EIGHT
Marigold
Thursday...
I wake up with a sharp breath. “Shit.”
“What’s up?” Dan mumbles, hand sliding up my back.
“What time is it?”
“Uh.” He taps his phone and closes one eye. “8:15.”
“Shit. I have an AP test at nine.”
“I can give you a ride. Hey.” He sits up and cups my knee. “You okay?”
“Yeah.” I brush hair out of my eyes. “I’m fine.”
Upstairs, there’s a spray of cereal across the linoleum. Dented cans leak and I step over a puddle of tomato soup on my way to the coffee pot. A freezing half cup remains from yesterday. I down it in one.
Police lights had burned through the windows until three in the morning. Frank had insisted that he wouldn’t press charges, that the knife had just been another thing Mom had grabbed to toss out on the yard, that everything was fine. The cops hadn’t been easy to convince. They traipsed through the house for hours, collecting statements and searching for weapons. More than once, I caught a sidelong glance from the owlish officer but outside of a few mutters to his partner, he didn’t say anything.
“This some straight-up hick shit,” the partner had said in an undertone, shaking his head.
Eventually the night fell into a stalemate. Mom got uncuffed and released from the back of the cruiser, the cops went on their way and we spent the next hour gathering Frank’s far-flung possessions from the lawn. She retreated to her room. He passed out on the couch. I couldn’t sleep and locked my door from the inside before creeping out my bedroom window. Dan was already drifting when I came in but his arms wrapped around me like a reflex. The hollow of his chest felt warm and uncomplicated.
* * * * *
Houses get larger as the Chevy pushes north. Dan’s elbow rests on his window frame and I hug my knees to my chest. Neither of us fill the silence but it doesn’t feel tense. The mall rises like a mountain in the distance. When my eyes start to sting and my chest tightens, he laces his fingers through mine.
“Hey,” he says as the engine grumbles to a stop outside St. Anthony’s. “Nothing would have happened.”
I nod. On the other side of the windshield, students laugh and loiter on the steps. The sunshine feels profane.
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah,” I say. “I should go.”
Ragged marks from my teeth bloom pink down the side of his neck. “Call me after school?”
I nod again and close the door behind me. Crossing the quad, I hear someone call my name.
“Sophia! Hey!” Stuart Eichler jogs toward me, backpack bouncing behind him. “Do you have a sec?”
“Um, not really. AP English test, remember?”
“That’s in like twenty minutes,” he pants and double checks his phone. “Just one second. Please. I just want to apologize, but you’re always with Hannah.”
“Okay. Apology accepted.”
“Sophie.” His eyebrows arch at the center. “Just… I can’t think out here. Just please give me a minute.”
Standing on an incline like this, I’m slightly taller than he is.
“Fine.” I adjust my backpack. “Whatever.”
He smiles wide and pulls out his keys. A nearby Toyota Camry beeps open. I climb into the passenger seat and blow hair out of my face. He grips the steering wheel even though we aren’t going anywhere.
“Sophia.” His voice sounds choked. “I’m still in love with you.”
“Oh my god.” I bury my face in my hands.
“I’m serious, Sophia! It’s not funny!” He’s crying now and each shout comes strangled. Knuckles blanche around the steering wheel. “You just ignore me and you don’t respond to any of my texts. You’re driving me fucking crazy.”
“Just because you want to talk to me doesn’t mean I’m obligated to talk back.” I tug on the door handle. The lock doesn’t click. “Stuart. Open the door.”
His face is red and twisted, wet with snot and unwiped tears. “No.”
“Goddamn it, Stuart.”
I reach over to flip the control and he snatches at my arms.
“Hey! Let go of me.”
When I try to yank away, he just wrenches harder.
“You’re a fucking bitch, you know that?” he shouts.
Tears stream down his face while I try to tug free. He might be shrimpy but his grip is shockingly firm.
“You act so aloof and over everything like nothing is good enough for you. It needles at people.” Thumbs dig into my forearms as he shakes me. “You drive people fucking crazy.”
I try to yell at him, to let me go, but start crying instead.
“Fuck,” he shouts, slamming his fists against the horn. “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.”
