Cycler (6 page)

“Daria,” I say. “Listen to me. I don’t care what you have to do to make this happen, but you cannot let Tommy Knutson out of the cocoa shack! Do you understand?”

“I’m in the cocoa shack now,” she whispers. “Where are you?”

As the J-bar carries me downhill, Ramie skis past me with an astonished look on her face.

“He’s talking to that Norm guy,” Daria says. “What do I do?”

“Abort!” I say. “Abort mission!”

“How do we abort?”

The J-bar starts to lower toward the ground. That’s when I notice that everyone on the Bump has stopped skiing and is pointing in horror at my airborne carcass.

“Jill!” Ramie screams. At the bottom of the hill, she yanks her boots out of her skis and clambers up toward me.

“Get me down!” I yell to her. Into the phone I say, “Daria, are you aborting?”

Ramie shuffles quickly beneath me. “My God,” Ramie says. “Are you talking to Daria?” She wraps her arms around my thighs and tries to yank them free. “How on earth did you . . .” She pulls at my left ski, but it won’t budge. “Hold on.” She jams her fist into the boot mechanism and rips my left foot free. I topple over backward, but impossibly, my right ski catches on the upright bar.

“What the hell!” Ramie says.

The J-bar drags me downhill by the ankle while Ramie, clinging to my right leg, clomps alongside in her ski boots.

“Daria?” I say. “Where are you? Where’s Tommy?”

“Oh mal,” Daria says.

Jamming her fist into my right boot mechanism, Ramie yanks my boot out of the ski and I tumble free just as the J-bar heads into the switching gears to reverse itself back up the hill.

I lie in the cold snow and take exactly one relieved breath, then bring my cell phone to my ear. “Daria?”

There is a pause. “Um,” she says. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know how to abort.”

I peel my head up from the snow and stare at the twenty or so people standing in a loose semicircle at my feet.

Among them are Daria and Tommy Knutson.

Tommy steps forward and drops to his knees in the snow beside me. “Are you all right?” he says.

His breath fogs the cold air and smells of peppermint. I don’t answer him.

I feel Ramie’s hand on my shoulder. “Jill?” she says, dropping to her knees.

Tommy looks at Ramie. “You think she’s in shock?”

Ramie shrugs. “Jill,” she says. “Are you hurt? Can you hear me?”

Ramie’s breath does not smell of peppermint.

Somehow (it’s all a bit of a blur) Ramie and Tommy get me up and we trudge past the murmuring crowd in our ski boots. Clumps of wet snow slither between my jacket and sweater.

Once we’re in the cocoa shack, Tommy sits me down on one of the wooden benches while Ramie, improvising, hangs back with Daria to flirt with Norm. She means well, but dear lord, is she on drugs or something? I can’t be left alone with Tommy Knutson in this state. Operation Swoon is in shambles. We need an exit strategy!

Tommy sits next to me. “You’re sure you’re okay?” he says.

I shake some snow from my totally ruined hair and try to repeat my mantra about being a busy girl with a rich, full life, etc., but I can’t focus with Tommy so close to me. “Yes,” I say. “I think I’m . . . Yes. I’m . . . Yes.”

Tommy nods and waits for a more content-rich response.

I try to think of something that’s both witty and aloof, but all I come up with is “I hate skiing.”

Tommy’s face darkens.

“I mean . . . ,” I say. “I mean, I don’t really—”

Tommy laughs. “Don’t worry,” he says. “You’re not the J-bar’s first victim.”

I giggle stupidly, then clear my throat, straighten my posture and turn away to look at the popcorn machine in the corner.

“But you are its most theatrical,” he says.

Turning slowly back to him, I realize I have inadvertently launched the alluring over-the-shoulder glance. Ramie flashes me the thumbs-up sign, so I decide to go for it. Inclining my head downward, I gaze upward just past Tommy at Ramie and Daria. Ramie makes the okay sign, to which Daria nods in agreement.

Tommy follows my gaze to Ramie and Daria, who quickly return to flirting with an unimpressed Norm.

“Did you hurt your neck?” Tommy says.

