Magnolia Blossoms (4 page)

“Fine! Get up! I’ll be your girffriend fer one week, but zat’s it.”

“Deal.” He stops sniveling and rises to his feet. “May I take you to dinner tonight, Magnolia?”

“I thought you shed I looked like a Mindy.”

“Magnolia’s your name. I’ll just call you that.”

“Okay.”

“You get to pick the place: McDonald’s? Burger King? No. Tonight is special. I wouldn’t normally do this, but tonight we’ll go ethnic and eat at Taco Bell. You don’t even have to order from the value menu.” He pulls out a small wad of money and quickly counts it. “Anything you want. As long as it’s not more than six dollars, it’s yours!” He puts his arm around me again, and he guides me towards the exit. “When and where do I pick you up?”

“Here. I live here. I can’t eat, but you can pick me up whenever,” I answer.

“You live here? Sunny’s your mom? No shit! You’re kidding me, right?”

“No,” I answer.

“Damn, what happened to you? Was your dad beaten with an ugly stick or something?”

If I didn’t have so much hardware in and on my face, he would’ve seen my jaw drop, followed by an angry flare of the nostrils. Instead, he gets my palm against his robust cheek without the rest of the hoopla. His beady eyes narrow, and he starts to breathe quickly through his nose. “You hit me!” he fusses, his voice laden with fury.

“No shit,” I say, stomping up the stairs to get to my apartment.

“Wait! Wait! What I said was probably not the most appropriate thing to say. Give me another chance to make it up to you. Please!” He joins me on the landing at the top of the stairs. There isn’t much room up there, and his close proximity makes me more nervous than normal. “Let me make it up to you.”

I have nowhere to run as his wide body pins mine against the door. He pushes his large mitt of a hand against my forehead to angle my head back, and then he begins to hurriedly lick at my lips with his tongue like a dog lapping water from a bowl. I’d never experienced a kiss other than the very rare chaste one with Sunny or Big Daddy, so I have no idea if what he’s doing to me is the norm. Something inside tells me that it might not be. I turn my head away, repulsed by the sensation and the nasty taste.

“You go! Go now!” I say as loudly as possible.

“Was that not right? Did I do that wrong? I’ve only kissed Sasha, and she seemed to like it.”

“Ish Sasha your dog?” I ask, rubbing my lips with the back of my sleeve.

“No!” His voice cracks as he yells the reply defensively.

I give him a blank stare. “She’s more than a dog. Don’t judge! Leave me alone! Don’t ever talk to me again!” He takes the first eight steps as quickly as his legs will carry him, and the next eight, he takes on his ass as he bounces down each one individually. He jumps back up when he hits the ground and makes a mad dash towards his moped. He’s still doing a mumble/wail thing as the motor sputters to life. The moped loses about four inches of height when he sits on it, and the engine pleads for mercy when he hammers on the gas. Well, I can finally say I’ve had a boyfriend. It only lasted about twenty minutes, but that’s a start, right?

I’ve been spending a lot of time staring in the mirror since the procedures to my face were completed. My nose is no longer beak-like; it is cute with the slightest upturn to it. My new teeth are pearly white and straight as can be. I smile broadly. Not a trace of the bucktoothed mess that used to fill my mouth.

As soon as the wires came off, all I did was inhale food. I couldn’t seem to get full, and my figure is now showing it. I have a slight tummy pooch, something I’ve never had, and my face looks fuller and rosier. The cups of my bra can’t contain the spill over, and I have hips! I practice a new way of walking to show off my new assets. It’s far from graceful, but maybe one day I’ll get it down. Despite the changes, I’m still an unrecognized plain Jane, so my master plan must move forward. After some research on the internet and a quick trip to the hardware store, I’m ready to delve into the world of arson.

I wait for one of Sunny and Big Daddy’s weekends away before I begin. According to the myth debunkers, pig is the closest to human flesh, so I order a quarter of a pig from Mr. Landry, the butcher, and he tells me he’ll have it ready for me in an hour. I hop on the Vespa, give the front basket a good wiggle to make sure it’s attached firmly, and then take off for the butcher shop. True to his word, it’s waiting for me. Problem is, a quarter of a pig is not small, and there is no way it will
ever
fit into my dinky basket.

“Well, Magnolia, what did you expect?” Mr. Landry, gruffly questions. He’s an older man who dyes his hair jet black to match his bushy mustache. His attire is always a blood stained white t-shirt, blue jeans with a bandana hanging out of the pocket, and white rubber boots. He keeps a cigarette tucked behind his ear, though I know for a fact that he quit smoking two years ago. Mr. Landry is not very nice, but he’s the closest meat man around.

“Uh, I guess like a ham or something.”

“No!” he yells, smacking his knife onto the butcher block. “If you want a ham, you order a ham! You do not order a quarter of a pig!”

I do a sort of apologetic cringe before speaking again. “But, how will I get this home?” I ask, staring wide-eyed at the long, paper-wrapped package.

“Not my problem! You can ride it home for all I care!”