Panic seizes my chest. I shrink against the door and tear my fingers through my hair. My vision swims. “Please just let me out.”
“Fuck you!” Spittle sprays from his mouth and flecks my face.
The window shatters in a splash of safety glass. I throw my arms over my face. When I look up, Dan is reaching through the jagged hole in the window to unlock the driver’s side door. He yanks Stuart out and tosses him onto the sidewalk like a doll.
“Soph.”
I wipe my cheeks and start nodding again.
“Careful.” He reaches out and helps me hover over the cubes of broken glass.
Stumbling out onto the sidewalk, I almost trip when my knees buckle.
“Hey, hey.” He catches my arm. “You’re okay.”
I press my face into his t-shirt and his fingers slide into my hair. Then my shoulders start to heave.
Needle. That was the word Stuart used. It’s exactly what I’ve been doing to my mom. Cold, passive aggressive, I’ve been eating away at her one pinprick at a time. A death by a thousand cuts. Then she picked up a knife.
A manic howl erupts and Dan lurches backward. Stuart’s fist smashes into Dan’s ear.
“Fuck.” Dan staggers and clutches the side of his head.
When Stuart comes at him again, Dan’s punch lands with a smack. Blood erupts from Stuart’s nose. He staggers back, red blossoming on his uniform shirt, and Dan shoves him to the ground.
“Don’t you fucking touch Sophia.” He hammers his knuckles into the schoolboy’s face.
Lights flash and I realize we’re ringed by a crowd. Students cover their mouths and hold up their phones, taking photos and videos while Dan pummels Stuart into concrete. A siren yelps. The school security guard pushes through the onlookers and shouts for Dan to stop. When the guard pulls Dan off, Stuart is left sobbing and bleeding on the ground. A county police cruiser tears around the corner and skids to a stop.
Dan’s wild eyes sweep the crowd before landing on me. I watch as he slowly lifts his arms and laces his fingers behind his head. Cops advance as Dan drops to his knees. Tears fall freely from my eyes. I stammer in protest but unknown arms pull me back. Dan’s gaze remains locked with mine. Defiance burns as the police cuff him, but some new emotion finds form behind his eyes: fear.
* * * * *
I feel like a rag that’s been wrung out. Scratching pencils echo in the uncanny quiet of the cafeteria. I struggle to focus on my AP English test. I’m supposed to be finishing my essay on how “cultural, physical or geographical surroundings shape psychological or moral traits in a character,” but my eyes keep drifting up. Rows of desks stretch out all around me. They give me the same dizzy feeling I get watching an orchard pass out a car window. When I look back down, my words swim on the page.
There’s a humming in my ears that won’t go away. My stomach twists and clenches and I feel my heartbeat in my throat.
“Five minutes,” the proctor announces.
I rush to scribble a conclusion. It’s been almost three hours and I have a cramp in my hand.
The lunch bell rings just as the proctor collects the last of our exams and there’s a roar of chairs scraping back from desks. I spot Davina a few rows over, adjusting her lipstick in a compact mirror.
“Hey,” I say and my voice sounds brittle from lack of use. “How’d you do?”
“Yeah.” She snaps her compact shut. “No.”
I blink at her, confused.
“You should probably turn on your phone.” Davina shoulders her purse and sweeps up from her desk. “And for future reference, it’s not a good look for you and your brother to show up at school with matching hickeys.” Then she leans forward and whispers, “Kind of a giveaway.”
Davina’s braids swing behind her as she slinks out of the cafeteria. I stand, gaping after her. Tugging my phone out of my bag, I brush back my hair and check my reflection in the black screen. Dark splotches trail down the side of my neck and slip down under my collar.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
My phone only got a few minutes of charge this morning but I hold down the power button and sacrifice what little battery it has. One link repeats over and over on various sites—Worst WTs, Updated.
Blood pounds in my ears as my thumb hovers over the link. Closing my eyes, I tap the blue text. My name burns in Helvetica at the top of the list—Sophia Ramos, Brother Fucker.
Even though I know it’s a bad idea, I scroll down to the comments. Most are some variation of “omg” or “ew”. Only one is defensive.
