Shameful

by Rebecca J. Clark

  Sammy Jo glanced at Morris as he poured them both a beer. Yeah, he did have a bit of the George Clooney vibe, didn’t he?

  Michelle took off again just as he came back and handed her a red plastic cup full of beer. She took the cup from him, and their fingers brushed. His hand lingered and she glanced up at him. When he smiled, her insides turned all warm and gooey.

  Would he try to kiss her tonight? She was almost positive he would. Should she let him? Her stomach clenched. No doubt he’d be a better kisser than the other boys she’d kissed before. Not that she had kissed that many boys. Just two, in fact. Three if you counted Arthur Baker in kindergarten.

  But Morris wasn’t a boy. He was a man. Excitement quivered between her legs.

  She made a quick decision. If he tried, she’d let him. Why not, right? He was beautiful, he was nice, he was interested in her... why not have a little fun with him, right? After all, that was the whole reason she came tonight.

  As they walked back to the fire, Morris slid his arm from her shoulders and entwined their fingers.

  Oh, my God! Oh, my God! Oh, my God! He would definitely try to kiss her soon. Her lips tingled at the thought. Would he ask to see her again after tonight? She forced her feet not to dance across the broken pavement.

  She stumbled and fell against him. “Oops! Sorry,” she mumbled. The edges of the fire blurred in her eyes and she blinked a couple of times to clear her vision.

  “No, problem, babe,” Morris said, smiling down at her and wrapping his strong arm around her shoulders again.

  Clearly, she’d had a bit too much beer, but she’d only had three, right? Or was it four? But that really wasn’t all that much, was it? She’d had more than this to drink before, like that night at Bonnie’s last month when her parents were away. And that had been the hard stuff. This was just beer. You couldn’t get drunk on beer unless you drank a ton of it. Right?

  Nausea roiled through her stomach and she pressed her hand against her belly. Double dammit. She couldn’t be getting sick already, could she?

  Peering up at Morris, she blinked and tried to focus her vision on his face. He looked even fuzzier than the fire. “I don’t feel so good. I’m… I’m sorry. I need to find my friends and go back to my car.”

  He braced her more firmly against his body. “Poor baby.” He leaned in and kissed the top of her head. “Do you see your friends?”

  She looked around, her eyesight wavy, like her eyes were crossed. No, she didn’t see them anywhere. She shook her head.

  “I’ll tell you what. I’ll walk you back to your car, then I’ll go find your friends. Michelle, right? The one we met in line?”

  She nodded, but the small movement made her want to puke. “I don’t have the keys.” She bent forward and rested her hands on her knees, taking some deep breaths and trying to get her equilibrium back. “Bonnie does,” she gasped. “She locked the car.”

  Morris rubbed her back until she was ready to stand upright again, then led her into the parking lot area. “My car is over here. You can lie down in the backseat, and I’ll be back with your friends as soon as I find them.”

  A tiny little voice in her head said, “Not a good idea,” but she felt way too gross to pay it much attention.

  They stopped in front of a blue car and Morris opened the back door. She turned sideways and sat, the ground moving and dipping beneath her. He knelt in front of her and cupped her face, peering deep into her eyes.

  “I don’t want to puke in your car. What if I—?”

  He didn’t seem to hear her. “This is going to be great.” He smiled, then dropped a soft kiss onto her lips.

  Wait. What was going to be great? Then she passed out.

  * * *

  The ground moved.

  Or maybe it was just her head whirling. No. It was both. Sammy Jo’s eyelids were sandpaper and wouldn’t open. She wanted rub the grit from her eyes, but her arms were heavy and useless.

  Her head spun faster than the spin cycle of a wash machine. She focused on her breath. At least that part of her body worked. She smelled smoke. Cigarettes? Where was she?

  Was she dreaming? No. You can’t smell in your dreams, can you?

  Wait.

  Smoke.

  A bonfire! The party at the abandoned airstrip.

  But where was she now? Had she passed out? Was the ground spinning because she was drunk?

  Road noise. Which meant she was in a car. She pried open her eyelids only to see more darkness. As her sight slowly adjusted, she noticed a lit butt of a cigarette directly above her. When did Bonnie start smoking? Or was that Michelle?

