by Meg Elison
I’m watching her very closely. All previous experiments in trust have failed. That doesn’t mean that they always will, but statistically I feel like my hypothesis here is solid.
I’m thinking about the types of relationships we learned about in biology: parasitic versus symbiotic. This could work like symbiosis, both of us getting something we need out of this conversation. She looks harmless. Like she’s just trying to get to know me. I’m less nervous than I was in the beginning. Talking to a reporter isn’t as bad as I thought it would be. I eat an egg roll fast while the filling is still hot and take a drink to wash it down. I’m thinking about a second plate when I realize she’s watching me again.
I look up. The look in her eyes is focused, like she’s not eating because she’s planning on eating me.
She’s been working on me to make me less nervous. I get it now. Not like Jane works on me, and not like teachers sometimes do. It’s a totally new feeling, and I don’t know what to call it. Parasitic, I realize. Not symbiotic. Mimicry—a venomous animal pretends to be a harmless one to get you close enough to bite. Camouflaged until I looked at her eyes instead of her eyespots for the first time.
What are my defenses?
Erica is keen, eyes focused forward. “So, when you made the video, what was in your mind? What were you hoping to get out of it?”
The waitresses don’t bring anything to the table at the Dragon except tea, which arrives in no-handle green mugs that look like fat bamboo. I pour two sugar packets into mine and swirl the hot tea, staring down into it. I watch the sugar dissolve slowly, in a white grainy sweep at the bottom.
“I was hoping to find a new home. I know how stupid that sounds, like something a Disney orphan says just before the brave animal friend leads them to their new parents or whatever. But there are those commercials on TV with the sad music and the skinny dogs and sick cats in their dirty cages, and people call in with their credit-card numbers or show up to the shelter to adopt some three-legged puppy. So I kind of thought I could show my own living conditions and the same kind of thing could happen.”
Erica doesn’t say anything, but it looks hard for her. She’s waiting. I can feel my throat closing up, so I take a sip of tea.
“I wanted something I can’t really have, which is a safe, clean place where I can take care of my brother while I finish high school. I know CPS will probably find him a home.”
“And you? Why not let them find you a home? They can try and put you guys together, you know.”
“I guess.”
“You guess what?”
There’s still sugar left at the bottom of my tea. I can’t look up. I shouldn’t tell her this. This is not symbiosis. But I can’t stop. I want to tell the truth of it.
“Nobody is going to want me. Andy’s little, and he can still be somebody’s kid. I made that video with my report card to show people that I’m not a fuckup. I’d be fine if somebody could offer me a closet to sleep in, and I won’t burn down their house or go to jail or anything, but I can’t become part of somebody’s family. Andy is gonna be like one of those baby monkeys that gets released into the wild and the other monkeys accept him and he forgets there was ever a before-time. I won’t ever forget, because it’s been my whole life. I’ll always be weird, like one of those gorillas that learned too much sign language to go back to the forest.”
I drink and drink and look down. I can’t say anything for a minute. I wanted to sound like a scientist. I wanted to describe my observations without having feelings about them. But I’m the subject and the observer, and there’s no way to separate me from me. The blue-ringed octopus is back, and I can’t fight it.
“You know, lots of people don’t think you’re a fuckup.”
I don’t say anything.
Her tone of voice is totally different. Before, it was like she could get something out of me if she squeezed just right, if she poked the right spot. Now it’s softer, like when the school nurse first met me and didn’t know I was gonna be a regular. Not symbiosis. Sympathy.
“In fact, your social worker told me that she has a list of people who saw your video who really want you to come live with them.”
I drink my tea until that last sip that’s almost all sugar.
“They don’t know what they’re signing up for.”
“Foster parents have seen a lot, actually. Lots worse than you, I’m sure. Kids with arrest records and brain damage and . . .” She trails off and looks out the window.
I stare into my empty cup.
She taps the red button on her phone and stops the recording.
