen to you? Are you sh*tting me? Go take your big a** somewhere-"

  There was a piercing scream, as though Jake had stabbed the girl – though, all he'd done was snatch a beer from her hand. She shrieked, "Who the f* do you think you are-?"

  "I'm the guy who bought the beer," Jake stared back at the girl's angry glower as she snarled at him.

  Her feet stomped the worn carpet, as she glared and scowled and was about to scream again. But her boyfriend tried to interfere. He had to quickly withdraw as her long fingernails came uncomfortable close to his eyes. She shrieked some more, "The f* is your problem, dude? I was having a good time! You are an A**-HOLE." She pronounced the words distinctly, and then was silent as she waited for Jake to give two shits about her tantrum.

  After emitting some scream-like, elephant-like sounds, keeping her jaws clenched as her nails dug into the couch, rather than get up and leave, the girl got up in Jake's face (not even reaching his shoulder). "Okay. Okay!" She waved her hands, as she seemed to gain some kind of lucidity. "Who told you I was in middle school? Who here could have evenKNOWN that?" Her rising screech grated against Jake's ears, and he scowled back at her, diluting his expression first (since he was a big, scary eighteen year old and she was just a 'little kid').

  "Someone who goes to your school."

  More screeching – some murmuring picked up as people tapped at their pained ears. "Who? WHO the F*-!" As she looked about, stepped about, wildly, her eyes fell upon Vincent. Vincent was hunched, his hands knotted over his chest as he wrung them out nervously. When he saw that he'd been spotted, his eyes grew, and a shudder of dread shook his lungs.

  "YOU! YOU?" She stepped towards him, then hung back, too astounded by his sudden materialization to do much more. Her ringed finger jabbed at Vincent from a distance, as the bracelets rattled, "THE FREAK? WHY'RE YOU HERE-?" A large hand wrapped around her mouth. Immediately, muffled screeches broke through the hand and the girl shoved at the much larger unknown-boy ineffectually.

  The random teenage boy growled at her, "Shut up and leave. You're loud. You're rude. You're gonna get the cops called on us. Leave."

  The girl swung away, meeting no resistance, and then flipped the guy off and yelled at him for touching her, claiming, yeah, that was a great idea. "Yeah, I'll call the cops. On you! You can't touch me like that! YOU CAN'T TOUCH ME LIKE THAT!"

  The girl, they learned her name was Sriracha (like the sauce… obviously a self-given nick-name), was dragged out by her miserable and humiliated boyfriend, who endured her beating fists and curses. She flipped Jake off as many times as she could… And then she was gone.

  Jake rubbed the back of his head tiredly, and dropped the girl's beer into a trash can. Other teens began to laugh, mocking and complaining about the girl. Older girls mimicked her, and compared her to "other b*tches" they knew. They agreed s
he was psycho. They agreed she wouldn't be allowed to come back. Poor Glasses, they laughed. Poor Glasses.

  Only Jake remembered to think of poor Vincent.

  It was lunch and Vincent was at the running track, sitting on a bench, considering whether or not he should go apologize to the Sauce Girl (he couldn't quite remember what sort of condiment she was named after). But his deliberation was soon made irrelevant as he saw the girl, followed by some unpleasantly familiar guys, marching down the steps of the stadium, past the predominantly empty bleachers.

  Vincent watched from his bench, standing when she left the stands and strode in his direction. She started her cursing about this time, and Vincent looked self-consciously about the bleachers, and about the field, as people looked in their direction, stopping their game of soccer or whatnot. Vincent's gaze was torn from the field as someone gripped and yanked his hair, pulling his head down and twisting, ripping hair out by the roots. The bangles and bracelets his hand met made it hard to grab her wrist as he tried to detach the irate girl. And her fingers seemed to stick to his hair, like tacky gummy bears. Very angry gummy bears. … No… he couldn't compare something so aggressive and painful to something so soft and sweet.

