Against the Wall (5 page)

I've been trying not to think about the letter.

Between going to class, working at The Hop and studying for midterms, I've had zero free time to wallow in memories of Eric. I haven't unpacked the bag of clothes. I haven't unpacked my feelings.

I know I should just trash everything. I can't bring that stuff into the apartment I share with Chip. He'd turn his nose up at the thrift store clothes, and if he found the letter he'd go apeshit. Better to throw the whole bag into the Dumpster and wash my hands. Right now it's like a body in my trunk, waiting to get discovered.

My morning class goes by in a blur. I forgot my laptop and had to take notes by hand. I've been so scattered lately. I'm afraid I'll fail my abnormal psych midterm. Now that graduation is just around the corner, I'm questioning everything. My major, my relationship with Chip, my future goals. I think I'm having an existential crisis.

I don't even know what I'm going to do next year. If I'm serious about being a psychologist, I have to apply to grad school. I feel like I'm sabotaging myself by losing focus at a critical moment. I'm overwhelmed and distracted. All I know is that there's something wrong with me, and it started before Eric came.

My best friend, Kelsea, texts me about meeting at the library. I reply with an affirmative, relieved to stay on campus.

I don't want to see Chip. I'm worried that he'll be able to read the turmoil and uncertainty on my face. I shouldn't have kissed Eric. That brief touch was hotter and more intense than anything I've done with Chip. Guilt washes over me at this realization. According to my former church, having impure thoughts is a form of cheating.

I head to the library and sit down at my usual table, trying to refocus. I open my book and start reading the assigned chapter.

“Hey, slut!”

My best friend slaps a colorful flyer on the table and I almost jump out of my skin. Is she a mind reader or what? Several heads turn to look at us. Kelsea doesn't seem to notice the disapproving glares. She grabs a seat beside me, grinning.

I glance at the hot-pink flyer in front of me. It says slut walk in bold letters above several provocative images of women. One is a punk rock singer wearing black panties and tape over her nipples. Another is a blonde with a bouffant, hitchhiking nude. Censor bars cover her chest and crotch. I lift my gaze to Kelsea, who glows with pride.

The slut walk isn't about my impure thoughts. It's an annual event to protest rape culture, slut-shaming, and victim-blaming. Women in cities all over the country participate. Kelsea just found out about it a few days ago. She asked me to help her organize a march and I couldn't say no. She's relentless when she latches on to a project.

“What do you think?” she asks.

Her enthusiasm is infectious. She's got wild, wavy black hair, mischievous blue eyes, and a complete inability to sit still. It's like her petite body can't hold in all of her energy. Right now she's bouncing in her chair.

“It makes a statement,” I say.

“I didn't want it to be too serious, you know? I'm going for a ‘sluts are fun' theme.”

“Nailed it.”

Kelsea drums her palms against the tabletop in celebration. She reminds me of a Muppet on crack. “I need to add the event information and a brief explanation of our cause. We can do that tonight.”

“Tonight?”

She frowns at me in exasperation. “Don't tell me you forgot again.”

“Oh shit,” I say, clapping my hand over my forehead. I'm supposed to volunteer at the women's resource center tonight. It's a place for female students to socialize, get help, and share information about health or safety issues. Kelsea covered for me the last time I spaced on it.

“I'll hang out with you,” Kelsea says. “We can read creepmail together.” Creepmail is the worst part of volunteering. The center focuses on women's rights, so campus creeps love to email us insults and send anonymous dick pics. Some of the messages are just dumb. Others are kind of scary.

Kelsea puts the flyer in my bag. “What are you studying?”

“Nothing,” I say, closing my book. “I can't concentrate.”

She smirks knowingly. “How did it go at your brother's?”

I pack up my things with a sigh. I need to talk to her about Eric, and I'm hungry anyway. We walk to the café for a snack. When we're at an outdoor table, away from eavesdroppers, I describe Eric's run-in with Chip.

Kelsea's eyes light up. “He really said he'd killed a rival?”

“Yes.”

“Like, implying Chip might be next?”

“I don't think so. It was just sort of a jab.”

