Someone I Wanted to Be (14 page)

I was struck silent by the heat and hardness of a grown male body pressed against mine. The weight and warmth of his arm lay across my shoulders. I could feel him breathing, could feel his ribs through his shirt, his bony hip, his leather belt. I breathed in the smell of cigarettes, beer from his breath, a whiff of BO when he moved. His fingers were still stroking my arm. He made little circles on my arm like he was daydreaming. Even Kurt King could see Damien Rogers’s mark on me. I wondered how long it would be before Damien Rogers held me like this.

“You know that Ashley,” he said again. “She’s not so special. She’s no more special than you are.” He ran his thumb across my cheek. Nerve endings from every part of my body followed that rough thumb.

I looked up into his face. My eyes had adjusted to the darkness. A stranger with a bristly chin stared down the front of my hoodie. He had wrinkles around his eyes, and his breath smelled like onions.

“I got to go.”

His hand slid down my arm onto my wrist. He pulled my arm behind my back. “You’re not going anywhere.”

Then: “Just kidding,” he said. He let go.

I jumped up and turned around to face him, my arms crossed over my chest. I walked backward, glancing over my shoulder for potholes so I didn’t trip and fall. “How old are you? Why don’t you date people your own age? Ashley’s too young for you.”

He spit, shook his head, laughed at the ground between his knees. He got up, stepped into the light, smiled. “Don’t be like this. Why you being like this? I’m not too old for Ashley. Man, I’m, like . . . I’m twenty-two.”

“Yeah, right. Ciao, Mr. Corduroy.”

“Ciao? Mr. Corduroy? What kind of jackass name is that? You tell Ashley that Kurt King wants to see her and he’s a real gentleman.”

“Gotcha, Mr. Corduroy. I’ll tell Ashley straightaway.”

The truck door slammed shut. Its engine roared, and the truck backed up and drove down the alley. Except for a buzzing electrical box, it was quiet. The back door of the store closed. I kept walking backward down the alley toward the street.

“What’s with the jackass name? Hey, hey, hey . . . stop.” He shook his head and rubbed his thumb against his chin. “I offended you, but I don’t know what I did. Come on, come sit with me. Man, I’m having a hard night. Come here, come on back.”

“I got to go.” But I stopped.

He held his hands up like an outlaw giving himself up. He took two steps toward me. “Honey, I don’t know how I blew it here. What did I do wrong? Listen, how about this? Come here for a sec.” He tipped up his chin. “I’ll tell you a secret. But you got to tell me one. Come on.”

I stood where I was, but felt it. It was like being pulled by an invisible rope. “What’s the secret?” Maybe the secret was that Kristy wasn’t so gorgeous after all. She was blond but kind of scrawny. You, on the other hand . . .

“Don’t be mad at me.” He walked toward me and slowly reached out, his hand all veins and fingers and smooth brown skin. He ran a finger along my throat. I felt myself loosen at his touch, and it made me feel crazy because I didn’t know what it meant — like was it fate? Was this what fate felt like? My head ached and my skin tingled and my brain felt sleepy and I didn’t know.

“OK. Tell me the secret.”

“My secret is . . .” Kurt King grinned and shook his head. “My secret is that I’m not really twenty-two. I’m twenty-six. OK, I’m fessing up. And the other secret is — I’ll tell you two secrets — I just broke up with my girl. She’s pregnant by another dude. Man, it was ugly. Broke my heart.”

“Sorry to hear it. I have to go.” His face was in shadow. We were between the brick wall and the chain-link fence, and it was late and dark, and it had gotten cold. The darkness felt thick and heavy, like something I’d have to fight to get through.

He stepped toward me. He breathed on my forehead, and his hands touched my hair. No one in my whole life had ever touched me that gently. My nose brushed his chest, and I could smell him. It was like life had snatched me up and thrown me into a boiling river.

“You got to tell me a secret,” he said into my hair. “Fair is fair.”

I had so many secrets. My mother got drunk on wine every night. I lived in a crappy little apartment. My dad was dead. I weighed 182 pounds. I was in love with Damien Rogers. I both loved and hated Kristy. I disliked lots of people but I hardly ever showed it. I usually smiled. I didn’t have Internet access. I missed Anita Sotelo. I loved Dr. Seuss. I wanted to be a doctor.

I closed my eyes. Kurt King was rocking me back and forth like we were dancing.

“I want to know where she lives.”

Kristy, Kristy, Kristy. It always came back to Kristy. She was like a radioactive substance that had contaminated the entire world.

I pulled away. “Why don’t you ask her?”

“Why don’t you just tell me? I know you know.” A chunk of streaked bangs hung between his eyes and made him look crazy and cross-eyed. “Man, don’t take offense that I’m into her. She’s a beautiful girl. I even got her on my phone.”

He pulled a cell phone out of his front pocket. He had a cheap flip phone just like mine. He opened it, the screen lit up, and there was Kristy, one inch tall, standing under a streetlight in the parking lot at Torrance Park. She was wearing her pink spaghetti-strap tank. Her hair swirled in a crazy white cloud around her.

I touched the screen. There was tiny Kristy lit up with electricity. “You have her picture.”

He snapped the phone shut. “The girl just does something for me.” He ran his hand over my side and pinched my stomach. “Just like your boyfriend’s into fat girls.”

My face felt icy, then boiling hot.

“You’re a creep.”

He spit over his shoulder and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Whatever you say, fat girl.” He shook back his bangs and reached for my arm. “Come on. I’ll give you a ride.”

I jerked away. I ran with my arms tight across my chest. After two blocks, I had to quit — my lungs burned and I couldn’t breathe. Every block, I stopped and turned back to see if he was following, but there were just lights, parked cars, empty streets, and shadows. He never even asked me my name.