  Her mind struggled to focus, to put her senses in order and figure out what was going on.

  She was on the floor of a car. Two people sat in the backseat with her. Male voices. Laughing. Swearing.

  Wait. She was on the floor? In the backseat of a car? Whose car? Where were Bonnie and Michelle? How on earth had she—?

  A bolt of fear paralyzed her.

  She was alone. With a bunch of guys she didn’t know.

  This is not good. She almost laughed at the understatement, but something told her to stay still. They must not find out she was awake. If you could call this drunken state she was in “awake.”

  Had she really drunk that much? She squeezed her eyes tighter as if that could help her remember. She’d only had a few beers, hadn’t she? She’d felt sick, like she was going to puke, then Morris had—

  Morris. His blinding smile flashed into her mind’s eye. He’d been so sweet, helping her back to her car. Wait. No. They’d gone to his car.

  Was this his car?

  This is going to be great. What had he meant by that? What was going to be great?

  Her head pounded from trying to remember everything. She took a few deep breaths, then forced herself not to cough. The open windows did nothing to dispel the smoke from the car’s interior.

  If she coughed, they would know she was awake, and then what? She shuddered, not wanting to think about it.

  She could barely make out the shapes of the guys in the backseat. She listened, trying to figure out how many were in the car with her.

  It sounded like someone was swinging a baseball bat at passing mailboxes. Every once in a while, wood connected with metal and the jerk would screech, “Got another one!” And the rest of the car would cheer.

  If she wasn’t so scared and so sick, she’d laugh about what a bunch of idiots they were.

  She heard the occasional pop of a can, then the sound it made when it was crumpled in someone’s hand. And she could smell the beer. So they were all drinking.

  Great. Just great.

  Her stomach roiled. Her head throbbed.

  She prayed to God Bonnie and Michelle had seen where she’d gone. Morris had gone to find them— maybe they were all looking for her. Or maybe... maybe this was Morris’ car and he was taking her home.

  Yeah, right. He didn’t know where she lived. And if he was concerned about her, he wouldn’t have laid her on the floor of his car. But if this was his car, he’d probably be driving.

  She held very still and focused on all the talk and activity. So far, she hadn’t heard Morris’ voice, which was good. Even though he’d made that weird comment, she couldn’t imagine he’d be part of this. She really, really, really didn’t want him to be part of this.

  Bat Boy was loser number one. He was in the back seat along with Cigarette, the dude sitting right above her. He yelled that his beer was empty and Passenger Seat chucked one back from the front seat.

  The Driver made loser number four. So at least four guys. She clenched and unclenched her fists, and forced herself to take long, even breaths. She had to get her equilibrium and her strength back. Before they stopped the car.

  Sammy Jo heard the pop of a can, loud chugging, then Cigarette said, “What is this? Piss? What idiot bought this shit?”

  “Don’t look at me,” Passenger Seat said. “Carlos swiped it from his neighbor’s bac
k porch. It might taste like piss but it’s free.”

  Cigarette shifted in his seat, his foot moving beneath her head, pulling on her hair. She bit back a wince. “I can get free piss any day of the week.” He drained the can and crumpled it in his fist, then tossed it out the window.

  Aerosmith blared from the radio, the loud bass reverberating beneath Sammy Jo’s body. The music throbbed in time with her massive headache. It hurt so bad she felt nauseous.

  Don’t throw up. Don’t throw up. Don’t throw up.

  If she did, it would be all over Cigarette’s shoe.

  Now he and Passenger Seat argued over the last beer. “No way, Johnny. This one’s mine, wah wah wah wah?” His words became unintelligible in her head, like the adult speak in old Charlie Brown cartoons.

  Johnny.

  He’d called Cigarette “Johnny.”

  Fear bubbled in Sammy Jo’s throat but at first she didn’t know why. Wait. The guy from the bonfire— Morris had said his name was Johnny. She strained to focus her thoughts. He’d been following her. Glaring at her. Was this the same Johnny? Was this his doing? Maybe he was pissed that she’d ignored him and hooked up with Morris. Maybe when Morris had left to go find Bonnie and Michelle, Johnny had found her and taken off with her. Maybe Morris and her friends were looking for her right now. The thought made her feel a little better.