HanBanan wrote: This is a disgusting rumor and anyone who shared this should feel ashamed.
“Oh, Hannah,” I whisper. My phone hums in my hand and I almost drop it out of shock. The number is withheld. “Hello?”
“Thank god.” Dan’s voice crackles with distortion. “I’ve been waiting for your lunch break to use my call but I wasn’t sure your phone would be on.”
“Where are you?” I press a finger against my other ear.
“County jail. Listen, the bail is set at a thousand.”
“A thousand dollars?”
“Well I have some priors. But anyway, I have the money, I just need someone to post it for me.”
“Yes, yes, of course.” I start pacing absently. “How do I…?”
“Inside my guitar, in the body. That’s where I keep my cash. Don’t worry if you break the strings getting it out.”
“Okay.” I nod even though he can’t see me.
“Here’s the thing; the bail needs to be posted by 5:00 p.m., otherwise they won’t process it until Monday and I’ll be in here all weekend.”
It’s three buses between home and the county jail in Pontiac, at least two hours without traffic.
“Don’t skip your calculus test,” he says, “just—”
The crackling stops and my screen goes dark.
“Fuck.” I hold down the power button. The phone doesn’t turn back on. Even if it could, his one phone call has already ended.
I weigh my options. Best case scenario: twenty minute bus home, five minute walk, ten minutes to get the cash, two hours to Pontiac. Even under perfect conditions there’s no way to get there in time. Don’t skip your calculus test just…
What?
Ask a friend for a ride? There’s no one to ask. Ask one of his friends for a ride? I don’t have any of their numbers. Ask Kayla for one of their numbers? My stomach contracts—now is a bad time to ask Kayla for favors relating to Dan.
In the far end of the emptying cafeteria, a few girls huddle around a phone and shoot me sideways glances. I make up my mind.
Loose lines of students snake between St. Anthony’s and the mall. Keeping my head down and my pace brisk, I overtake whispering packs heading to and from lunch.
“Oh my god, that’s her.”
“They arrested the brother this morning.”
“I can’t believe I used to have a crush on him.”
“So gross.”
Instead of turning in through the automatic doors to the food court, I hop onto a bus wheezing down at the stop. A digital read-out of the time and destination scrolls in red block letters over the driver. Minutes slip away as the bus creeps south.
By the time I hop off, it’s after one o’clock. Everyone will have already sat down for the AP calculus exam, including Stuart. Rage burns in my chest. The sore spot on my forearm has already turned into a purple impression of his thumb.
My keys rattle in the lock. I push through the screen door and abandon my backpack on the carpet. Crossing into the kitchen, I don’t even notice that the mess from last night is gone.
“What’re you doing home?”
I spin around and my heart freezes. Mom lies back on the couch, unlit cigarette hanging between her lips. A lighter sparks in her hand but doesn’t ignite.
“Thought you had those tests today.”
“I did,” I say, still out of breath. “I’m all done so I got out after lunch.”
“Someone from the school called me.”
Blood rushes to my head.
“They sent me this. Said they were concerned.” She tugs out a printed email and squints at the page. “What’s ‘WT’ mean?”
I feel a flare of inappropriate frustration. The terms “White Trash” and “Wet Back” really ought to be mutually exclusive. It isn’t fair that I’ve now endured both.
“It’s just bullies, Mom. Asshole kids gossiping and making up rumors. Just, you know, high school. I’m sure you remember what it’s like.”
She brandishes the pages with a crack. “They said this was on the internet.”
“Lots of things are on the internet. Most of them are bullshit. I mean—” I tuck the hair out of my face then remember to keep it hanging like a curtain over my neck. “That stupid list makes it out like Tyler Hudson’s family eats roadkill just because he posted photos of a squirrel he shot on a hunting trip. And it says Crystal Thornton is a cough syrup addict because she took too much Coricidin at school one time.”
I don’t mention that “one time” might be an understatement. While the list is cruel, the part about Crystal appears to be true. Ever since the Worst WTs video, Crystal has made a habit of heaving violently purple vomit in the girls’ bathrooms.
