I walk her back to the studio and leave before Rob gets back. I say I’m going to run an errand. I don’t know where I’m going or why; I don’t have a ride and I don’t try to get one. I just walk: past more beige houses and concrete buildings, barbed wire and broken glass, till the lawns stop being yellow and the houses turn orange and green. They go on forever, shiny minivans in driveways, front yards full of plastic toys. The first thing you see in all the windows is the big TV. Some houses have kids in them; in one I see two girls jumping on a couch. My eyes sting.
When it starts to get dark I’m still up by Burbank but I keep walking anyway; I still don’t try to get a ride. I can’t stop moving. I cross over to Cahuenga and follow it down beside the 101, headed toward Hollywood, the only other place I know. My feet start to hurt and it blends in with the rest of the bad feelings in my body: I haven’t shot up in almost a day. The mad feeling from before keeps rolling over itself in my head, picking up speed and size like a snowball. I’m not going to sleep tonight. The streetlight glow replaces the sun and cars start to slow down when they pass me. I keep my eyes straight ahead.
By the time I hit Franklin Ave, it must be four a.m. My stomach is growling but I’m sicker than I am hungry so I don’t stop. When I hit the turnoff toward the St. Moritz I think about sheets and sleep for a second but keep going instead, down the seven blocks to Sunset, and then turn left, past the iPod billboards and the post-production suites, the construction site and Winchell’s Donut, back toward Goodwill and the Dollar Chinese and Benito’s, where I first brought Eeyore from her school, the other way from where I left her sleeping when I went to Venice. The sky looks the same as it did when I left her: the blackest it ever gets out here, when everything’s closed but the all-night stores, and the sun hasn’t started to push up from under the horizon. I waited till the darkest part of night, when there was nothing that could move and wake her up; I brought her to Whole Foods, where I knew that she’d find breakfast, and I touched her hair at sunset till her breathing changed and she was dreaming, like I used to touch Ruthanne so she could sleep no matter what would happen in the dark. I had to go. My fever dreams were starting and I couldn’t find a fix to make them stop: she kept talking about her stepbrother, what he did to her, and it made me think of things I couldn’t think about. There was no way I could make it stop except to get away. I knew she’d be okay. Someone would find her and take her someplace safe, or else she’d stay and be protected; it would always be better for her than it ever was for me. She was different; she deserved it. She’d be fine without me. As long as she didn’t wake up till I was gone.
I head over to Benito’s like some fairy-tale lost girl, like if I follow the bread crumbs I’ll get back home. Which there’s no such thing as home, but I keep walking anyway. Bianca the trannie is at the counter on an orange stool, wearing leopard print, smearing lipstick on her tostada. Bianca hooked me up with junk a couple times; I haven’t seen her since before I went to Venice. I keep my head down and my hoodie up and rush around the corner before she can spot me, yell “Hey, mami” at me like I’m some pretty girl. I duck into the alley.
It’s dark, so it’s a minute before I see them. But then a piece of metal catches the streetlight, and when I see it flash I squint to make it out, and when I do I recognize Germ’s collar. I get closer. He’s curled up in a ball; I count four bodies around him, all of them, Rusty and Squid and Critter and Scabius.
What I should do is turn around. What I should do is turn around and walk away and leave, go west or north, to the hotel or the beach, anywhere except here with this closed box of ugly things. But I don’t. The snowball that’s been rolling over itself in my head spins downhill and the mad bursts through my veins like speed, all the way out to my fingertips, and I run toward them hard and fast, not caring if I wake them up, and when I get close enough I lift my boot back and swing it into Scabius. He’s sleeping on his side; I’m shooting for his balls but I get his gut instead. My steel toes curl him backward; it feels good. His eyes fly open and he tries to yell but the air’s knocked out of him. Then he looks up and sees where it came from.
At first his eyes narrow and his nostrils flare, all pissed off and righteous, ready to hurt me back. But then something else crosses his face: something guilty and embarrassed, something that knows I know his secret. I smile down at him. I really feel like smiling. I cock my foot again and he flinches backward. I spit on him.
By now of course everyone else is up. Germ is panting, worst watchdog in the world, wagging his tail even though I just kicked the shit out of Scabius, and for all he knows I’m about to again. Squid’s rubbing his eyes, confused. Rusty’s leaned up against him, looking scared. “Hey, Tracy,” he says, kind of slow, like he’s not sure if he’s supposed to say it or not.