  Johnny and Passenger Seat played “Rock, Scissors, Paper” to see who won the last beer. Johnny picked rock. She didn’t see what the other asshole picked, but Johnny won. Sammy Jo never won that game.

  They were playing a stupid game while her life lay in their hands. Or at least her dignity. She wanted to scream and cry. And puke. In no particular order. But she did nothing. She couldn’t. Didn’t dare to do anything but breathe.

  Johnny leaned back in his seat to drink his beer. He wiggled his foot as if to see if she was awake. She held her breath and was glad her long hair covered most of her face.

  “Shouldn’t she be awake by now?” he asked, his voice closer, which meant he was leaning over her. When no one answered, he said, “Do you think she’s okay?” His pubescent voice cracked, which made him sound a little less scary. He was probably only about fifteen. Just a kid. It didn’t make him any less dangerous though, any less of a loser.

  Sammy Jo froze as Bat Boy, the one who’d been hanging out the window, lifted the hem of her shirt, his rough knuckles grazing her bare torso.

  Don’t move. Don’t breathe.

  “Hell yeah, she’s okay. Take a look at them titties!”

  Oh, God. Please don’t let him touch me.

  He made some other lewd comments and raucous laughter roared through the car. But at least he didn’t touch her.

  “Leave her alone,” Johnny commanded, surprising her.

  “Why should we leave her alone?” Batboy asked. “We ain’t hurtin’ nothin’. Look, she don’t even know what’s going on.”

  Something lukewarm and wet dribbled onto her face. Just beer. Whew! Thank God. She couldn’t help squeezing her eyes a bit tighter, but otherwise she stayed still. “See?”

  “Cut it out, Carlos,” Johnny said. He was looking out for her? “Does anybody know her name? Morris? You’re the one who picked her up.”

  Heat rushed through Sammy Jo’s body at the mention of Morris’ name and her ears buzzed. Her stomach knotted painfully. No. No! Her body started to shake. Tears burned her eyelids, and one slipped down her cheek. Morris couldn’t be part of this. He’d told her Johnny was bad news, to stay away from him, but the two were obviously friends. They’d probably been in on this from the beginning. Had Johnny watched her and purposefully wigged her out, so Morris could “save” her?

  Oh, God. She just wanted to curl up into a ball and cry.

  The car swerved, bouncing her against Johnny’s leg. “Sammy Jo,” Morris said in that deep voice that she’d once found so sexy. Now it just made her want to vomit. “I think. I’m trusting you to keep an eye on my bitch, Johnny. I want everything to remain in working order, ya know?”

  Sammy Jo gasped. She wanted to jump up and pound the shit out of Morris. How dare he? He’d made her think he was interested in her, made her feel attractive, made her feel safe. He made her think that he... she swallowed back a sob. These other guys were all younger than him. He probably lied about being in college, too. He’d lied about everything. And she’d fallen for it, all of it.

  This is going to be great. Those words sounded ominous now. She recalled how weird his eyes had looked when he said it. Black. Expressionless. Like a doll’s eyes. Oh, God. She was going to be sick.

  “Yo, Morris!” Bat Boy called out. “Pull over. I gotta take a leak.”

  Passenger Seat said he needed to do the same.

  “You kidding?” Morris snapped. “I ain’t stopping anywhere until we ditch this car. You shitheads’ll have to hold it.” And to think she’d thought he’d sounded smart. Sheesh. She was such an idiot.

  Cold air rushed into the car along with louder road noise. Someone had obviously rolled down another window.

  “Hell if I’m gonna hold it,” Bat Boy snapped. “Watch this.”

  Sammy Jo pictured the idiot peeing out the window, because it was better than thinking about what they had planned for her.

  “Hey,” someone whispered, poking her shoulder. “Sammy Jo?”

  Johnny. Shit. Freako stalker boy. Stay still. Don’t move. Don’t breathe.

  “I know you’re awake.”

  Double dammit! She thought about staying still, keeping quiet, but he knew she was pretending to be unconscious. If she continued to lie, that might piss him off and then...

  “I won’t hurt you,” he said quietly.

