Douse (Book One: At the Edge of a Hurricane) (8 page)

CHAPTER 11

I
either hear wedding bells or a funeral toll.

The
lying spoils every one of my moments now. Eating breakfast feels like a lie.
Talking to Caddy feels like a lie. Living in the apartment with Piranha’s
incessant America moments feels like a lie.

I
have to tell him.

I
should’ve last time.

My
parents castigated me for lies. They once caught me arriving home late, and I
forgot to take off my cheerleading uniform. They thought I was at a
friend’s house instead.

“You
seriously are so disrespectful,” Dad would say. “You come in and
out like this is some free hotel.”

“Why’re
you dressed like that?” Mom would say. “You’re dressed like a
whore.”

“She
went out with her ‘friends’. The slut squad.”

The
word slut squad made my heart roil with anger and passion. Blaming them for my
troubles feels weak, but I did sleep around later, in part to spite them. I had
control in college they would barely let me exercise.

I
had to lie. There weren’t many other options to avail myself of. Even my
“friends” at school would mock me for being a “slut”.
Apparently growing breasts before the others meant that I fucked every boy on
campus automatically.

“If
I tell him, then my conscience would be free.”

“Do
you plan to or do you plan to keep talking about it?” Caddy says.

“I’m
going to today.”

We
sit at the kitchen table, mulling over our coffee mugs, again. Today’s
brew has a spike of extra cocoa extract. Bitter but pleasant. Bitter and raw.

“You
don’t even have to tell him all the details. Just a little at a time.
Patience, girl.”

“He’s
just so…”

“Perfect?
No.”

“I
didn’t say perfect.”

“But
you were about to. I read lips well. Yours are practically say what
they’re going to before you even speak.”

“You
think he already knows?”

“Oh
my God. Call the man already.”

I
clutch my coffee mug. The caffeine buzz percolates throughout my brain.

Caddy’s
right. Just a couple of words. I help people cheat. I don’t need to tell
him about how those answers came about. Not unless it’s absolutely
necessary. No need for penance yet.

In
my room, I settle on ballet flats and skinny jeans along with a fitted tank-top.
On coming outside, Caddy says, “Sexy!” I throw a dirty napkin at
him. He simply continues. “Once you’ve finally set yourself free,
then we can finally get some productivity back.”

I
call Bishop to meet me, and he offers to pick me up.

“I
can drive myself. We’ll meet inside?”

“You
sure? Are we all right?”

“We’re
fine. You and I are fine, babe.”

“Babe.
Aw.”

“I
can’t wait to see you.”

And
so I beg Caddy for the station wagon. “Fine,” he says, “your
ass better be thankful that I don’t have classes I care about
today.”

Driving
myself will mean less heartbreak if he rejects me. I’ll have an
out—giving back Caddy’s car—and he can just leave and go on
his own.

As
I’m driving through the streets, I’m assaulted by negative
thoughts. He’ll leave. He won’t want anything to do with the
slut-whore child who’s parents hate her.

I
grip the wheel harder.

Don’t
think like that.

He’ll
feel the energy. He even heard it over the phone.

I
arrive first and wait him out. After popping open the vanity mirror, I check
myself. No makeup. Just me. Myself. No shields anymore. If we’re to
continue a relationship together, I need to be honest like I am with Caddy or
Piranha.

I
step out of the car. It’s some Spanish restaurant this time that I
picked, a place pronounced
Las Pinyas.
Something like that.

The
waitress at the front greets me, and I ask for a table for two. Face to face
booth, please. I sit down. Shiny leather seats make farting noises while I
adjust myself. I face the restaurant’s front and order two cold waters to
start off with. The waitress slaps the menus onto our table as if to give me
reprieve, something else to fixate on. Should I get Spanish rice or Spanish
rolls?

“Hey.”

I
jump at the voice. Bishop grins at me, and I jump to hug him. He’s warm,
wearing fitted boot-cut jeans and a trendy sweater vest. No matter what, his
muscles bulge out from his clothes, unable to be constrained by mere fabrics.

He
smells of lemon and musk. I breath him in for what could be the last time.

“What’re
you ordering?” he asks.

“Just
browsing through the menu. I’m probably going to try the salad. Or do you
want to share?”

“We
can share. Mind if I feed you?”

I
smile. Dad would jam spoons into my mouth sometimes if I didn’t
“eat fast enough” or “eat properly” as a girl. I was
nine or ten and reprimanded for simple bad habits—essentially not closing
my mouth all the time. I know Bishop would be so safe and sweet. I’m
inclined to lie again. If he runs, I’ll have lost a chance at a great
guy: sexually and emotionally compatible.

“Something
on your mind? You look a little distressed.”

“I
just—have something to tell you. Would you mind listening to me? I
don’t want to lead you on because this is our nth date and everything. I
hate being led on and stuff.”

Bishop’s
arms hover around my shoulders. He could either hug me again or begin to beat
me. “What’s wrong, huh? You sounded stressed over the phone but I
wasn’t sure if you had something really wrong at home. Is something going
on?”

“Well,
it’s just, not bad per se. I’m just sort of embarrassed.”

“About?”

“I’ve
been lying,” I blurt out. “Sort of. I’ve just. I’ve not
told you the more defining parts of me. Like how I sell answers to college
students to make money. And I feel awful because you come from a good-boy
background. Country boy background. And here I’m some dirty city girl who
tricks people.”