“I love it,” Kelsea crows. She hates Chip. “How does he look? Is he all muscley and tattooed?”

“He is, but not the way you're thinking.”

“How do you know what I'm thinking?”

“Not like Tank,” I clarify.

Her lips part with surprise. Tank is Kelsea's not-so-secret crush. He's a burly, bearded biker who works at her dad's tattoo shop. Kelsea tried to lose her virginity to him in an epic fail when she was seventeen. Although the gentleman declined, the two of them have been eye-fucking each other ever since.

Kelsea shuts up for a few seconds and drinks her green tea. Just what she needs—more natural energy. “My dad hired Eric, right?”

“Right.”

“Perfect,” she says, removing a Google map from her bag. University Avenue is highlighted in pink marker. “Fine Ink is on the slut walk route. We'll stop by and ask them to host a slut station.”

“Slut station?”

“I'm going to invite a few businesses to sponsor our event by providing cold drinks. Sluts need refreshment.”

I laugh at her wording, though her idea is clever. It's pretty funny that Kelsea has appointed herself an official slut spokesperson, considering the fact that she's still a virgin. I think she's saving herself for Tank.

“Tomorrow we'll pass out flyers along the route,” she says, pointing out possible locations for slut stations. “We should make some posters, too. Big posters.”

I agree to go with her to pass out flyers. Then I remember that I have plans for the weekend. “What time is the slut walk?”

“It starts at four.”

Chip has a game about the same time.

“Don't tell me you can't go,” Kelsea says.

I scroll through the planner on my phone, wondering how I can be in two places at once.

Kelsea jumps to her feet. “You've been so flaky lately! Does Chip have you on a short leash or what?”

“That's not fair. I've been busy.”

“Doing his dishes. And his laundry.”

I can't deny the accusation. I'm more upset about the unequal division of labor in the bedroom, but I don't say that. I haven't told Kelsea about our unsatisfying sex life. It's embarrassing, and she's super judgmental, despite her lack of experience. The bottom line is that I made plans with her first. I don't really want to go to Chip's baseball game, either. I'm just not sure how to avoid a big argument with him. Maybe I can pretend I'm sick.

“I'll be there,” I say.

“You promise?”

“I promise.”

She squeals and hugs me before she sits back down. “I can't wait. This is going to be so awesome!”

We spend the rest of the afternoon studying outdoors. Then we continue to the women's resource center. It's a slow night, so we have plenty of time to make flyers. Kelsea posts the information on social media sites and we watch the comments roll in. She gets a good response. The vast majority of replies are positive.

Hells yeah! I'm ready to get my slut on! #slutwalk

Others, not so much:

#slutwalk? How about a Slut Run? Let's chase these sluts down and give them what they're asking for!

A chill travels down my spine when I read the threat. I remember the night of the bonfire, when my coworker followed me away from the party and held me down underneath the pier. I'm lucky Eric intervened.

Kelsea closes the screen. “Rule one of the Internet. Never read the comments.”

“Right,” I say, trying to shake it off.

“Are you sure you want to participate?” she asks. She's one of the only people who knows about the attempted rape.

“Absolutely,” I say, because I do. I want to march down the street in short shorts and strut my stuff. Not just for fun, but for equality. For all the girls who've been blamed for wearing the wrong clothes after they were assaulted. For all the girls who drank too much and paid the price, like I did.

My main concern about the event isn't my personal history, which I rarely even think about. I'm not broken or traumatized. The bigger issue is Chip. I know that lying to him and sneaking around won't solve our problems.

At the end of the night we close the center and lock up. Kelsea lives on campus, so I walk her to the dorm before I continue to the parking lot. The space is well lit, with emergency phone booths at regular intervals, but I hurry toward my car with my keys in hand. Maybe I've read too much creepmail, because I feel uneasy.

I get in my car and drive to Chip's apartment. It's a modern, spacious two-bedroom, within walking distance of the most popular college bars. His parents pay the rent and utilities. I do the majority of the housework. Chip buys me everything I need and then some.