Then Critter sits up and drills his eyes into me. “Tracy,” he goes. “What the fuck are you doing?” Scabius is still on his side, clutching his gut; Critter slides in front of him, blocking me. I guess he doesn’t think I’d kick him too.
“What does it look like I’m doing?” I say, and sneer at him. “I’m waking him up,” and scuttle sideways like I’m gonna kick again.
“Wait wait wait wait wait,” Critter goes, and holds his hand up; he thinks I’m freaking out. He doesn’t know I’m thinking clearer than them all. “Tracy, what’s going on?” He says it in a dad voice, trying to sound all calm, but I can tell by his eyes he thinks I’m shit. He looks back at Scabius like he’s handling me.
I pause; he thinks he’s winning. Then I shrug at him. “You know what? Fuck you, Critter. Don’t condescend to me.” There’s a half-empty Colt 45 bottle next to Squid’s pack. I reach down, grab its neck, and break it on the brick. Leftover beer spills on my hand; it’s cold. I shake it off.
I take a step toward them. Scabius has his breath back now and he gets up. Critter stands up too, staying close between us. It’s funny: he’s protecting Scabius from me. I watch them for a second, and I can see the whole thing: how they look out for each other, keep each other safe, so it can all keep on going along. Scabius can rape girls in alleys and Critter gets to hit them in the face, and nobody ever has to pay for any of it because when it all comes down they’ve got each other’s back. Like someone’s fucking parents. It’s sick.
I look at Scabius. “You shit,” I say, and then I spit on him again. “You’re disgusting, you know that? I should rip apart your fucking face.” I’ve got the bottle in my hand, cold and sharp, and I hold it up. He cowers. I can tell he wants to tear back into me but he knows he can’t. He’s too afraid I’ll tell.
“God, you’re such a pussy,” I say. “Hiding behind big strong Critter, huh? Won’t even come out from behind him.” I laugh at him and look him up and down. I know that’s what he hates the most: being treated like a girl. “You’re just his bitch.”
Then Critter gets up in my face. “Fuck you, Tracy,” he says. His face is red. “He’s my fucking
friend
. Which is something you obviously don’t understand.”
I snort at him.
“What?” Critter goes. “It’s true. You’ve never had a friend in your life. All you do is use everyone and run off when you’re done.”
My grip on the bottle gets tighter and my eyes fill up at the corners. It stings; I blink and tears spill on my cheeks, itchy and hot. Critter sees and rips in harder. “We all see through your bullshit,” he says. “You just take whatever you can get. You don’t know what it means to care about someone. That’s why you always leave.” His face is smug, like he knows everything, like he’s standing on high ground and he’ll never get dirty or wet. “Scabius is my
friend
. That’s better than you’ll ever be.”
“Yeah?” I say. I stop for a second and look at all of them. Squid and Rusty are still sitting down, watching. I can see the threads that tie the four of them together, like a spiderweb, sticky and thin and so much more fragile than any of them know. All the little assumptions that keep them from splitting up or crashing down, balanced on each other, teetering, and I know I’m about to pull the rug out, unravel all the threads. I give it one more second, watching how it all fits together: Squid’s above-the-fray silence, Rusty’s quiet scared, Critter’s big-daddy self-righteousness, and Scabius’s fucking dirty lies. Then I pull it apart.
“He’s your friend, huh?” I don’t wait for an answer. “Well, guess what? Your friend threw your girlfriend up against a wall and raped her while you were off trying to score.”
I just let it sit there. No one says anything. Squid and Rusty both hold their breath and look up at Scabius, I guess to see if it’s true. Scabius looks like he did just after I kicked him, slouched down and caved in without any breath. Then he catches himself, stands up and squares his shoulders. “That’s bullshit, man,” he goes.
I fix my eyes on him. “It’s bullshit?” I say. I stare him down. Tears are streaking down my cheeks but I don’t care. “It never happened?” I want to kick the shit out of him, but I stay steady. “A block away from here, in the alley by El Centro, by the Dumpster in the afternoon, it never happened?”
I stay on him to make him answer. Everyone’s eyes are on him now; Critter too. Finally he says “No,” so soft you can hardly hear it, his eyes flickering around, pointed at the ground.
“You want to look at me and tell me that?” I ask, but I’m not asking. He doesn’t say anything. “Or them, maybe,” I say, nodding to the other guys. “Maybe you should tell them. Or maybe you should tell them how you did it to Eeyore too.”