“I see what he does.” Mom shakes her head. “Always making excuses to get up close to you.” She leans forward toward me, brows twisted together. “You’d tell me if something was going on? Has…?” Her voice cracks. “Has he touched you?”
“No, Mom. Oh my god.” The insinuation makes my skin crawl. “No one’s hurting me, I promise. Especially not Dan. We’re friends.”
“Last night…” Her eyes shine like glass. “He kept…”
“What? Comforting me?” My voice is sharp but brittle. It’s hard to talk over the lump rising in my throat. “Because you pulled a knife on Frank.”
“It wasn’t…” She shakes her head, no, no, no. “I didn’t…”
“Yes. You did.”
My bedroom door slams behind me and I turn the lock in the knob. Untangling the wire for my laptop speakers, I scroll through my music, looking for a song I still haven’t gotten around to deleting. Dan uploaded Gutterfuck’s demo back when we made a habit of annoying each other. The track is mixed so loud that every time it came on shuffle it would make me start.
I twist the volume as high as it’ll go. Then I set the song on repeat and throw my legs over my window frame.
“Fallacies! Fallacies! Fallacy-hees! Fallacies!”
The lock to the basement takes the same key as the front. I pull the door gently closed behind me and tear down the steps into Dan’s room. Upstairs, Mom pounds on my door while José’s recorded voice rages. I plug my phone into Dan’s charger and pull out his guitar. Peering through the hole into the body, I shift it up and down until I see light glinting off the folds of a plastic bag. I give the guitar a shake but the bag doesn’t budge. It must be taped to the back. I try to slide my fingers under the strings to reach inside but there isn’t enough room. While he said I could break them if necessary, I’d prefer I didn’t have to. Instead, I twist the pegs until the strings hang loose and hideously out of tune. It’s still a tight fit but finally my fingernails scratch back what feels like masking tape.
The bag tugs free. I flip the guitar over and tilt it from side to side until the cash slips out. Most are hundreds. Even after I count out ten to make a thousand dollars, there are still a lot left.
I hold down the power button on my phone and check when the next bus is coming. A delay notice—my heart plummets. Skimming the traffic report for Woodward Ave, I catch the words “tractor-trailer”, “spill” and “corrosive liquid”. My estimated arrival time in Pontiac is 4:55. Even if I sprinted, I’d be cutting it far too close.
Don’t skip your calculus test just…
I close my eyes and think back to a gray day in April—Stuart grabbing my sleeve, Dan marching through traffic, horns blaring…
“Fallacies! Fallacies! Fallacy-hees! Fallacies!”
I crouch low and cross the yard. Mom’s shouts cut through the blare of music. The aluminum siding of our compact rambler rattles. My heart bangs in my chest. If I’m right, I’ll be at the county jail within an hour. If I’m wrong, I’m setting myself back thirty precious minutes. Either way, there’s a chance I might get caught.
The bus pushes north as I retrace my steps back the way I came. Only a few senior citizens scatter the seats. In my uniform skirt and blouse, I look every bit the part of someone ditching school. Having never cut class before, I’m not sure of the protocol. Am I supposed to worry about police? All I know is that I don’t want to be spotted by St. Anthony’s security.
I cut a path down tree-lined residential streets then edge the red-brick wall of the science building. The panel truck shines bright in the afternoon sun.
Dan hadn’t planned on getting arrested. When he heard Stuart’s manic honking, he would have abandoned the truck just as he’d done back in April. Darting into the road, I creep around to the driver’s side door. My heart leaps. The keys are still in the ignition.
Don’t skip your calculus test, just take the Chevy. Obviously.
I wrench open the door and climb into the bucket seat. While I only have an expired learner’s permit to speak of, that was a calculated decision. A driver’s license would just turn me into my mom’s personal taxi service and I have no interest in hearing Frank yell at me about how I drive his beloved Ford.
I shift my seat closer so I can reach the pedals and twist the keys. It takes a few grumbling tries before the engine starts. Shifting into gear, I check the rearview mirror. It’s pointless. The panel truck doesn’t have any back windows. Remembering how Dan would always lean way out his side, I copy the gesture before shifting into reverse.
“Hey!” A black-clad security guard jogs across the quad, walkie-talkie crackling.