“Okay, Layla. Listen to me. Are you listening?”
I can’t look at her. “Yes.”
“Look, I went through some bad shit when I was younger. I was out on my own when I was not much older than you, because my mom found out about my girlfriend. You follow?”
“Yeah, I follow.” I wonder if I can drink her tea.
She’s staring me down like she needs me to hear this way more than she needs to say it.
“It seems like the worst thing that has ever happened, and that nothing will ever get any better, and that you’ll always be what you are right now. That’s all bullshit. It gets better.”
More than sympathy. Empathy, I guess. “Oh my god, you’re doing that YouTube meme thing about gay kids.” I’m drinking her tea. She doesn’t stop me.
“Yeah, I am.” She fiddles with her tablet again. “But it’s not just about being gay. It’s about getting bullied or being poor or being just really weird. The point is, this is probably the worst it’s ever going to be. You’re going to make it through this. You’re going to get a better shot than other kids who aren’t as smart as you, whose videos didn’t go viral. You’re having a moment. That’s why I’m talking to you today.”
She hits the button on her phone again. We’re recording.
“So. So if people who are interested in fostering you or even adopting you read my article today, what do you want them to know about you?”
I swallow hard. I watch two girls in matching outfits elbow each other at the ice-cream machine, fighting for who gets to go first. My phone buzzes in my pocket and I pull it out. My Twitter is blowing up again. I forgot that I had signed my phone into the Dragon’s Wi-Fi once before. It must have connected automatically. The first notification stops my breathing, and I’m feeling the effect of Erica’s venom already.
@angelface787: You guys, you know Layla made this whole thing up, right? #FindLayla
@angelface787: She’s just trying to get attention. She filmed that whole video in an old abandoned house, I can show it to you. @CNN @MSNBC @Gawker #FindLayla
@angelface787: she’s just a weird emo tryna get famous
@angelface787: ya I said it @airyoddknee
@Kristi_the_poet: wtf Jane?
@angelface787: .@Kristi_the_poet ur always defending her because you’re in on it #FindLayla
@angelface787: .@airyoddknee everyone is going to know how fake you are
@angelface787: hey @ericamalkasian when you talk to her, remember what I told you
I tap on Erica’s handle and look back over her timeline for a minute.
“Layla?”
Ignoring her, I roll backward through her replies from the last few days. She’s been talking to a bunch of people who say they’re me. Most of them are using stills from my video for avis, but a couple of them have my school picture from fifth grade.
@ericamalkasian: @angelface787 can you show me that abandoned house?
@angelface787: @ericamalkasian totes dm me your number
@ericamalkasian: @angelface787 done
Erica has been talking to Jane. To Kristi. To people at my school that I don’t even know, who say they know me. She doesn’t believe me.
I’m cold all over, cold like that night in the bathtub never ended.
I open my mouth and nothing comes out.
Of all the people in the world who could tell her something about me
, she had to talk to Jane Chase. Jane Chase who pinched my nipple one day and pointed out to everyone that I didn’t have anything on under my sweater. We were nine. Jane who would comment loudly on how fast I ate my lunch, or announce that she had seen my shoes on the shelf at the dollar store. Jane who lied to teachers, telling them I stole her Valentine’s Day cards so that I had to give her all of mine. Jane the predator. Erica the parasite.
And Erica doesn’t mention any of this to me at all. I should have known.
She’s looking at me expectantly. “What’s the matter?” Annoyed.
I don’t say anything. I don’t have many natural defenses, but that one never fails.
Erica turns her chin a little to one side like she’s recovering from a bad taste in her mouth. She looks over her notes. “In your video you said, ‘I’ll do chores. I’ll be quiet. If you’ve got a garage or a laundry room I could sleep in, I am mostly housebroken.’ Is all of that still true?”
“Everything I said was true. Everything.” A little too forceful.
“Layla, it’s okay. Just tell my readers what you want most.”
“I want to get out of here.”
