by June Hydra
“In college?”
“In college. I became…good at getting answers. Networking. Student debt can crush people. So I stashed as much cash as I could away. I made more selling answers than I did at the local McDonald’s for sure. Way more than eight an hour.”
“You found a niche.”
“It was the only thing I could to make sure I would never rely on my parents again.”
“I understand. I understand.”
“Do you?”
“I get the running away part.”
“They were so abusive,” I say. “They were so cruel. They would punish me for the simplest things. Physically, verbally. Honest, I hate them.”
Bishop rubs my back. He leans his ear to my mouth. “I understand,” he says.
“I know you probably had it worse—this is silly of me.”
“It’s not. You had it worse.”
“I just didn’t want you to think I was some upstanding girl. The tough stuff is just a front. I’m really tender.” I sit up straight in an effort to not cry. Why even cry over this? Caddy would laugh his heart out, schadenfreude abound.
“You just have a different facet to yourself is all. Not bad.”
“Not bad?”
“Everybody has a story.”
“A sob story.”
“You’re strong. Don’t listen to those crazy voices inside your head. You’re fucking strong. More than me.”
“No. Not at all.”
“You are.”
“How?”
“I was kicked out first of all. You moved out. That’s fucking strong. You had a plan.”
“Anybody could’ve.”
“But not everyone goes through with their plans and succeeds. You did.” Bishop lifts my chin, squeezing the tip with his beefy fingers. “You did well. You did and do what you have to. You’re not killing anyone, right?”
“No!”
Bishop laughs and taps the steering wheel. “All right then. You’re good.”
“Like that I’m good?”
Bishop nods. “If you want to change, you can always change. You already did that once, strong girl.”
“I’m not strong. Just trying to be honest.”
We cuddle in the car, just sitting in front of the Spanish restaurant, waiting for whatever people wait for: the impetus to leave.
With Bishop, though, I never want to leave. To be with Bishop means to share my happiness, my story, with someone who cares in a romantic capacity.
Someone who cares. Someone who might eventually come to love me.
CHAPTER 12
“And I let everything out.”
“Everything?” Caddy sticks a spoonful of cereal into his cheeks. “You told him everything?”
“Not everything everything but enough that he has a picture of what I do. And he accepted me. And now I can begin my game plan. The next part of my life that doesn’t involve borderline illegal activity.”
“You’re turning into a saint. The boy’s good. By the end of the year, you’ll be canonized.”
“If he’ll do so, I wouldn’t object.”
“You are in love.”
I stir my cereal bowl, thinking of the possibilities. “Not infatuated. Not in love either. I’m in the comfortable middle. Just before the spiral into love starts. The sweetheart zone.”
Echoing in the hallway are the rapid fire tap-tap-tap sounds of Piranha’s fingers against the keyboard. Caddy puts an imaginary gun to my forehead and shoots.
“She played God Bless America and the Star Spangled Banner last night. Both. You were lucky, girl, she kept me awake the entire night. Tell me you got laid.”
“Caddy, it wasn’t that kind of night. We were—or I—was very emotional.”
“Oprah-esque?”
“I had to go through my entire childhood again.” Caddy’s expression grows severe.
“You really trust the man then. You didn’t tell me any of that until year two when you were banging the football team.”
I cross my arms. “Whatever, Caddy. The point is, I finally could confide in someone else outside of these four walls.”
“Something wrong with Piranha and me?”
From Piranha’s room sounds off the notes and tenor of an opera group. Guess what they’re singing.
“Oh say, can you see,” Caddy says. “Shoot you, shoot me.”
My phone rings. I answer.
The voice on the other end is a manager at a local hotel. They would like to interview me for the position of a receptionist.
“You’re ecstatic looking,” Caddy says when I’m off the phone. “What’s up?”
“A big change in my life. It’ll be the start of new me. This should be the start of new you too, Caddy. You should start applying. Look at Piranha, she’s already slaving at the market.”
Caddy props his feet onto the table. He rocks back in his chair, picking at his teeth with his nails. “I want to see how long you last. Then maybe I can weather that kind of storm.”
“And I’m the dramatic one. C’mon, we can be receptionist buddies.”
“They only hire hot girls for that kind of stuff.” Caddy rubs his paunch. He lets loose a few belly hairs from underneath his electric blue t-shirt.
“One day. Soon. Promise me you’ll give up the cheating business eventually.”
“Eh, we’ll see.”
“I want us all to have bright futures.”
Caddy removes his feet. He shrugs. “Heaven, good intentions, Hell. Something like that. Anyways,” he says, “send me good vibes. The prof’s not curving this next exam.” Caddy slings his backpack over his shoulder and pats me twice before leaving.
I make a beeline for Piranha even though she’s entranced by her computer. “You and I are going out,” I say. “You need a break.”
Piranha ops from her seat like a flying fish, shimmying towards me. “Thank Sam, are we going shopping?”
“What could be more American?”
CHAPTER 13
Gunshots color the bland silence. Bullets pin the paper man, ripping into the intestines and heart. I aim once more up, up, closer to the ears this time. I make sure to fold my thumbs properly to avoid the violent recoil.