The only sound in the building was the sizzle from the fluorescent tube lights. The door to #3 was ajar.

The lights were blazing. Mrs. Martin and Cindy sat together on the couch with their knees touching. They looked up at me.

Mrs. Martin got to her feet. “I’ll go and let you two work this out.”

“Thank you for your concern, Frances.” Cindy blew her nose.

Mrs. Martin walked out of the apartment without giving me another glance.

Cindy had a long red crease on her left cheek, and her makeup was smudged in grainy streaks under her bloodshot eyes. Her hair bunched on one side. The living room reeked like wine. “Close the door. Lock it,” she said through her teeth.

I mechanically turned around, pushed the door shut, and rotated the dead bolt. The lines in the fake wood were too even, too regular. It looked so phony.

“Turn around! Look at me!” She stumbled to her feet, her hands in fists, and screamed in a whisper, “Where were you?”

“I was on a walk.”

The crazier she acted, the more numb I felt. When my face got vacant and expressionless, she became even more psychotic.

“I am so embarrassed.” She cupped both hands over her face and swayed. Her robe came open. She was wearing a black T-shirt and purple underwear. She had such skinny legs, such pointy, bony knees. “You left the door unlocked! Mrs. Martin came in and woke me up. I have never been so humiliated! Where were you?”

“Nowhere. I went on a walk.”

“You went on a walk? Bullshit! Were you drinking? Were you smoking pot? I want to smell your breath!” She tried to tie her robe, but her hands were shaking too badly.

“Mom, I was walking! I wanted to clear my head, so I went on a walk.”

“A walk at eleven thirty at night? I never heard such crap!” She staggered and hiccuped a sob like Jimmy did when he was exhausted. “I called three times and you didn’t pick up! Who were you with? Are you slutting around? Were you meeting a boy?”

“No!”

“You could be killed! You could be raped or murdered. Give me your phone! You are under house arrest!” The people in the apartment above ours banged on their floor.

“No way.”

“You are grounded for two weeks! Two weeks! And I promise that I will be calling on the hour to make sure that you are here. Now give me your phone! It’s confiscated!” She lunged at me, her eyes blazing and insane, and snatched at my phone. “Give me your phone! I am the parent! I am in charge here!”

She was not in charge, and there was no way in hell that I was going to let her see the texts from Kurt King. And find out about Ashley. I jumped over the coffee table, ran into my room, slammed the door shut, and locked it. She hammered on the door. “Leah, open this door! Open this door!” The door wobbled against its loose hinges. It was hollow and already splintered at the bottom from a kick. She was gone for a minute, then hit the door with what sounded like a saucepan.

“Don’t you defy me!” she shrieked.
Bang, bang, bang
went the ceiling.

She whapped the door a few more times, then leaned against it and cried. I sat against the bottom of the door and listened to her. After a few minutes, she moaned, “Oh . . . the hell with it.” She shuffled across the hall. Her door shut.

My phone blinked with messages. I turned it off and sat on the end of my bed like I was waiting for a bus, listening for the total silence that meant Cindy was passed out. It took forty-five minutes, during which I barely moved. My head crackled with static.

I snuck out of my room and then out of the apartment, up the stairs, and back down the orange carpet under the fluorescent lights, past Mrs. Martin’s door, and out through the entryway, where someone had dumped a hundred flyers for a pizza company.

In the dark parking lot, I wedged the phone under the rear tire of a red truck. I knew the owner left for work at six. He’d run over my phone and destroy it. The calls and texts from Kurt King would stop, and no one would ever find out what I’d done.

I opened Cindy’s door. She was asleep on her back with her legs bare, but I didn’t go and cover her. I fell asleep in my clothes with my head buried under pillows.

It was all over. My phone was mashed into black plastic shards and wires in the Belmont Manor parking lot on Tuesday morning. That night I’d tell Cindy, “Mom, I accidentally dropped my phone in the parking lot and it got run over.” She’d be pissy about it, but she wouldn’t be able to read my texts, and I would never have to talk to Mr. Corduroy again.

In second period, Carl Lancaster was waiting for me. I brushed past him, dumped my books on the lab table. “Carl, I don’t get this lab at all and I’m tired. Can you just do it?” He stood quietly, waiting for me to look at him, but I stared at the floor.

“It’s really easy, Leah. It’s just a titration.”

“I’m sorry. I’m just really tired.”

“Sure,” he said finally. He did the lab and explained what he was doing, and I wrote down what he told me to. I didn’t learn a thing, but it was restful — it was very peaceful, sitting nearby while Carl Lancaster worked. “Done,” he said.

“Thanks, Carl.” I dropped my lab report, we both bent down to pick it up, and our hands and heads touched. We stood up and didn’t look at each other. Kristy made a noise and wiggled her tongue at us.

At the end of class, Kristy skipped out, cackling with Victoria Miller. Carl said, “I’m going this way, anyway,” and began walking with to me to language arts. I knew his next class was in the opposite direction. I didn’t look at him but felt him beside me. It felt like pressure building up, a chemical reaction, something about to explode.

I stopped in the middle of the hallway. “What are you doing, Carl? No.” I stared straight ahead until I felt him disappear.

I walked the rest of the way alone, pushed, jostled, my insides burning and hollow, and whispered to Carl inside my head.
I’m sorry, Carl. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I just can’t do this.

I sat down in language arts. Dan Manke breathed into my hair with his chewing-tobacco breath. “Saw you in the hallway with Lancaster. Ooooh, Fat-Ass has a boyfriend.”