“What?” She looks up at me again.
“You think I made this up. What did Jane tell you? No, wait. It doesn’t even matter. I don’t care.” I am picking up my bag and sliding out of the booth.
“What? Layla, wait. Come back here.”
Maybe it’s my imagination, but I could swear heads turn our way when she says my name.
“Just make up whatever you want. Or ask Jane about my life. Why did you even . . . I have to go.”
“Layla, wait! Who texted you?”
She’s gathering her things, trying to catch up to me. I wish she’d stop saying my name.
I slip through the line at the front door and bolt for the street. Traffic opens up just right, and I’m across the street and into the courtyard of an office building before I can catch my breath. I sit down behind a huge air conditioner that’s humming so loud I can’t hear myself breathing. Why’s it running in December? I think hard about that before I open my phone again.
@angelface787: if #FindLayla was telling the truth, she’d answer me
Alright. Fine.
@airyoddknee: @angelface787 is Jane Alice Chase, that’s the truth
@airyoddknee: she’s the worst bully I’ve ever had, and I’ve been to a lot of schools
@airyoddknee: and anybody who thinks @angelface787 is right can watch my next video
@airyoddknee: I’m not getting anything out of this. I’m cold and tired, and I don’t have a coat or a safe place to sleep. Why would I make this up?
@angelface787: cuz ur as crazy as your mom @airyoddknee
@ericamalkasian: @airyoddknee please call me. I’d like to finish our interview.
If I break this phone, I’ll never get another one. I have to put it down to make sure I don’t throw it against a wall.
I don’t know I’m crying until I feel it rolling off my chin and into my shirt. I wasn’t allowed to cry in front of Mom since I was a baby, so it always feels like a hot octopus is ripping my feelings out of my throat. The octopus strangles me and the AC unit kicks off. It’s quiet except for the sound of cars on the road. Getting the octopus off me is hard. I think about its name, its poison, its habitat. If I know it, I can control it. I think about all the Chinese food Erica just bought me. Nobody can take that away, at least.
I open my phone again to tell Jane I’ll show her. She’s beat me to it.
@angelface787: alright @airyoddknee, meet me and we’ll see who’s faking. I’ll DM the place and time.
A bunch more tweets from Erica and I’m really glad that I didn’t give her my phone number. I can’t see my DMs or notifications once I get away from the Dragon’s Wi-Fi signal. I’m going to have to find a computer to figure this out.
I lie my way onto another bus to head to the last library I know I haven’t visited lately. The whole way there, I’m trying to figure out what I’m going to do. What I want to do is set Jane on fire and post a video of me pointing and laughing, but that won’t prove anything other than that bitches be cold but also flammable.
5:45 p.m.
By the time we reach the library, I have three pages of DMs, and I have to dig to find one from Jane.
@angelface787 has sent you a direct message!
Meet me in the parking lot of the old Walmart in the bad part of town, tomorrow at sundown. I can prove you’re a fake.
I message her back and tell her I’ll be there. I plug my phone and camera in, sitting on the floor in a corner of the library behind the reference books that haven’t been touched since before I was born. I read two whole books before they start flipping the light switches to tell us that we don’t have to go home, but we can’t stay here.
It’s dark out, and I have no plan for where I’m going to sleep tonight. I unplug and pack up slowly, enjoying my last few moments of light and heat. I feel like I haven’t slept in a year.
I walk for what seems like hours, wishing I had been able to check a book out. I’ve read everything in my backpack twice.
The minute I spot the lavandería, I know what it is. I’ve been in a thousand of them in my life, bored to tears, pushing Andy around in one of those death-trap carts and waiting for our clothes to get done. Our last apartment and the Valencia Inn didn’t have their own laundry rooms, so we used to come to these when all our clothes had been worn twice and our socks were gray. Every single one is the same: The machines are huge and old and loud. The tile floor is sticky. The fluorescent lights buzz overhead and never go out, and there will be at least one loud TV chained to a corner of the ceiling.
