Compromised

by Heidi Ayarbe

  The three of them stare.

  “You know,” I say. “When an animal stakes its claim to an area. It has to suss out its possibilities to win the battle, depending on the size of the other animal, maturity, which one already possesses the territory, and value of the territory in relation to other available locations.” They continue to stare, so I continue to talk, never taking my eyes from Nicole. It’s like we’re in some kind of staring contest.

  I won’t lose.

  So I talk. This has often been a problem of mine in social situations—either I talk too much or not enough. And when I talk, I spew out scientific facts that most people really don’t care about. Most people don’t get the beauty of science. “The classic scientific example to illustrate territorial possession is the hawk and the dove.” I clear my throat. “Humans aren’t all that different.”

  Nicole’s eyes come to life for just a second before they turn off again. “What? If you can’t beat ’em, bore ’em, Jeopardy? Jesus, where did you come from?” She finally looks away. I win.

  Jess mutters. “Why don’t you just stay at the bus depot with the street trash where you belong? Or better yet—” Jess motions to the scars on Nicole’s arms.

  All I can think about is Mom. And my stomach gets that achy burn feeling.

  Nicole turns and flicks her cigarette butt at Jess, grazing her ear.

  I cringe, afraid the whole place will go up in flames from Jess’s generous use of flammable hair products.

  Nicole jumps from the windowsill and brushes past Jess, pausing for just a second to stare her down. Jess turns away.

  Nicole leaves the room. And I don’t say anything. I just slink back into the corner.

  Nobody breathes.

  “Jess.” Shelly sniffles when the silence gets too heavy to bear. “How could you? I feel so bad.”

  Jess rolls her eyes. “Jesus, Shelly. She’s a freak. She’s a total waste of oxygen. And Christ, what do you have to feel bad about? You’d probably take the blame for the next fucking world war. Stop saying sorry for shit you don’t have anything to do with. It bugs the hell out of me.”

  “I’m sorry,” Shelly says, pulling out more tissues.

  Guilt. That’s one of the easiest human emotions to play on. A dirty trick, really. But if you find somebody like Shelly—someone who feels permanently responsible for global warming and other apocalyptic stuff, you have the perfect target. I hate watching people with a hyper sense of guilt squirm around like Shelly. Dad says those who feel guilty about something are the first to confess, then, more importantly, pay. That was during his Preacher Tent Days—before he went white-collar.

  Once, after a heated revival in some dusty old town, Dad came up to me and said, “Religion is based on one thing. What do you think that is?”

  “God,” I said, happy to know the answer. That day I had seen no fewer than eighty-seven miracles performed by my daddy’s own hands. I studied them, soft and manicured, not understanding why he couldn’t have done the same for Mama.

  He cupped my face in his miracle hands and grinned. “Even better. Guilt.”

  What about God? What about all those people who believe? I wanted to ask him but couldn’t say the words. (Later I learned about neurotheology.) I couldn’t let him know that I had believed, too.

  I don’t anymore. Not unless it’s written up in some science journal with facts to back it.

  The last day of the revival, he winked and said, “It’s time to ease these people’s minds and give them a chance to mend their ways. Ready for some miracles?”

  We left Arizona thousands of dollars richer and ate dinner at the Sizzler buffet instead of Denny’s. But I lost some part of Dad in Arizona. That part that all kids worship. Dads are heroes, right? But do heroes steal? Do heroes lie?

  I don’t think so.

  Shelly looks up at me apologetically. Dad could easily clear her life savings, though I’m quite sure it wouldn’t be worth the effort. Shelly sniffles. Major postnasal drip. Probably chronic rhinitis. She rubs a near-disintegrated Kleenex on her raw nose. “I have a runny nose,” she apologizes.

  Yeah. It is pretty annoying having somebody always apologizing for stuff.

  Shelly slumps back onto the bed, rocking the frame. “I was kinda hoping she wouldn’t come back.”

  “Major Spam,” mutters Jess.

  “Spam?” I ask. “As in computer crap?”

  “No. As in unidentifiable meatlike substance crap. She’s been in the system so long now that she’s been here more than in regular foster care. Long shelf life. Nobody wants her.”

  “Oh,” I say. “That spam.”