And I fire. The paper writhes alive then freezes dead.
Echoes reverberate about, carrying songs of steel, the harmonizing tune of metal on fake flesh.
On the ground floor, even with headphones on, you can still hear the amazing blasts. In between, whenever there's silence, you can hear the pleading for life.
"Good game," Piranha says. She peels off her headphones and I do as well, and we caress our ears. They're red from staying cramped up so long.
"You're so much better," she says "I need to show up more. Your skill is five star."
"Not any worse than me."
"I got a heart, thigh, and foot. Feet. So that's four. Everything else I missed. You? You missed one. I counted. The entire body was mashed up potato salad."
The shooting ring we go to brims with testosterone. Here, doused in the fumes of men, I've learned.
I've learned how to defend myself. Hopefully I'll never have to kill anybody ever. That's not a goal. I respect firearms too much to take lives whenever I'm angry or panicked. But the hot metal in your hands strengthens you. It emboldens your walk. It's why Piranha has confidence. When she gets off late from work she won't need to fear the night walking to the bus stop or while waiting for a ride.
I decided on learning during my senior year. One sorority girl had been...raped. She called the police, despite her friends telling her not to. But she wasn't able to fight back. She recovered in the ICU suffering lacerations to the head and back. Then an ass asininely circulated pictures online through social media networks, and she was shamed. Guys—even other girls—slammed the survivor for "dressing too revealing" or "asking for cock". Humiliating.
I stopped following her story after the suicide attempt. The ordeal just bogged me down. But if there was anything to pull away,
it's to empower yourself.
We step onto the curb, awaiting the bus. Several men collect around the entrance of the shooting range. An interesting business idea would be a ladies hour. One day...
Our bus hisses and burps, blowing hot steam at us. Piranha ascends the stairs then I follow.
Multiple stops later, and we arrive at the mall. Piranha jumps out and hops on her toes, squealing.
"I'm so excited for you. We'll find everything you need. Just let me."
Part of growing up a tomboy meant not knowing how to dress appropriately. There were several phases: inappropriately emo, stoner scene kid, then my horrid attempt at mimicking "hot girl fashion" which included stripper heels and denim skirts near my vagina. Right after, in college, came an exhibitionist lingerie phase. I used to raid places like Victoria’s Secret for G-strings and order sheer pantyhose with a cutout at the crotch, priming myself for sex with a guy someplace at school. If I was going to trade sex for answers, then I’d at least gain some modicum of pleasure from the activity outside of money. I overcorrected though, dressing myself as a lumberjack with flannel for a season. Beat up nerds (nice nerds!) who I knew I could push around. They—those on campus—called me the Iron Vagina during that time period. All terrible, terrible phases. Most of these memories have been sealed away in the vault of Puberty: Never Again thanks to a semester-long shrink fest with the university’s counseling office. If I was paying tuition, I might as well patch myself up some before entering the adult world.
I'm not too bad now—primarily as a dresser—but I do rely on Piranha's consumerist taste as a guide. She herself wears tight yoga pants paired with a pink tank-top showing off her lithe frame. That’s apparently the trendy look these days.
"This. This, certainly. And this. Your hips would look swanky in this."
Piranha's arms lash out like fishing lines, each hooked to bait which I eat up. I have to hide in the dressing rooms to get her moving and out of clothes-finding mode.
Her selections rattle on the wooden bench inside. I slip off the first garment, a silk halter top with poofy shoulders.
"This?"
"Try it on, don't judge yet."
I remove my t-shirt and let the halter on. I don't bother with the mirror. Self-critiquing how is impossible for me. I seriously can't tell if I'm ugly or pretty.
"That's decent," Piranha says. "What about the rest?"
I cycle through the collection, casting aside a significant portion. Not that her taste is bad but my comfort zone hasn't reached the boundaries of sexy-sexy sundresses and floral prints. I go with a pantsuit and an A-line shirt plus a blouse, all in black except for a pair of red pumps.
"When we go home I want you to try on my stuff too."
"My stuff" is Piranha code for items she’s found and would like to gift away.
She's a friend. A sister.
"One more place. I have this idea," she says. We ride an escalator downstairs, passing through an immense, swelling crowd. Soon the stores will trap their customers like tuna with holiday sales.
Piranha races the tips of her fingers on a rack of clothes. She tosses out three items and shoves me into the dressing room.
Zebra print leggings. Neon pink tank-top. A pair of gladiator sandals. What?
"Piranha?"
"Try it!"
"This—"
"We're wasting our life force arguing!"
I sigh. Then I strangle my legs with the leggings and squeeze myself into the size zero tank top. The sandals barely wrap around my calves. I exit the dressing room, arms akimbo.
"What am I wearing?"
"Oh my America." She skips to my side and shoves me back in, showing me the mirror. "This is so gorg. So gorg."
"Gorg?"
Piranha squeals but heightens the pitch. "It is so gorg!"
I start kicking off the sandals and closing the door, but Piranha fights to keep it open.
"Stop playing around."
"But you’re so fab." Piranha flaps her hands and twirls. "You're so fab, you're so glam."