I park next to Chip's space, which is empty. He's not home yet. The Dumpster is about twenty feet away. I pop the trunk, deciding to get rid of the “body.” Then I realize I don't have the key to the gate around the Dumpster. They've been locking it at night because some homeless guy was sleeping in there. Throwing away the clothes would be stupid, anyway. I can donate them to Goodwill. Before I close the trunk, I retrieve my love letter from the bag.

I continue to the upstairs apartment and let myself in, setting my stuff on the table. Then I stare at the envelope. It's smudged with fingerprints and smells faintly of cherry ChapStick—because I sealed it with a kiss, of course.

God.

I know I should burn the letter, right here and now. Instead I open it with shaking hands. I don't remember what I wrote, but I remember my feelings very clearly. I missed Eric desperately and ached from wanting him. I fantasized about the afternoon we spent in bed together and the songs we listened to in his car. I replayed “In My Room” by the Beach Boys over and over again. I also had every Beyoncé and Jay-Z collaboration on repeat.

I'd wallow in the music and imagine him touching me. Then I'd touch myself and cry.

While I'm standing there, lost in thought, I hear footsteps on the stairs outside. I stash the letter in my messenger bag and rush into the kitchen. I feel like I've been caught naked. My cheeks are hot, my heart racing.

Chip left a pile of dirty dishes in the sink. I turn on the water and try to look busy.

He opens the door and tosses his gym bag on the floor. As I scrub a plastic cup, industrious, he comes up behind me. He enjoys watching me do domestic tasks and groping me while my hands aren't free. Sure enough, he grabs my hips and kisses my neck.

“Hey, babe,” he says.

His breath smells like beer but his body feels nice. I'm already sort of aroused from thinking about Eric. Chip lifts his hands to cup my breasts, finding my nipples hard. He groans against my neck.

I dry my hands on a towel and turn around to kiss him. Love the one you're with, right? He's handsome and well built. His desire is unmistakable, swelling against my belly. There are no mixed messages with Chip. I twine my fingers through his hair and kiss him like I mean it. I'm testing him, maybe. Testing our connection.

But I can't feel something that's not there.

He breaks the kiss and studies me, breathing hard. His hair is mussed from my hands. “Where were you tonight?”

“At the center,” I say. “I texted you.”

“Oh. Right.”

I should probably ask where
he's
been. But he doesn't like to be questioned—and I don't care.

His gaze settles on my messenger bag. “What the fuck is that?”

My stomach drops as he pushes away from me and crosses the room. In my haste to hide the letter, I left the flap open. The corner of the envelope is visible. I picture Chip reading it and freaking out. Instead he grabs the hot-pink slut walk flyer.

“It's an event Kelsea's organizing.”

“Kelsea,” he says with a curled lip. The distaste is mutual. “You're not doing it.”

His controlling attitude annoys me, but right now my focus is on luring him away from the letter. When I'm in the mood, I don't mind taking orders in the bedroom. So I brush past him and remove my shirt, letting it drop to the floor.

“I do what I want,” I say over my shoulder.

His eyes darken and he follows me.

I show up early for my first day at Fine Ink.

Matthew puts me straight to work on the most unpleasant tasks he can think of. I scrub every inch of the ladies' restroom even though it doesn't look dirty. Then I tackle the men's, which needs a bit more attention. I clean every nook and cranny. I make the fucking urinals sparkle.

When I'm done, Matthew just grunts and says, “Now the windows.”

An hour later, he comes out of his office to check my progress. He frowns at a barely there speck on the glass. “Do them again.”

I do them again. Better.

While I'm cleaning, a few customers come and go. Two nice-looking older women have appointments with Matthew. I can't imagine what kind of body art these rich ladies are getting. Business picks up in the late afternoon, after I finish the windows. Gina arrives and starts sketching something. Then a guy in a leather jacket and motorcycle boots makes his entrance, carrying a helmet. He's got short, dark hair and a full beard.

Rose introduces him. “This is Tank.”

I shake his hand. He's tall and intimidating, but he seems pretty laid-back. He continues to his station to get ready for a client.