The signs are in Spanish, but I know “Open 24 Hours” when I see it in any language. I also know that there are moms in there at all hours, and that people will assume I belong to one of them if I doze off on a bench.
Sure enough, there are two women at opposite ends of the bright, humming room. They both look as tired as I feel, and one of them has a baby in a carrier that she checks out nervously every few minutes. I turn my backpack around to my front and sit down on the bench nearest the TV, which is on mute and I am so thankful.
When I wake up, I don’t know what time it is, but I do know I’m in trouble. The women are gone. The humming has stopped. And there’s a man on the bench next to me.
I don’t move. He doesn’t know I’m awake yet, and if I don’t move maybe nothing will happen.
He moves a little closer to me. Looks toward the glass front of the building. Scoots closer again.
My hearing is so sharp. I hear his ragged breathing, the shaggy inhale and exhale like someone on a bike chugging hard uphill, hoping to coast on the way down. I can see every speck of dirt and crumb on the floor. I can see the hairs sprouting out of the back of his hand, single and double and crawling up toward his wrist.
I sit up straight and wrap my arms around my backpack in front of me.
“Hi.” He says it oddly, like we know each other.
“Hi.” I won’t look at him.
His voice stays low and familiar. “You’re here all alone.”
“My dad must have gone out to the car. I’m sure he’ll be right back.”
I can feel him looking out the window again. He looks a long time.
This isn’t the first time a grown-up man has noticed that I’m alone and he could probably get whatever he wanted from me without much trouble. I tense up all over. I’m as hard and sharp as the stinger on a Clistopyga crassicaudata. I’m ready.
“There’s no cars in the lot. Nobody’s out there.”
“I better go, then.” I stand up quick, all in one motion, taking as big a step as I can away from this guy and still not looking at him. I can see his shoes. If there’s no cars in the lot, where did he come from? If he puts a hand on me, I plan to twist away and scream.
“Go where?”
“Go home.” I start toward the door, keeping the pack in front of me
. I know he’s standing up, he’s coming after me. I don’t know this neighborhood. I don’t know where I’ll run or hide, and it’s got to be too late for the bus. I have to get out of here, it doesn’t matter where.
A few more sticky squares of tile to the door. I’m not running, but I will be soon. I can see him in the lit reflection of the glass front wall. He’s close.
“Hey,” he says, and I can see he’s reaching toward me and it’s like a nightmare and I can’t look back or I’ll get trapped here. “Hey, do you need a ride home? Or how about some money? I could give you some money.”
I hate the sweetness of his voice. It would be better if he was scary, I could run and be sure that anyone would agree with me that he was a bad guy. He’s trying to seem like a nice guy so that I’ll turn around, I’ll say yes and go along. All those times in school when they said that strangers would offer us candy or puppies. They should have told us these guys are a lot smarter than that.
He’s right behind me. I can feel him breathing. This is it.
“No, I don’t need any money. I have to go. Bye.”
I’m running out the door, vision adjusting slowly from the bleach-white lights inside to the dingy yellow lights outside. There’s no traffic at all. It’s so quiet I can hear him holding the creaky glass door open, not following me, calling after me, making another offer.
I don’t look back.
Monday Dawn
I think I got a few hours of sleep in the lavandería, but I am obviously never sleeping again. I walked after that until I was back in familiar territory. I sit in the bathroom of a Denny’s for a while, trying to get myself together.
I think back to when I had a bedroom. To my biome. I feel like I’m being watched everywhere now.
To get breakfast, I pull one of my dumbest and riskiest tricks. I wait for a family with a couple of kids to finally give up on their children ever eating and pack them up to leave. The dad takes them out to the car, and the mom pays the check at the register. As soon as she’s out the door, I’m at their table.
This only works if nobody sees me sit down. The one waitress in the room has her back turned to me, filling coffees. I have a few minutes.