  “Yeah, she’s had a couple of good shots with good families, but she blew it.” Shelly shrugs. “Anyway, she’s just got Kids Place now. She runs away every other month, but she never really leaves.” Shelly wipes her hands on her jeans. “They had her on suicide watch a couple weeks in the hospital when she did that hunger strike thing. She does that.”

  “Does what?”

  “You know. Try to kill herself. Freaked out one of her foster moms a few years ago. Slit her wrists. Almost died.”

  I nod.

  Jess glares. “She’s wacked. Like this bigger-than-life person who doesn’t even want to live. She’d probably be better off dead.”

  I wait for Shelly to apologize again. But this time she sucks in her breath and lies down. She pauses, then says, “Nicole’s just kind of, um, different, you know?”

  What’s wrong with different? I wonder. But it’s not like I’m on any homecoming court, either. Different doesn’t work in high school. If I can make it to college, then things will be okay.

  Maybe that’s all Nicole needs, too. Get to the magic number and be whoever you want. It’s like we’re all stuck in Cloneville until we’re eighteen.

  Shelly rubs some Vicks on her nose. “First time?” she asks.

  “First time what?”

  Jess turns over on her bunk. “First time at Girl Scout camp, genius.”

  I nod. “Yeah. First time.”

  “Well, you won’t want to miss the evening bonfire and marshmallow roast.”

  “Have you lived here for a long time?” I ask both of them.

  Shelly blushes and gnaws on her fingernails. “Kinda.”

  Jess pulls a history textbook out of her backpack. “What’s it matter to you?”

  “It doesn’t,” I say, and I mean it. I won’t be like them.

  For the first time all day it really registers that I’m in a children’s home. I swallow and take a deep breath.

  “You got a mom?” Shelly asks.

  We buried her in a lonely cemetery. I remember the day as if it were a drawing—a Crayola-blue sky with cutout construction paper clouds. I looked up at the cold December sun, pasted on the blue sky. Just like Wild Blue Yonder—my favorite crayon color, only a nub left. A spindly tree threw off a sad shadow. Dad shivered and we watched the men pile frozen clumps of dirt on the pine box. Their rusty shovels pierced the frozen ground, a tip snapped off, ringing, falling on Mom. I clapped my hands over my ears. Nobody came. Just Dad and me.

  I threw away Wild Blue Yonder that afternoon, crushing it under my polished black shoes. I still hate the color blue.

  I shake my head. “Just my dad,” I say.

  “He a good guy?”

  “He’s not the president of the PTA or anything. But we do okay, you know?”

  “So where is he?”

  “Jail.” I sigh. “He always manages to talk his way out of stuff, though. So I kinda figure he’ll either be set free or made warden by the end of the week.” I try to laugh and ignore the acid that works its way up my esophagus. I wish I had my Pepto.

  “Probably,” Shelly agrees. But I don’t like the tone in her voice. That I’ve-heard-it-all-before-know-it-all tone. One, two, three, four, sniffle. She blows her nose and wipes her watery eyes. She’s pretty leaky.

  We sit in silence for a while. A bell rings and kids shuffle down the hall pas
t our room.

  “Ready for dinner?” Shelly asks. “You can sit with us, if you want.”

  “Sure.” I follow them out the door. The hallway fills with other teenagers. Abandoned. Orphans.

  I feel relieved knowing that I’m not one of them—Spam.

  I just need to wait it out for a while. Do my time. Thanks to Dad.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  We walk into the cafeteria, and I head to where Nicole is sitting. Shelly grabs my elbow and veers me to the next table. We scoot onto the benches, leaving Shelly a spot on the end. She can’t fit between the bench and the table. The cafeteria fills up. A couple of young kids run and give Nicole a hug, but nobody sits with her.

  And I think about all of those first days I had at new schools during lunch sitting alone in the cafeteria hoping my sandwich looked like everyone else’s. I wonder if that feeling ever goes away.

  “Um, do you want to eat here?” I ask Nicole. “With us?”

  Our table goes silent and Nicole looks at me. “Why would I want to do some dumb-ass thing like that?”