I struggle to pull it off the counter top, and right then and there, I vow to start working out with weights. Swaying from side to side while lugging it out the door, I finally manage to get the hunk of pig into the parking lot. I sigh heavily after plopping it onto the seat of the Vespa. There’s no way it’s going into the basket. Desperate for ideas, I look around the deserted parking lot for an answer. With no other options presenting themselves, I decide to take Mr. Landry’s advice, and I straddle the thickest portion of the package. I’m going to ride the pig leg home.

I have quite a few near misses on the way home, the latter of which causes full-on brake squealing and tire screeching from the red sports car trying to pass me. I wager a glimpse behind me, and to my dismay, the lower third of the pig’s foot is now free from the wrapping. I look like a witch flying a pig’s leg, but I’m too close to home to pull over.

I park the Vespa as close to the garage door as possible, and the pig leg clunks to the ground when I dismount. Rolling my eyes with disgust, I plop a seat on the thickest portion of the pig hind quarter, and with my chin in my palm, I debate my next course of action. It doesn’t take me long to figure out that my two options are to leave it or to use brute force. Thus begins the game of tug of war with Porky. Taking the hoof end in my grip, I drag the carcass a foot or two then I rest for a while. This stop/start inch fest continues until I finally get the hunk of meat to the backyard and into the fire pit. Sincerely wanting to keep my vow to get some muscles, I promise to start using Sunny’s home gym tomorrow.

After taking a few minutes to catch my breath, I survey the line of chemicals before me. Randomly picking two, simply because I liked their labels, I pop the tops and begin to douse the pig. An intense flame burns brightly on the match stick I strike against the box, and as the flame dances and flickers at the end of it, I’m mesmerized. The heat finally registers in my fingertips, so I quickly toss it into the fire pit. Nothing happens. I light another one and toss it in. Nothing happens. Match after match is ignited and tossed into the smelly pit, and much to my frustration, the only thing I get in return is the tiniest puff of smoke.

“That’s it. I give up. Evidently, arson isn’t my thing eith…”
Whoosh!

A fireball the size of Rhode Island engulfs me, but I manage to fall over backwards and crab crawl away from the intense heat. Coughing and hacking, I crawl to a spot under a magnolia tree and begin to assess bodily damage. Though my eyes are watering, I can see that my feet, legs, and skirt are all intact. Dirty, but not charred.

I never hear the sirens of the responding fire trucks. Maybe because I’m so preoccupied with the whole head-on-fire thing? A ruckus ensues, and I’m doused with water, a wet sheet placed over my head, and I’m forced to lie down on the itchy grass. An oxygen mask covers my face, and I’m instructed to lie still. I think it’s overkill, but my head is starting to throb some, so I do as the firefighter instructs.

A few minutes later, the edge of the sheet is lifted, and I’m staring into a familiar set of crystal blue eyes. “Magnolia? Want to explain what happened?” Jace asks, removing the oxygen mask from my face.

“I wanted to roast a pig,” I answer.

“Expecting a crowd?” he plies.

“No.”

He squints. “You intended to roast seventy pounds of pig for yourself?”

“When you say it like that, it does sound a bit much.” What in the world am I supposed to tell him? I hate my life. I hate being invisible. I’m trying to figure out the best way to kill someone, so I can kill others and become one of the most famous serial killers ever. Yeah, that will go over really well! I have to stick to my “hungry for pig” story.

“You must have one hell of a craving for pig. And normally, people don’t pour accelerant over the pig and then toss in a match. There’s a little more to a cochon de lait than your method,” he says, waving his partner away. “I got this, Joe.” Joe happily strikes up a conversation with one of the firefighters.

“Yeah, I think I just figured that out,” I say.

He carefully unravels the rest of the sheet from my head, and I’m not sure how to read his look. It’s kind of a cross between concerned and amused. “I have good news and bad news,” he says, crossing his arms over his chest then pinching his lower lip between his thumb and forefinger.

“Okay, what’s the good news?” I ask.

“Your burns don’t appear to be anything too serious.”

“Bad news?”

“You’ve suffered some hair loss.”

“Hair…loss?” My fingers drift upwards and land where my eyebrows used to be. Where in the hell are my eyebrows! Oh, my God! WHERE IS MY HAIR! There are so many questions I want to ask, but the words won’t leave my throat.

“Hey, try to calm down, Mags. You still have some hair, and what’s gone will grow back with time.”

I pat around to assess the damage, and as near as I can tell, I look like Larry from the Three Stooges, bald on the top, and a ring of kinky, bushy hair around the rest. Heartbroken, I pull the oxygen mask back over my face and stare off into the darkening sky. Jace pulls the mask off me. “Hey, it’s not so bad. There are wigs and stuff. Come on. Let’s get you to the hospital so they can check you out.”

“Do I have to go?” I ask.

“No, but I think it’s best that you do,” he answers, smiling a sexy sort of half grin. “Do you want me to call your boyfriend? What’s his name? Demon or something? I can have him meet us at the emergency room if you’d like.”

“Diablo. And thanks, but we broke up.”

“Oh, I’m sorry if I caused any hurt feelings to resurface.”