I freeze for a second, then slowly, casually abort the move and return my gaze to the popcorn machine. “No,” I say. “It’s fine. Do you know what time it is?”

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Tommy point to a clock directly above the popcorn machine.

I laugh awkwardly and say, “Of course.” Then I meet his gaze for a nanosecond, glance away and say, “I have to go now. Thanks for your help.” I stand up, look at Ramie, point to my wrist and, with a head bob, indicate that it’s time to go. I’m seconds from a clean getaway when I feel Tommy’s warm fingers around my wrist. “Hey, Jill,” he says.

For a moment, I dare to hope that the hunter has at last awoken.

He stands up and pulls me toward the smelly popcorn machine. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Um,” I say. “Sure.”

He releases my wrist, glances sneakily over my shoulder at Ramie and says, “What’s her deal?”

“Huh?” I clear my throat. “What do you mean?”

“Your friend Ramie,” he says. “She’s been asking people all kinds of questions about me, like am I gay and have I ever been in jail.”

“What?” I say. “I can’t believe she’d—”

“Yeah,” he says. “Some kids in my art class told me.” He taps his knuckles idly on the splintery cocoa shack wall. “They thought she was doing it on your behalf.” He smiles with only half his mouth.

I stare dumbly at Ramie, who furrows her brow at me in utter confusion. Daria keeps tapping her on the arm and mouthing, “What? What’s happening?”

When I flick my eyes back to Tommy, he’s smiling this enormous Cheshire cat smile at me. After holding my gaze for an excrutiating three Mississippis, he narrows his eyes, smirks and says, “Hey, by the way, if you hate skiing, what were you doing on the J-bar?”

Gulp.

I glance at Ramie and Daria, wondering how to blink the Morse code for SOS. All they do is stare back, confused. I’m on my own here. Operation Swoon is in tatters. No abort protocol, no exit strategy, and my mission partners may as well not exist. Shuddering with another shift of wet snow down my back, I take a deep breath and improvise a response.

“Gee, Tommy,” I say. “I’m not sure what you’re suggesting, but it sure sounds like you have a rich fantasy life.”

He absorbs my frigid stare for a moment, then looks down and laughs shyly. What an amateur.

“Anyway,” I say. “Thanks for your help. See you in H Block.” With as much grace as it’s possible to muster in ski boots, I clomp my way toward the cocoa shack door.

“No, you won’t,” he says.

I stop and face him. “Pardon?”

“You won’t see me in H Block,” he says, “because you never look at me anymore.” He walks toward me. “I’m flunking that stupid class. You were the only thing I liked about it. Now you give me the cold shoulder. What’s that all about?”

“You’re flunking?” I say.

He nods. “Tell you what. I’ll teach you how to ski if you help me pass calculus. I mean, you were here to learn how to ski, right?”

The Cheshire cat smile again. He’s toying with me!

But, on the other hand, I think he’s just made a semi-romantic overture. This is good news. I should accept his offer. This is mission accomplished, right? Mouth opened, I stare at Tommy, but I can’t figure out how to say yes. My hair’s a wreck and I’m still stinging from my public humiliation on the J-bar.

“I don’t know,” I find myself saying. “I’m a very . . . I’m a busy girl.” I turn away and clomp right out the cocoa shack door. I do not wait for Tommy’s response. I do not wait for Ramie and Daria. I do not even retrieve my shoes from under the bench where I’ve left them. I crunch my heavy ski boots through the gravel parking lot and grab the driver’s-side door of my Nissan. It’s locked.

“Damn it,” I mutter to myself. Daria has the keys.

A painful ten seconds later, Daria and Ramie burst through the door and walk briskly toward me.

“Keys, Daria,” I say.

I hold up my hand and she digs them out of her jeans pocket and throws them to me. I catch them, open the door, get in and start the engine. Ramie slides into the front seat and Daria gets into the back.

“Oh my God,” Daria says. “You left your shoes inside.” She puts her hand on the door handle.

“Forget it,” I say.

I throw the car in reverse and back out. In the rearview mirror, I spot Tommy Knutson standing in the cocoa shack doorway. Our eyes meet for a terrifying half a Mississippi, then I gun it and leave the Bump and its infernal J-bar behind me.