  There’s a collective exhale at the table. Then everybody starts to eat, heavy plastic forks clanging on the plastic tray. They talk about their days—like this is the most normal place in the world. Finally Shelly introduces me. Nobody’s asked, though. We’re just all stuck—in transit—homeless. Children of the state. Shelly says, “It gets easier, okay?”

  I nod. “We’re brood parasites.” I say it a little too loud.

  A couple of kids look up from their dinner trays. Jess rolls her eyes and mutters, “Shit. Here we go.”

  Nicole raises an eyebrow and faces us, saddling the bench. “I’ve gotta hear this.”

  “Um. You know. It’s when the biological mother leaves her eggs in the nest of another and splits. So all the biological mother has to do is conceive and not worry about the actual parenting. The brown-headed cowbird has two hundred and twenty-one known hosts; it can even lay eggs the same color as the unsuspecting host. Sometimes the host doesn’t even realize it’s raising the young of another.”

  Nicole shakes her head. “Fucking name-that-useless-science-fact. Do you have a name for that?”

  “Brood parasitism,” I repeat.

  “Not that. I mean the academic bulimia that you spew. Jesus.” Nicole picks up her tray and walks by me. She whispers, “You’re not gonna last.”

  I feel my face get hot. The table is quiet. Why, I want to ask.

  Shelly pats my hand.

  “Hey, Jess knows all about that parasite thing,” some kid with black greasy hair and acne says, elbowing the guy next to him. He talks too loud, like that’s going to erase Nicole’s words. “You never told us about the nice family that got your little”—he sneers at Jess—“parasite.” The two of them snicker.

  “Fuck you, Keith,” Jess says.

  Keith and his friend laugh. Shelly leans into me. “Jess just got back from City of Refuge. She doesn’t talk much about it. Gave the baby up. She’s been pretty cranky since—”

  “Shut up, Shelly. Like anybody really needs you to do the ongoing commentary here. Brainiac can probably pick up on a few things without you spelling them out for her.”

  “I just—” Shelly starts to say.

  “Christ.” Jess stands up and leaves, banging her tray on the kitchen counter. The rest of us finish our dinner in silence, then return to our rooms.

  Ten o’clock: lights-out. A sliver of light beams across the ceiling whenever the motion detector goes on outside. I listen to Shelly’s snores, Jess’s crying, and Nicole’s silence. It’s as if she doesn’t even breathe. I listen to the other sounds of Kids Place—the shuffle of security guards pacing up and down the halls, the ticks of clocks, one of the faucets leaking. I don’t know if I’ll ever fall asleep again.

  Unfortunately, I do.

  “Get up.” A clammy hand covers my mouth. “Now.” Somebody drags me off the bed. Piercing pain shoots up my legs when my feet hit the cold linoleum floor. “Hurry up,” he whispers.

  Two guys and a girl pull me out into the hallway. They drag me through the kitchen, out into the alleyway. I rub my arms in the chill night air.

  “What the?” I say.

  “Shut up,” the girl snaps. “Parasite,” she sneers. “What the fuck.”

  I think my scientific method for surviving orphanhood should probably include not opening my mouth. Not speaking. That’s probably a better approach to this situation.

  The girl nods at the guys and they throw me in the Dumpster. The hinges creak before the metal lid slams in a clamor. I listen as a latch clicks into place.

  Blackness envelopes me. I jerk my knees to my chest and flick a monstrous cockroach off my neck. I retch and tremble, pounding on the lid of the Dumpster. “Please! Please!” I scream between gags. “Please let me out.”

  “Let’s go,” the girl says.

  I pound on the Dumpster. “Please. Please,” I whimper.

  “What? No Animal Planet fact?” she asks. “Snot-nosed bitch.”

  I listen, horrified, as they walk away. “Don’t panic,” I whisper. “Don’t panic. Panicking is not rational. I’m just in a Dumpster. I’m okay. There’s space. Somebody will find me in the morning.” I squeeze my eyes shut and pretend I’m somewhere else—like that apartment we had in downtown Sacramento. It smelled like sewer and garbage and had tons of roaches. But I make the mistake of opening my eyes for just a second and feel the wave of terror build up inside me.

  So I begin to scream. And scream. And pound on the Dumpster. My chest feels tight; I gasp for breath until every bit of air in my body is squeezed out of my chest, and as hard as I try to gulp air, nothing enters. I don’t remember passing out. When I wake up, I’m being pulled out of the Dumpster and dropped on the pavement. Jess and Shelly stand over me.