“Train him,” Matthew says to Rose. “I'll answer the phones.”

Rose rises from behind the desk to give me a tour of the facilities. She shows me how to restock everything the artists need, where the extra supplies are kept, and what kind of equipment is used. There's all sorts of fancy professional shit in the back, like an autoclave to sanitize the tattoo needles.

In the front of the building there are three small stations with dentist-type chairs, and a private room with a stainless steel table. “Most of the body art is done in here. No nudity is allowed in the open areas. Matthew specializes in areola tattoos for women who've had reconstructive breast surgery. Those appointments usually take place in the mornings, behind closed doors. Nipple and genital piercings are done in private also.”

Whoa. “Genital piercings?”

She nods. “I do about one a week. Belly buttons and tongues are the most popular, but clit and labia piercings are catching up.”

I find this hard to believe, but she looks serious. I've seen maybe one porno with that kind of bling. I'm afraid to let my thoughts wander too far in this direction. Picturing pussies has a predictable effect on me. Even fresh from wearing myself out with Noemi yesterday, I might get aroused. I stare at the silver studs in Rose's cheeks and wonder about the rest of her. Then I glance at Matthew, who's on the phone.

“You pierce clits?” I ask in a low voice.

“Yes.”

“How?”

She smiles at my question and waves me into the open room. There's a body art book with illustrations and color photos.

“Holy fuck,” I say.

“I pierce the clitoral hood, not the clit itself.”

I'm not sure what the difference is, so she shows me a diagram. I feel like a dumbass but she's nice about it. “We have coupons at the salon next door,” she explains, closing the book. “Ladies get waxed and come over here after.”

“Do guys get their dicks pierced, too?”

“Yeah, but not as often. Tank handles those. I'm sure he has some pictures, if you want to see them.”

“No.”

She laughs at my expression and we return to the reception area. There's a phone greeting I have to memorize, and extension numbers to learn. She says I need to get familiar with the pricing book and the cash register. In addition to being the janitor, security guard, and errand boy, I'm supposed to fill in behind the front desk whenever Rose is occupied with piercings.

It's a lot to take in.

The environment is electric, buzzing with energy and busier after dark. I want to watch the artists do tattoos but I don't get a break. The first time I answer the phone I accidentally hang up on someone. Then a drunk guy vomits on the sidewalk by the entrance, and it takes three buckets of water to clear away the mess. I feel like the magician's apprentice. During one of my trips outside, I bump into Tank's arm.

“Watch where you're fucking going,” he growls at me. He's got a hot girl on his chair with her midriff bared.

My first instinct is to respond with aggression, but I catch myself. This isn't prison. I've had my arm jostled while I was tattooing before and it sucks. So I don't trip out. I just apologize for my mistake and move on.

My bad.

It's not all unfortunate blunders and close calls. I'm pretty good at the front desk. I make myself useful by translating Spanish for a walk-in client. I watch the way Rose greets customers and try to follow suit. I like the creative vibe in the shop. It's no hardship to admire fresh ink, and all of the artists do excellent work.

At the end of the night, Rose turns over the closed sign and we get ready to leave. Tank gives me a fist bump, which is better than I deserve. Gina leaves with another woman I assume is her girlfriend. Then Rose collapses in her office chair and Matthew stands at the counter, assessing me.

“He's a natural at customer service,” Rose says.

Matthew doesn't disagree, and I'm encouraged by the praise. I was worried that I'd be jumpy and combative, but I stayed chill. “You can come back tomorrow,” he says to me. “But don't get cocky.”

“Yes, sir.”

He rolls his eyes and walks away. His mechanical lower leg makes a sharp contrast to the strong, suntanned calf on the other side. I wonder what happened to him, and if he was this grumpy before the accident.

Rose might tell me, but I won't ask with him in earshot. “Can I walk you out?”

“I have to balance the books.”

I nod and say good night, grabbing my backpack from behind the counter. It's just after ten and the bars are still hopping. Young women in skirts and high heels are chatting in the distance, their laughter boisterous.

I don't have a curfew. I'm free to stay out late and do whatever I like. The possibilities are endless.