April 9

Jack

Do J-bar Jillie and Ski-dude get together?
Does she help him pass calculus? Does he teach her how to ski? Are they—oh my God, I can’t even say it—going to the prom?

Don’t lie. Of course you want to know. You don’t care about me. I’m the ugly wart on the pretty girl’s cheek, remember? The Baroness of the Bump is the star of this show. Well, here’s the update, ladies and gents. You know what happened after the catastrophic failure of Operation Swoon?

Nothing.

Zip, nada, zilch. Know why?

I came early. Monday morning, in fact. No time for the little princess to execute damage control. Knutsack’s final image of Jill remains her frightened eyes in the rearview mirror as she fled the cocoa shack without her shoes. I wonder if he thought,
Now that’s what I call a high-status woman.

How a sensible, never-been-grounded, straight-A girl like Jill managed to acquire the requisite dumbness to get herself strung up by the J-bar is one of those perplexing mysteries.

But you know what? Entertaining as it has been to recall Jill’s flamboyant undoing, I have not spent the last three days reveling in it. Oh, no. I have had other forms of entertainment superior even to that slapstick performance. Jill, bless her, delivered the goods. Well, Mom did, shockingly.

I’m talking about porn! Lots and lots of porn. Six full-color magazines crammed with it.
Playboy, Penthouse, Hustler, Juggs, Swank
and
High Society.
Let me take you on a little tour.

Crystal, a veterinary science student at USC, has pale blue eyes, pert little knockers and light blond hair that is, how shall I put this, clearly a dye job. LaTanya, from Louisville, Kentucky, enjoys dirty dancing, pancakes and attempting to lick her left nipple with an impressively agile, if not quite long enough, tongue. Betsy, twenty-four, from Cleveland, prefers to tinker with the engine of her red Mustang on laundry day, which is the only reason I can think of for why she’s doing it naked.

Then there’s Martha. Sweet Martha with the wild tangle of chestnut brown hair. Oh to be that horse on which Martha lay draped, naked, eyes unfocused. What are you thinking about, Martha? Are you sad? Are you bored? Are you waiting for a hot steaming hunk of man to rescue you from equine ennui? I’m right here, Martha. Dig in your spurs and ride on over: 23 Trask Road, Winterhead, MA, 01984.

Martha’s my favorite.

Not that I’ve given the other ladies short shrift. There’s plenty of Jack to go around. At one point yesterday morning, I had all six magazines opened and spread out on the bed. Half a dozen naked and semi-naked girls stared up at me like I was their god. What a party that was. It was better than Christmas.

But this morning, something very troubling happened: I started reading the articles. On the right-hand page, there’d be a photo of a naked girl spread-eagle on the hood of a Ferrari, and I’d be reading some blather about cuff links on the left. I was choosing journalism over tits! I’ve never even worn cuff links. I’ve never even
seen
cuff links. I’m seventeen years old, for cripes’ sake. I’ve spent my life in one room, utterly deprived of female contact. I get three days with a stack of porno mags and what happens? My most sacred base desires conk out on me like the engine of Betsy’s Mustang.

Am I broken? Diseased? Do I need Viagra?

Nope. My malady is far worse than that, ladies and gentlemen. It’s terminal. It’s the reason I requested all this porn in the first place. You see, these beautiful girls, naked and compliant as they may be, are no more than stand-ins for the true object of my desire. Their explicit poses and ingenious sexual experiments with door handles and produce are just lurid enough to distract me from my obsession for a few days. Ultimately, obsession wins.

Good-bye, ladies. So long and farewell. My heart and my libido belong to . . .

I won’t say it. If I don’t say her name, she’ll have no power over me. Right?

I have her photograph hidden between the mattress and box spring. Jill doesn’t know about it. I mean, technically it belongs to her. She had it taken at one of those silly booths at the Liberty Bell Mall. I’ve spent all morning trying to banish its existence from my mind, distracting myself with horseback Martha and nipple-licking LaTanya.