  She was screaming words, but all Vincent heard was continuous screeching, like an owl swooping at his head as he tried to pull away, and they seemed to turn and circle and zig-zag hectically. People were yelling – Vincent couldn't make out much over the screeches, but as more bodies accumulated near him, he understood that no teacher or aid had been called for. They'd been saying: Look! A girl's fighting with a guy. And she's winning!

  …Great. So that's what this looks like.

  Sriracha said something that Vincent just missed, but the snipping through hair blotted out the rest of the commotion. Vincent stared down, mutely, tripping over his feet as the struggle continued, and segments of black hair fell or spilled and fanned out over the dirt.

  A cry tore through his lips, "Stop that! Please! What are you doing?"

  "No," there was a gut wrenching giggle in her voice, which made Vincent's veins sear.

  He raised his voice and pushed at her arm, at the fingers and rings and bracelets caught in his hair. "Stop cutting my hair! You're just- just-" he heard another snip, then felt the blades graze his scalp. Vincent started shaking his head, like he'd gone rabid, yanking and tugging the girl about as she stumbled and tried not to fall. She hissed and tightened her grip as he pulled against her. She cut what she could, trying to avoid stabbing her own hand, she hit Vincent's head with the rounded ends of the scissor blades multiple times, and then, nearly flung to the side as Vincent grunted with effort and she snarled a new bout of curses, she started cutting just as Vincent yanked against her – the two movements strengthening her grip to close the scissors. The blades came together halfway through Vincent's ear.

  His gasp of pain didn't deter her, but the unexpected blood, the realization that the change she'd felt in what she was cutting hadn't been her imagination... She hadn't cut hair this time. Sriracha let go and jerked herself free as Vincent tripped and stumbled to the side, ripping the strands of hair that were still caught in her jewelry, one ring left to dangle in Vincent's shedding mess of black hair.

  Vincent's knees hit the dirt fifteen yards from the porta potty. Those delinquents who had not been alerted or had not been interested in watching or joining in the girl's revenge, peered down from the retaining wall, all quieted, and then intermittent yelling rose to a disorienting babble as people guessed at what had happened. Those on the retaining wall soon saw the brilliant flash of red that clashed against Vincent's pale face and neck, what had dyed his hand and the whole area his hand had covered. Their opinion of Sriracha rose significantly, and they approved of the fact that she wasn't running away, that she was taking credit for her actions, laughing and telling Vincent that this is what he should have expected, for screwing with her. She stood over Vincent, as he was bent over, clasping his ear again, awakening from the shock. A total of fifteen seconds had passed, and then he could process what had happened.

  His head rose suddenly, as the girl was in mid-laugh, and her laugh was just pausing as she saw the bright color of his eyes when he stepped forward, grabbed her arm, and pulled her into his fist as he drove his knuckles into her nose. She let out an immediate wail, but Vincent hit her again in the face before the spectators could process what had happened. He grabbed her by her maroon tank-top and threw her, tearing the thin, stretchy material. She landed hard, on her side, in the dusty, rock speckled dirt.

  Sriracha immediately rolled over and curled up, screaming for something other than rage. Students were held off by amazement, as more and more yelling and the girl's whines and cries urged an already approaching (though not quite within sight) school supervisor to break into a run.

  First the woman was appalled as she realized it had been a fight between a boy and a girl. This feeling cemented as children yelled: "He hit her! He hit her! Twice! He hit her twice and pushed her!" Faintly behind their voices, only a few girls yelled: "She started it! She cut up his face! She's cut up people before! She's crazy!"