Not laughing would be a sin. And I can't restrain my muscles. So I laugh and beat her back with a loosed sandal.
"You're so childish," I say.
"You love me." I manage to shut the door. "You love me," she says.
After the PTSD-inducing Piranha event, we worm our way to the food court and grab pretzels.
"You giving me time is special to me," I say. "Thank you."
"I thought you would like the boost. Remember how in freshman year you thought it was so, so dumb to dress 'regular'?"
"I was wrong, don't being back the memories."
"You can't forget the good times." Piranha rips off a stub of pretzel. She's facing me and analyzing the crowd, flicking her thumb up and down to show approval or disapproval of an outfit. Then her thumb turns down and hangs limply.
"Don't look behind you," she says.
I shrink in my seat. "What's behind?"
"We need to skip out." She shushes me before I can even speak. "Spade."
He's here?
"I'm counting the yards for you. Stay still."
Because of the constant stalking, I eventually filed a restraining order against Spade. He is to stay two-hundred yards away at all times and go no-contact. Our city has one mall though and small networks. You can't ban him from public though. We have to share.
"I swear he's like breaking the rules by three." Piranha glances at me. "I'm counting."
"Is he—"
"Close your lips. I'm counting."
I'm a patient girl I said, but Piranha can be ridiculous. She bequeaths me the right to speak when he's apparently gone.
"He was buying a soda. And a pretzel like ours. Just like ours. Then he went to go but video games."
"I know three stalkers now."
"You're taking pity on him? They gave that restraining order for a reason."
"And now it's past and almost done."
"Nothing is done with guys like that. Nothing."
We rip apart our pretzels and dust off our salty palms. She's angrier than me about Spade. To me he's a joke now but to her he's shit.
"We should get home," she says.
"No makeup haul today?"
"We can do it at home."
I stumble after Piranha as she scours the crowd ahead, retreating backwards like a spy, detailing the surroundings even though I can see the surroundings—I'm no more than two feet from her.
"You don't have to go into insane mode with him. He made a mistake. He's not harassing me."
"He's gross."
We sneak around the mall's backside near a series of dumpsters. This is supposedly safer since you can "be more aware with less people." Fetid rot perfumes the alleyways. We wend the long way around to the bus stop, where we inhale oily exhaust from passing vehicles. Then finally our bus arrives and we hop in, smelling nasty.
Piranha though is smiling. She's patting herself on the back for keeping me safe. But if you squint, there's a distinguishable figure lurking sneaking among the mall crowds.
Spade. While he didn't break contact, I'll admit to being unnerved.
My phone vibrates. It’s not a text or call from anybody I’d like to know. It’s a movie already watched:
"I have a restraining order against you." I keep my voice low as to not alert Piranha in the kitchen or Caddy next door. On the other end, Spade pants like a dog. “You need to give it up.”
"But babe—"
"I slept with you. It was a hookup scenario. Don't make it into anything more than a couple of transactions. It was business only fun second and relationship never. Now please, give me peace. I don't want to date you, I never have, and I never gave any ideas of such."
"You said you wanted me solo. That if I wasn't with—"
"If you weren't with her, I would've been with you, but you were with her, so I couldn't be with you, and then I decided we should stop seeing one another because I didn't want to jeopardize your relationship. I don'
t enjoy being the home wrecker. We were never to be together outside of strictly what we did.”
“I miss you though.”
“It’s been nearly two years.”
“One year and a half.”
“I have a restraining order. I saw you at the mall. Me and my friend did. I see you there enough. Stop calling. Don’t ever text.”
“Haven’t I gotten better about the texts?”
“Yeah. Sure.”
He used to text five times a day three times every hour.
“Some progress is better than none?”
“Yeah.”
“Violet?”
“Yeah?”
“I miss you.”
I hang up and block what is most probably a payphone number. After reporting him so many times, he’d become crafty, manipulating I.P. addresses and harassing me from “China”.
My phone vibrates. I shut off my phone and sleep.
CHAPTER 14
“That’s ew.” Piranha points to my white trousers and says, “That’s ew too. You’re going to get caught.”
“How are they ew?”
“Those pants are not innocent. They’re pants that are just gross.” Piranha shivers. She swims through her closet and plucks out a pair of red pumps. Basically, she flails her arms around, fishing for patterns. She decides on a Lady Liberty theme, having tossed out the pantsuit from yesterday. It’s “too manly”.
I’m squeezed into a white A-line skirt to compliment the pumps. Pretty blue blouse. Black hose with the slight patina shimmer.
“You deserve this,” Piranha says, “I’m so happy for you!”
“Thank you, Piranha.”
“I know Caddy’s stubborn, but it’s great you’re thinking about the future.”
“Right? We all can’t do this gig forever.”
“Though, honestly, I kind of agree with him.” Piranha covers her mouth. “I’m saying that only.”
“Why? You don’t think that getting more respectable work is better?”
“Mm.” Piranha tilts her head. The clothes hangers rattle in her grip. I step into the skirt and put on the blouse while she adjusts the final look. “Mm,” is all she says.