But at 11:36 p.m., after a struggle that was always doomed, I succumb to the inevitable. Digging the tiny photo from between the mattress and box spring, I sit cross-legged on the floor in my underwear. My hands in prayer around the forbidden object, I hesitate to look, knowing that once I see it, the old desire will return, potent, all-encompassing and never fully slaked.

This is not my fault. I’ve tried. Lord knows I’ve tried to squash this obsession. But I’m only human.

I open my palms and there she is.

Ramie.

Her thick, full lips pucker as she plants a big friendly kiss on Jill’s face. On
my
face. Yes, I remember that moment. I remember every fractional instant of that moment, because I remember everything. Every time Ramie touches Jill’s hand. Every time she whispers with hot, moist breath into Jill’s ear. Every secret. Every gesture. I remember it all.

Jill pays obsessive attention to all that Ramie does and says, because she worships Ramie in her silly girl-crush way. But when I wake up alone in this room, I invade Jill’s memories like a Viking horde. I mine their phone conversations, their chats by the lockers, their trips to the mall, their sharing of fitting rooms.

Oh man.

The way she bites her lower lip while she’s studying Italian
Vogue,
her pigeon-toed stance when she thinks no one is looking, her long slim fingers twisting Jill’s hair into a French braid.

Her blue lace bra!

Screw LaTanya. Screw Betsy. Screw Martha. Only one girl will do for me. All five feet ten inches of her. All one hundred and eighteen pounds of willowy lusciousness. Body, mind and soul, Ramie, I’ll take it all. Your cockeyed plan to infiltrate the student government with anarchists, your half-baked scheme to plant a bag of weed in the football captain’s locker, your ambition to change the face of fashion through the unconventional use of plastics. I’m listening, Ramie.

And I’m watching too.

By 2:00 a.m., I’m spent. Drained. The porno mags are stacked neatly on the dresser next to Jill’s Hello Kitty makeup case. I’ve got the Ramie photo in my hand (my
other
hand) and I’m staring at it by the dim light from the imitation Lladró flamenco lamp on the bedside table. I can’t sleep and I can’t wank anymore. It’s day four. I’ll be gone tomorrow. I’ve written Jill a note to request some porn DVDs, but I know they won’t help. Next cycle, I’ll find myself in this same burning dilemma.

We’re supposed to keep our lives separate, Jill and I. That’s the deal. That way, she can be Nancy Normal and I can spend my days watching Elvis DVDs and fighting off boredom with epic bouts of masturbation. She doesn’t interfere with my life, and I don’t interfere with hers.

But now, my reckless brain is concocting rationalizations. Why, it argues, should I be condemned to a life in this room while Jill roams freely? Why should Jill get Ramie all to herself?

I know the answers to these questions. I know why we live the way we live. The world couldn’t handle a cycling hermaphrodite. Hiding my existence from the outside world, cruel as it seems, is an absolute necessity. Anything I do to screw up this arrangement is an incentive for Jill and Mom to try to erase me. Not to mention, I think the success of this arrangement—especially all that Plan B stuff—is what really created me in the first place. It was only after Jill’s deliberate forgetting that my separate personality evolved. I should guard this arrangement with my life!

But my devious brain won’t let it lie.
Jill won’t remember a thing,
it tells me.
You’re nothing but a blackout phase. You can do anything you want and no one will ever know.

For three long years (that’s one hundred and forty-nine days of Jacktime, to be exact), I’ve endured this tiny room, mining Jill’s memories for a modest vicarious existence. I’ve been a good little prisoner. I’ve eaten my peanut butter sandwiches and kept my mouth shut. But now, in the twisted logic of a sleepless night, after the porn has failed to quench my devouring hunger, I’m starting to question all of it.

Why shouldn’t I sneak out that window? Why shouldn’t I climb that tree outside Ramie’s bedroom and watch her sleep?

It’s not like I haven’t thought about it. I’ve thought about it plenty. After Mom and Dad stopped checking up on me in here, I imagined sneaking out and following Ramie, maybe introducing myself to her as a new kid in town. But I never had the stones to go through with it.

Something’s different tonight. I’m not sure what.