  “Welcome to Kids Place,” Jess says. “You really pissed off the wrong people today. The Triad doesn’t usually come down this hard this soon.”

  “C’mon.” Shelly lets me lean on her and leads me to our room.

  Nicole is lying in bed. “Looks like you were the dove tonight, Jeops. Gotta watch that territorialism. Maybe you should pee around your bed.” She rolls on her side.

  I spend the rest of the night trembling, waiting for them to come again. I’m the new Kids Place prey.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  At breakfast the girl is wearing my clothes. My favorite sweater and jeans. The jeans are as soft as flannel, almost worn through the knees. And I’ve had that sweater since before we moved to Reno. It was the only thing I took with me from New Mexico. Rosa, our next-door neighbor, gave it to me the day we left.

  It’s just a sweater, I tell myself. But for some reason it feels like more.

  “It’s just a stupid sweater,” I mutter.

  The girl looks up at me and smirks. Like she knows.

  I look around. Lots of girls have pieces of me. Sweatshirts, pants, a belt. Even Jess has a scarf of mine, and Shelly’s trying to hide her socks. Nobody looks me in the eyes. I’m see-through—a glasswing butterfly. Last night my life was spread around, leaving me with nothing.

  I smell like Kids Place soap—kind of detergenty lemon. Cheap. I smooth out the stiff clothes Kids Place gave me—a boxy pair of khaki pants and too-big sweatshirt. They probably don’t use fabric softener or anything. The clothes smell like plastic.

  I go to the room and rifle through the drawers looking for a piece of me. Anything me.

  Jess comes back in from the bathroom, my scarf wrapped around her neck. I stare at her.

  “Get over it, Maya.” She wraps the scarf around again. “It’s just the initiation thing the Triad does. You’re obviously new. Just don’t act so new. It’s like you walk around here looking at everybody like we’re from the zoo. Brood parasites. God.”

  I open my mouth to protest but nothing comes out. Don’t speak, I think. Just don’t speak. I’ve become one of those lab rats, trying to make my way through the maze to find the cheese. I’m not t
he scientist but the experiment. My stomach cramps and I fight back the tears.

  Jess shrugs. “That’s nothing compared to what you’ll see in some of the foster families. Better get a backbone.” She clears her throat and laughs. “Actually, a vertebra.” She looks over at me. “You think you’re the only one who knows how to read around here.” She leaves the room.

  Shelly comes over. “We’ve gotta wear the stuff. All of us are, um. Well, we’ve gotta wear it. You have to understand.”

  I nod. It’s a brilliant crime. I watch as all my clothes walk by the room in some in-your-face kind of parade and do everything I can to keep from crying. Stay rational. Come up with a hypothesis. They’re just stupid clothes.

  I look over at Nicole. She doesn’t have anything of mine on. She looks at me—the only one who looks me in the eye all morning. “They have no code,” she says.

  “Huh?” I ask.

  She walks by, swinging her backpack over her bony shoulders. “Those animals—the ones that follow each other and all commit suicide together—what’re they called?”

  “Lemmings,” I say. But I don’t bother to tell her the suicide part is a myth. Keep mouth shut, I think.

  “Yeah. Lemmings.” She leaves the room.

  Maybe she’s wearing a pair of my underwear. Why would she be different from anybody else?

  The next few days I just go through the motions. At school I watch everybody walk down the hall as if nothing has changed in the world. For them it hasn’t. Or maybe it has. But who knows? It’s like each person in this world is totally alone. I think knowing that humans are the most social animals makes everything even lonelier.

  If there is a God, he must be a scientist and we’re lab rats. I look up. What if the sky is the lens of God’s monocle? And nighttime is the blink of His eye? “The data has been compromised!” I want to shout.

  But there’s no God. Dad taught me that.

  I look down the hallway and watch as life unfolds: Kids group together according to attire and hairstyle; they cluster together for protection, only separating to go to their respective classes. Occasionally, the species mingle. Like when they have to do book reports together. Survival. Nothing more. Then they revert back to the safety of their groups—their own likenesses.