  “Yeah, and the Pope ain’t Catholic,” she muttered, her voice thick from the alcohol.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Peachy.” Her tongue felt too big for her mouth.

  “You’re not hurt?”

  Like he really gave a shit if she was hurt or not. If he cared, he wouldn’t have helped these assholes kidnap her. “No,” she snapped under her breath. “Where are you jerks taking me?”

  “This was Morris’ idea. I don’t know what he has in mind.” She could tell by the way his voice trailed off at the end that he knew exactly what Morris had in mind. And for all she knew, Johnny was in on it, too.

  Why had she let Bonnie and Michelle talk her into that stupid party? Why hadn’t she trusted her instincts and stayed home tonight? Or last night. Or whenever it was.

  The thought raced chills across her skin. Her breathing shallowed. She had to get out of here. She started to sit up but he pushed her back down, holding his hand against her shoulder as he whispered, “Stay put, okay? You’re probably better off with them not knowing you’re awake. When we stop, I’ll figure something out.”

  He could say whatever he wanted, act all big and tough, but he was out-numbered. And he was a scrawny dude—he wouldn’t have a prayer against Morris, who had to have six or seven inches and fifty pounds on him.

  But she nodded and laid back down. She didn’t totally trust him — in fact she didn’t trust him at all — but right now she really had no other choice.

  “Yo! Pendejo!” Bat Boy roared from his stance out the window. “You pissed all over me! Dennis, you dickweed, you pissed all over me!”

  Johnny shot her a look of warning, then straightened up. Everyone except Bat Boy, and Sammy Jo of course, roared with laughter.

  “You shouldna been hanging so far out,” Passenger Seat said.

  “If you had a bigger dick,” Johnny retorted, “you’da had better range.” Everyone whooped. Morris swiveled around and high-fived Johnny. Sammy Jo bit her lip to keep from smirking.

  An ear-splitting explosion of metal and glass slammed Sammy Jo against the back of the front seat. Then shattering pain, the overpowering smell of gasoline, and blackness.

  ***

  She was floating again. In a sea of heavy water, so thick she couldn’t swim through it
. Couldn’t move. Couldn’t see. Softness lay beneath her.

  A dull buzzing hummed in and out of her ears. Waves? No. Bees? No. Wait. Talking. Someone was talking. No, they were whispering.

  Sammy Jo tried to open her eyes. Her mom’s voice. She strained to hear. She turned her head a smidge and winced as pain burst behind her eyelids.

  “Sweetheart?” her mom asked, her soft voice in Sammy Jo’s ear. “Are you there?”

  Am I here? What a weird thing to ask. Of course I’m here. Do you not see me? But then again, her mom was weird sometimes. As most moms were.

  With enormous effort, Sammy Jo finally pried open her eyes. Her mom and dad were peering down at her. Was she in bed? What was that machine next to her bed? This didn’t look like her room.

  “You’re in the hospital, honey,” her dad said. Had he read her mind? He didn’t look normal. He was usually well-dressed, groomed, whatever. But his hair looked like he hadn’t washed it in days — gross! — and his skin was pale, with dark circles under his eyes.

  Sammy Jo opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out. Her mom squeezed her hand and must have read the questions in her eyes. “You were in an accident. But you’re going to be okay.”

  Then she realized the dull pain in her arm was from an IV, with a tube that led to a bag next to her mom. She opened her mouth again and was able to whisper, “I wrecked my car?” Double dammit. Her parents had bought it for her eighteenth birthday. Sure, it wasn’t new. It wasn’t even that cool a car and was actually kind of ugly, but it was hers.

  Her parents exchanged glances. Her dad wouldn’t look at her. Her mom hesitated a moment before meeting her gaze again. “No, um, you were in someone else’s car.”

  Sammy Jo wracked her brain, trying to remember. She realized then she couldn’t move. “Why can’t I move?”

  “Your back is broken, Sammy Jo,” her dad said, his voice grave. “You’re in traction.”

  It took her parents a few minutes to calm her down and convince her it wasn’t permanent, that with good care, she would be able to walk again. It was probably just the drugs running through her system making her body feel so heavy. Why did this feeling give her a strange sense of déjà vu?