  It was after the woman had bent over the girl and was holding her back and soothing her; after the girl had raised her head and blubbered: "He b-broke m-my n-no-nose," and resumed sobbing with occasional wails; after the supervisor woman had seen another supervisor, and waved at him to call an ambulance; it was after the woman had looked up on occasion to make sure the boy hadn't escaped, and that he showed no signs of running away, and that he had only suddenly weaved a few unsteady steps and then gone down on his hands and knees on the track rather than flee; after all this, the supervisor heard the girls and the one or two boys who had joined in to say: "Oh my god! She really cut off his ear!" The woman raised her head and saw that the boy had not only vomited all over the track, but he had just turned aside, as though to go to the retaining wall or the porta potty, revealing the right half of his face which was doused in blood. When a girl came near to pick up the scissors and show the supervisor what had happened, the supervisor noticed for the first time that… well, there weren't any other girls coming to their friend's (the victim's) aid. No one came to bend down or crowd over her. Only some delinquent boys wavered uneasily, a good ten feet away.

  The supervisor examined the boys, and not knowing how else to make all the connections, other than that she'd caught these boys and this girl smoking cigarettes more than twice now, asked, "How did this all start?" The boys looked at the wall, at the football post, or at their feet, grinding the dirt with their shoes. The girl who had retrieved the scissors chirped, with several other students: "She came out and grabbed his hair." "She was yelling at him, like, that she was gonna-" "Like she said she was going to- um, F him for F-ing with her-" "That he should've minded his own business-" "That he was a freak-" they listed off insults and then resumed the shouted motivations, "That it was his fault she'd fought with her boyfriend and couldn't go out and have fun anymore-" "That he'd ruined everything-" "And she said," one breathless, squeaky girl added distinctly, "She said she was going to cut off all his hair, then- um, and then his- you-know-what, to remind him that he's an ugly freak."

  The girl with the scissors finished with, "And then she cut his ear. But I don't think she did it on purpose." A chorus of agreement. "And then he punched her twice in the face and threw her down."

  Just as the woman was telling another supervisor on the scene to see to the hurt boy, another student told her, "Yeah, and he basically ripped her shirt off."

  Sriracha whimpered through her cupped hands, able to hear the boy now that the others had been quieted, "He ripped my tank-top." She sat up, with help, and the supervisor had to hold the ripped material to keep the girl's bra covered.

  "Susan!" The male supervisor called to the woman holding the girl's tank-top together, "Susan, I've got blood all over my hands," he showed her, "If you've got blood on you, have the paramedics clean you off – to be safe."

  �
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  His vision overrun by shadows, Vincent was sweating and chilled on the dirt, his face down, sand-like glassy particles and tiny stones stuck to his mouth, his cheek, bordering his left eye, after being moved around, someone trying to straighten him, rolling his face in the dirt, but he didn't want to get up. The dirt irritated his nose as he breathed, and then it entered his mouth as he tried to breathe that way. His forehead rested in the dirt, rocks pressing painfully into his skin, as he held his ear. Blood rivulets, flowing red paths between his fingers, Vincent shut his eyes tight, and hoped his ear wouldn't really tear all the way off.

  The only thing he could ever be good at was the piano. He couldn't have that ruined too.

  Who cared about fixing their stupid hair? No one wanted anything to do with him anymore. Even though he had only been suspended. The girl had been expelled. …His uncle said his ear would be fine, but Vincent wanted to keep it covered.

  A 'cup' over his ear, a white 'headband' across his forehead to help keep it there, Vincent was slumped over the table, staring at shelves populated with his uncle's collection of oddities. Pitying himself in a mopey sort of way, Vincent wondered if he was one of those oddities, part of the collection. He didn't have the heart to ask when Walter walked across his field of vision, entering with a "Sit up straight," and exiting with a "Do something useful."

  Having served three days of his out of school suspension, Vincent had observed some alterations in his uncle's habits. For one thing, Walter was consistently home for two or so hours while Vincent was actually awake. And Walter would sit at the table of mismatched chairs, otherwise dubbed "Vincent's Purgatory," and have his tea and scan through the stack of newspapers Vincent fetched for him every morning. There was little to glean from any one newspaper, or so his uncle said.