His eyes snap up at me and he starts stammering. “No way, man,” he goes, backing up. “I never did that.” Everyone’s staring at him. He looks at Critter. “I fucking promise, man,” he goes. “I never did that. I never touched—”
By the look on Critter’s face I can tell he knows that’s not true. “You sure?” I interrupt Scabius. Nobody even asks how I know Eeyore; they just accept it. I don’t have to explain myself. I feel like a cop. It feels good.
“Okay, well, fine, we hooked up, but that was because of her, man, she started it, you saw that”—he says to Critter, and Critter closes his eyes for a second to say yes— “but I never did what she’s saying, we just hooked up, that was it, I swear.”
“Why’d she leave, then, Scabius?” I ask him.
“What?” he goes, stalling. I roll my eyes. “I don’t know, man, she left because—I don’t fucking know! Ask her!”
“Yeah, well, I would, except she’s busy turning tricks up near Toluca Lake, you fuck, because of whatever you did to her to make her leave.”
Squid’s already packing up his backpack, putting on Germ’s leash; he’s out. “That’s fucked up, man,” he says, but not loud enough to start a fight, and then he turns to Rusty. “Wanna go?” he asks him. Rusty looks like he’s torn in half.
He turns up to me like he’s asking permission. His hand is clutched around Squid’s backpack strap, making sure he can’t leave without him. I can tell he believes me, and I know he wants to stay and tell me that, or yell at Scabius, or talk to me, or something. But I can also tell that would mean admitting that he knew me before, back in Venice. It’s obvious he’s never told them that. And I guess I understand: telling them would mean explaining what he was doing over there, and I know he can’t. And it’s obvious he wants to be with Squid. So I just say “Go ahead.” He sort of flinches, embarrassed that I could tell what he was asking without him even saying it, embarrassed that he’s leaving. I won’t tell him it’s okay, because it’s not. But I say “Go.” And he looks at me for one more second, and then he gets up, and him and Squid leave with the dog.
Scabius watches them go, glad I’m paying attention to someone else, I’m sure. But it’s dark so they’re out of sight fast, and then there’s nowhere to look but back at me.
He gets all hard, turning his face to a shell, but I can see it’s sick and rotten underneath. I don’t want to fucking talk to him anymore. I turn to Critter.
“You know what happened. Okay? I told you. So don’t tell me how he’s your fucking friend, and how he cares about you so much, and all that shit. He raped your fucking girlfriend. Not to mention your twelve-year-old friend or whatever who obviously worshipped you. And I don’t see you doing anything about it. So don’t tell me about using people and leaving them alone.”
“She’s lying, man,” Scabius says. His eyes are jumping all over the place again. “You know she’s fucking manipulative, man. Don’t get sucked in.”
I can’t even say anything to that. I’m not going to argue with him. I don’t have to prove shit to Critter; if he wants to believe Scabius, there’s nothing I can do. And all of a sudden the whole thing lifts off of me; the push drains from my veins and I feel light, like I’m filled with air instead. “Fuck you both,” I say, and then I turn and walk away and leave them there, Scabius lying and Critter trying to decide whether to believe him, even though the truth is completely fucking obvious.
“Tracy,” Critter calls after me when I’m halfway to the street. I don’t turn around. I just keep walking toward the fluorescent light of the all-night donut shop, broken bottle still gripped tight in my hand.
I turn the corner sharp out of the alley. Blood rushes through my veins like wind; I didn’t notice how hard my heart was beating. When I come up to Benito’s, Bianca’s still there, all pockmarks and purple lipstick, high-up tits and leopard print. This time she sees me before I can duck away. “Hey,
mami
,” she goes, exactly like I knew she would, and I can’t pretend not to hear her.
“Hey,” I go, hoping that’ll be the end of it.
“Where’s your friend?” she asks me, and I think she must mean Critter. The whores all think he’s cute.
“You can have him,” I go. “He’s a fucking asshole. Have fun.”
“Damn, who’s he and what’d he do to you?” She laughs and bites into her burrito. “No, I mean that little one,
mami
.
With the purple hair. Last time I saw you she was following you everywhere, and now you all alone. Where’d you put her?”
“I didn’t put her fucking anywhere,” I say. It comes out hard. “What the fuck do you care, anyway?”