Without power steering, the wheel is a monster to twist. After a few false starts, I slam my foot onto the gas. Exhaust from the tailpipe flutters his hair as I screech down the road.
Soon I’m flying north on 75. Office buildings rise beyond overhanging shrubbery. Green freeway signs count down the miles to Pontiac. I jam the Pixies into the tape deck and spin the volume knob when Holiday Song starts to play.
Oakland County Jail is a sprawl of windowless “greige” brick boxes. I twist and turn through the web of roads, trying to find the right entrance. The first time we picked up Frank here, he’d been hauled off for his involvement in some check-cashing scam. I think Mom’s still paying off the loan she took out to cover the fine.
At the bond counter, the officer on duty counts out the crumpled thousand dollars cash. His eyes flit between my bitten neck, uniform skirt and Dan’s “Assault and Battery” charge. I suppress the urge to inform him that I got into Stanford. With a shake of his head he picks up the phone and confirms that the bail’s been received.
Fluorescent lights flicker and hum in the waiting area. I sit on a hard plastic bench and watch a clock tick inside a cage. Finally, the industrial door swings open.
Dan’s arms close around me. “Holy shit, Sophia.”
We hug hard. His hands are freezing and when I get a good look at him, his eyes are bloodshot and shadowed. Muttered words of thanks tumble from his mouth. He seems shaky and exhausted. Blood—his, mostly—crusts bruised knuckles.
When we push out the doors to the road, he squints against the afternoon sun. His shoulders look more slumped than normal and there’s a tightness in his brow that won’t relax.
“Did you take a taxi?” he asks. “The call got dropped and I wasn’t sure if you heard.”
Don’t skip your calculus test, just take a taxi. With my many thousands of dollars. Duh.
“Um,” I say. “Not exactly.”
We turn the corner where his car sits parked.
He looks at me, surprised. “You drive?”
“This is Michigan,” I say. “Of course I drive.”
Instead of heading toward the driver’s side, he turns up the sidewalk and opens the passenger door. When I climb in behind the wheel, he sits hunched and chews his thumbnail.
I ask him if he’s eaten and he says, “Kinda,” but keeps his eyes fixed out the window.
“They give you some bread and plastic wrap with peanut butter in it.” He shrugs. “I guess it’s supposed to be a sandwich. Most people throw their peanut butter at the ceiling and it looks… well, pretty much exactly like shit.”
I push the Chevy into gear. Driving south down Telegraph, all I see are vast lawns and retail space for lease. Dan rummages in a manila envelope stamped with his booking number.
“Shit.” He slides his hand through his hair. “I think I lost my phone.”
“Don’t worry about that right now,” I say.
Finally, I spot a small, aggressively yellow diner standing alone between several empty lots. We climb out of the car and a bell jingles as I push open the door. It’s an hour before closing but the woman pushing a mop behind the counter says we’re okay to order. Sliding into a vinyl booth, Dan rubs his hands over his face. He looks like he’s been chewed up and spit out. In a way, literally—the hickeys on his neck have only gotten darker since this morning. It occurs to me that I probably look the same. When the waitress returns, I order coffees and omelets. It’s not until the food arrives that I realize how hungry I am. I haven’t eaten all day.
He picks up a piece of toast before tossing it down again. “Fuck. You shouldn’t have missed that test. I should have been able to handle a weekend and definitely six hours. I mean, I was in reform school for a whole year.”
“Maybe that’s why it bothers you so much.” I shrug, shaking hot sauce onto my eggs. “You hated reform school.”
“I dunno.” He shakes his head. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be,” I say. “You finished that fight but you didn’t start it.”
The smell of ammonia thickens as the waitress mops. When we clear our plates, I use what little battery power I got at home to find a route back to 75. As soon as I turn on my phone, it buzzes with a text from Hannah.
Please tell me this is somehow Photoshop.
My thumb hovers over the link—another post from “Worst WTs”. Opening it, I find a screen capture of a text conversation. Green and grey bubbles alternate before it becomes a single string of green. I zoom in and my blood runs cold.
Remember when I asked if you thought about me when you touched yourself?