When I left Noemi's, I didn't ask for her number. I just took what I wanted and got out. She seemed to have a good time. I know I did. But I don't plan on going back for more. She's not the best choice for a no-strings hookup.

I walk to the bus stop, avoiding the temptation of bars and tipsy girls. Most of the guys I was locked up with were drug addicts or alcoholics. My brother and my dad both had issues with substance abuse. In the halfway house they emphasized the importance of sober living. A lot of parolees get drunk and fuck up within a month of their release. They go right back to prison. That's not going to be me.

It's almost midnight when I arrive at Noah and April's house. The lights are still on in the living room. April is awake, folding laundry.

“Waiting up for me?” I ask.

“No,” she says, blinking.

I arch a brow at the obvious lie.

“Okay, yes. Kind of. I wanted to see how your first day went.”

“It went well.” I sit down and tell her all about it.

She watches me with a strange expression, sort of happy and sad at the same time. “You look so much like Raul.”

My gut clenches with unease. “I'm sorry.”

“Don't be,” she says, shaking her head. “Jenny makes this face when she's excited that reminds me of him, too. It's the eyebrows.”

I realize that Noemi isn't my only secondary victim. My absence hurt Jenny, too. We were very close before I went away. Now she's shy with me, like I'm a stranger she only half-remembers.

My eyes start burning so I look down at the stack of clothes between us.

April puts her hand on top of the pile. “I thought you might be able to use some of Noah's old stuff. The pants will be a little too long, but the shirts will definitely work. I washed a few things for you, too.”

The jeans I was wearing yesterday are in the stack. “You don't have to do my laundry.”

She moistens her lips, nervous. “I wanted to talk to you about that.”

“About what?”

“I found some condom wrappers in the pocket.”

I fall silent, embarrassed. She's not my mother. We're not even related, and I'm an adult. My sex life is none of her business.

“I know Meghan came over…”

“Oh,” I say, shaking my head. No wonder she's so concerned. “It wasn't her.”

April appears skeptical. Maybe she should be. Meghan is a dizzying temptation for a recently released inmate, and I've crossed the line with her before. I was very close to doing it again the other day, despite my promise to Noah.

“I went to Oscar's house,” I say.

“Oscar Reyes?”

“His ex-girlfriend was there.”

“Eric. You didn't.”

I don't say anything. Obviously I did.

“Are you crazy? You're going to get Eastside all stirred up again.”

“It was just a one-time thing.” It was three times, but whatever.
“No te preocupes.”

“Don't tell me what to worry about.”

I put up my palms in surrender. The pregnant lady is always right. And this is why I need my own place. The last thing I want is for her to be wringing her hands and losing sleep over me. “I'll try to stay out of trouble, or at least get rid of the evidence.”

She frowns at my joke.

“I'm sorry,” I say seriously. “For everything. For going away.”

Her eyes fill with tears and my throat closes up. We might not be blood, but she's my family and I love her. I know the hurt and disappointment I've caused her. I don't want to hurt her ever again.

I kiss her on the cheek and take my stack of clothes into the den. I'm tired, but too keyed up to sleep. I think of the assignment I'm supposed to do for group. Sitting down at the desk, I find a pencil and paper.

Of all the secondary victims, who should I address this to? Noemi, April, Jenny?

Meghan?

None of those options feel right. I turn the pencil over and over in my hand, considering the cycle of violence. Who pays the highest price when a family member gets killed or goes to prison? My mother was devastated by Raul's death, and by my father's death thirteen years ago. I was devastated, too.

Raul and I were on our own after my mom went back to Mexico. I was ten. My brother was eighteen. She couldn't support herself, much less us. We had better opportunities in the US, but we needed supervision. Raul wasn't an appropriate guardian for me. He raised me to be a criminal, and the gang became our family.

When I imagine Oscar's children growing up without him, something clicks inside me. Those kids could be me and my brother. They could be the next generation of gang members. Boys tend to follow in their fathers' footsteps.

That's one of the reasons they call it a cycle.

Gut churning, I start to write.