“Nah, we only dated for twenty minutes.”

Jace throws his head back and laughs heartily. “Twenty minutes? That has to be a record. Okay, Mags. Ready to load up and go?”

“No, I really think I’d just like to go upstairs, take a shower, and go to bed. I’m fine. Not much is hurting except my pride.” I slowly sit up, and Jace extends a hand to help me to my feet. A jolt of energy shoots from his hand and surges through my body. He gives me a few friendly pats on the back.

“You sure?”

“Yeah, I’m sure,” I say, taking off towards the stairs. I couldn’t care less that the backyard is still crawling with firemen. I figure they’ll leave when they’re ready.

“Magnolia, I have some paperwork that you have to sign saying I offered to bring you to the hospital, but you didn’t want to go.”

“Sure, okay. Bring it over,” I mumble. He points out a few spots on a form, and I scribble my name accordingly.

He lifts an eyebrow at me. “Need help getting settled? I feel bad leaving you like this. You don’t look so good.”

“I feel fine. It’s just a disappointing day is all.”

“You must’ve really wanted to eat that roast pig to be this forlorn over it,” he mentions.

“Yeah, something like that. Thanks for coming out to check on me.”

“Of course. If you start to feel bad, call, okay?”

“Okay,” I agree. One together, two together… I start my stair climbing ritual, and once I’m at the top of the landing, I give Jace a little wave before entering the apartment. I disrobe, shower, and sit down at the vanity to assess the damage. It is so much worse than I thought: bald at the top, a mix between super short and long scraggly pieces everywhere else, no eyebrows. I try not to cry, but it doesn’t work. I boo-hoo myself to sleep, partly over my hair, and partly over the fact that I’d failed again. I hope that a good night’s sleep will make things seem a little better in the morning, or better yet, that this is all just a bad dream.

*****

My eyes are super puffy when I try to open them, but I can’t let that stop me. Another unanticipated consequence to my little barbecue —the smell. Rotting pig carcass is quite odoriferous, and my parents will be returning from their jaunt within a day or so. I quickly tie a bandana around my semi-bald head, a la Aunt Jemima style, then head to the fire pit. The sight before me is about as bad as the smell. Maggots and flies crawl over the charred, putrefying meat. I want to hurl, but the sense of urgency to get rid of the carcass trumps it. I disappear into the garage for a bit where I find a clothespin for my nose, some rope, a pair of black dot gloves, and of course, my trusty sunshine yellow Vespa. Gnawing on my lower lip, I try to determine the best course of action. There is no way in hell that I’m straddling this pig now!

Even though I heave the entire time, I manage to lasso one end of the rope around the pig hoof with the other end secured around my waist. My plan is to hop on the Vespa and drag the chunk of pork to the bayou towards the back of the property. It was foolproof in my mind.

I ease on the gas, but nothing happens except for a slight tightening of the rope around my waist. No time for playing around; I have to get this done! I hammer down on the throttle. The Vespa careens forward; I, however, do not. The pain of smashing into the ground is instantaneous and intense. I quickly rub my sore ribs then survey my hand. No blood. After untying the rope from my waist, I dust off and very gently mount the Vespa. Once it’s back in its usual spot in the garage, I desperately search for plan B.

The only thing that looks like it will even remotely be an option is the huge green tractor that Big Daddy occasionally uses to piddle around with lawn projects. Climbing aboard, I’m confused by all of the buttons and levers before me, and I thankfully find one clearly marked, “Start.” I push it; nothing happens. I jostle a few levers, and in doing so, I finally spot a key. I turn it, and then push the “Start” button. The tractor roars to life and shoots out of the stall like green lightening. I’m barely able to hold on to the steering wheel as I struggle to stay in the seat. I press and mash anything and everything in front of me, but nothing slows down the tractor. I aim it toward the fire pit, hoping the sturdy brick will stop the tractor for me. It doesn’t. It plows right through the brick, sending shards of mortar and baked clay everywhere. Once I’m through the dust cloud, I see that I’m dragging the pig with me, so I steer towards the bayou. With any luck, I can cut the wheel once I get close enough and slingshot that sucker into the water. As for the tractor, if I have to ride it in circles around the property until it runs out of gas, then so be it.

I feel like I’m playing a game of chicken. The water’s edge rapidly approaches, and I know that I have to time it just right for my plan to work. As soon as the embankment starts to slope downhill, I cut the wheel sharply to the right, and I feel the tractor starting to tip over. I heave my body in the opposite direction of the overturning vehicle, flying through the air Supergirl-style. I land with thud, and once I’m able to breathe again, I quickly sit up to assess the damage. The tractor’s top half is completely submerged in the muddy water. Bubbles and steam surround the wreckage, and all I can do is stare with disbelief. Big Daddy will kick me out for this one, for sure. I look to my left, and there sits the nasty, smelly pig quarter mocking me.

“You stupid, no good, pain in my ass! Go away!” I yell to the rotting meat. Kicking it feels really good until I suddenly feel myself levitate. Before my brain can process what’s going on, I’m set back on the ground, and Jace is standing before me.