Getting out of bed in my T-shirt and boxer briefs, I return the forbidden photo to its hiding place between the mattress and box spring, pull on my jeans and dig out the one pair of shoes I own: ancient white Converse All Stars, which are buried beneath a pile of Jill’s clothes and are at least two sizes too small. I’ve never worn them, never had to.

Kneeling on the pink wooden chest beneath the frosted window, I stare into the darkness beyond, then flip the locks and open it. Cold hits me with a quick and unforgiving blow. A coat. People wear coats outside, don’t they?

Damn,
I realize.
I’m going outside.

I grab Jill’s long black wool coat, which barely reaches my wrists and squeezes my shoulders. It looks ridiculous and—

WHAT AM I, NUTS?

I can’t go outside! Someone might see me.

Nevertheless, I step onto the wooden chest and slide over the windowsill backward. Frigid air burns my ankles as I dangle a good five feet from the ground. I should have worn socks. Not that I have socks. As my fingertips strain to hold my weight, I realize that after I drop, I have no way of getting back up to the window. I’ll have to come in the front door. But, of course, I don’t have a key on me, and despite the fact that there has never been a break-in anywhere near my house, Mom keeps this place locked up like Fort Knox.

My fingers are about to give out when I dig my feet into the brick face and climb back up. With a giant heave, I pull my chest across the windowsill, then wriggle to the floor.

I can’t go through with this. I can’t go jumping through windows and roaming the streets of Winterhead to spy on a girl as she sleeps.

But I’m going to.

I just have to do a little planning first. Jill would never go off half-cocked like this. She’d have backup plans and abort protocols. She’d have spreadsheets and pie charts. There’d be Plans A through Z and Projects One through One Hundred. I have to think!

I know Jill has a key to the front door, but I don’t want my return to wake up Mom, whose bedroom is dangerously close to it. So I take the sheet off the bed and tie it around the leg of Jill’s pink chest. The sheet only hangs down a few feet, so I pull the fitted sheet off the bed and tie that to the end of it. This buys me another seven feet or so, enough to jump and grab when I’m on the ground. I dig through Jill’s underwear drawer for some socks, but finding only bright, girlie, lacy crap with polka dots and stuff, I decide to suffer.

Before the remains of good sense can stop me, I hang out the window and drop to the soft wood chips below.

Cold air burns my throat. What a rush.

Above me is Mom’s darkened window. I freeze in anticipation of her light coming on. It doesn’t. At knee height is the basement window behind which Dad sleeps. It too remains dark. After another deep breath of cold air, I slip between two holly bushes and creep to the edge of the front lawn. You can’t see any other houses from here. We’re at the end of a winding street.

Everything seems so far away—the giant pine tree whose branches dip into Trask Road, the telephone wires snaking away. Even the sky, jet-black with wispy clouds, seems impossibly distant.

Pulling Jill’s coat tight, I look at our house dwarfed by that big sky, then turn to begin my journey down Trask Road.

When I’ve rounded the bend that leads me toward Main Street, I realize I’ve seen all of this before—the Rennies’ house, with five cars jammed in the driveway, the Mazzaglias’ house, meticulously landscaped by old Mr. Mazzaglia with a tiny pair of scissors—but only through Jill’s perception. I know every inch of this route, yet it all feels new.

The Bukers’ ferocious boxer, chained to a post out front, snarls at me but doesn’t bother getting up. When I get to Main Street, not a car is in sight. I skip across to the sidewalk on the other side, then head north toward the center of town. Streetlights cast blobs of light.

When I hear a car up ahead, I tuck into the mouth of the Perkins’ driveway to squat behind a bittersweet bush. The car swishes by and fades around Main Street’s gentle curve.

In twenty quiet minutes, with only the sound of rustling trees to keep me company, I am at the mouth of Cherry Street—Ramie’s street. I head into its dark embrace. Ramie’s house is only a hundred yards in, and when I get there, a rotting wooden plaque greets me with “Boulieaux” formed in seashells. Midway up her sloping front lawn, an enormous maple extends its branches from the edge of Cherry Street to the porch roof, which creates a convenient platform beneath Ramie’s bedroom window.