Bishop
reaches for my hand, and he holds on tight, as if we were near a raging storm
and I could float away at any moment.

“What’s
wrong? Speak plainly, I’m listening. I’m all ears for you,
hun.”

Hun.
Another pet name. Cute one too.

“I
want you to know what I do for a living. Because what I do for a living is a
huge part of who I am. I can tell you more later, but basically, I sell answers
to college students. Test banks. I help people cheat in school. And I feel
awful for not telling you  ahead of time. Like I’ve tricked you or
something. You just come across as the type to want a more respectable girl.
There? There. That’s what I wanted to tell you. I feel silly because I
said I ran a business. But it’s a cheating service. Not super proud of
that accomplishment.”

Bishop’s
still hovers. Analyzing.  

“So
you give answers to people.”

“I
sell them. They don’t do their papers or anything. I just sell the answers
and they pay me. They don’t do any work. I enable them to cheat their
classes.”

Bishop
stays silent. Our waitress comes by and we order whatever.

“Do
you think I’m a bad person now?”

“No!”
Bishop shakes my hand and grips tighter and tighter. “No, I’m glad
you had this discussion with me. I’m glad you’re opening up.”

“Do
I seem closed off?”

“Very
in your head. There are layers to you that I wouldn’t have guessed off
the top of my head. Wild and beautiful at the same time. Depth. You’re
conscious about your actions. That’s great.”

“You’re
not disgusted or repulsed or anything?”

“Repulsed?
Wrong, no, not at all, no. I’m intrigued.”

“You’re
intrigued?”

“There
are other details that would need explaining, but yeah, call me intrigued.
It’s interesting to me.”

“I
don’t plan on doing this forever.”

“You’re
not slinging meth on the corner. I thought you were going to tell me something
like that.”

“Right,”
I say, lightening up. The weights in my chest untie themselves. Flight is a
possibility again. “I’m glad.”

“Do
you mind if I ask your reason why? How exactly you got started with
this?”

“My
parents. I had the same struggles. They…would be really cruel to me,
and—I can’t—” my voice breaks before I can finish.
“I feel bad is all.”

Bishop
slides out of his booth, fart noises and all, and he slides to my side,
throwing his arm around me like a shield, a real shield, not the self-imposed
prison constructed to protect my ego. He cares more than Dad ever could. Let
him.

“Don’t
be like that. Don’t. It’s okay.”

“I’m
sorry.”

“For
what?” he says, shaking me. “I’m sure you have your reasons.
I’m not judging you any.”

“Thank
you,” I say. “Thank you.”

“We
have our quirks. Hey, you don’t have to tell anybody anything.”

“I
want to.”

“When
we get to my place then. If you want to go there that is.”

“I’ll
go anywhere that’s quiet with you.”

“Okay,
then. We can go to my place or the car or wherever.”

We
eat little and speak little over our Spanish rice and salad. What is there to
say when you’ve just had an outburst? I’ve made things awkward now.
And we awkwardly probe our meals until about ten minutes have elapsed.

“You
want to go to the car?” Bishop says.

“Yeah.
The car.”

Bishop
shuts the passenger side door. He walks around, carrying a doggy bag filled with
unfinished food.

I
open the vanity mirror. Puffy bags have taken residency underneath my dull
eyes. I close the mirror. What a crazy brave fool I look like and am.

“You
okay?” Bishop says, placing the doggy bag on the console. “You need
tissues? I can go back in and get some.”

“I’m
not crying that much. It’s a recent development. I’m okay.
It’s nothing.”

Bishop
hangs his wrist over the steering wheel. He faces away from me, searching the
Spanish restaurant’s windows. But I know he’s just trying to give
me space. There’s nothing to see in the windows but our reflections.

“The
reason I croaked in there,” I say, “is because of my parents. I was
trying to tell you that in order to gain my own independence from them, I had
to work. And I’d work really hard. Really hard. And they’d still
abuse me. They would be really, really horrible. I told you that’s how I
got my scar. He—” and my voice breaks again. I’ve blocked out
the memories for so long, replaced the trauma with sex and meaningless
interactions that the reality haunts then paralyzes.

I
start again. Bishop wraps me in his embrace, and I start again, steady now.

“I
learned in high school that my peers would cheat. Even when I didn’t,
everybody did. Especially in the higher levels, the APs. It almost became this
contest of who could cheat the best and not get caught. After I graduated, in
the summer before I moved away to college, I sold my first set of test bank to
the kids below me—rising seniors. And then from there the entire thing
burst.”

“In
college?”

“In
college. I became…good at getting answers. Networking. Student debt can
crush people. So I stashed as much cash as I could away. I made more selling
answers than I did at the local McDonald’s for sure. Way more than eight
an hour.”

“You
found a niche.”

“It
was the only thing I could to make sure I would never rely on my parents
again.”

“I
understand. I understand.”

“Do
you?”

“I
get the running away part.”

“They
were so abusive,” I say. “They were so cruel. They would punish me
for the simplest things. Physically, verbally. Honest, I hate them.”

Bishop
rubs my back. He leans his ear to my mouth. “I understand,” he
says.

“I
know you probably had it worse—this is silly of me.”

“It’s
not. You had it worse.”

“I
just didn’t want you to think I was some upstanding girl. The tough stuff
is just a front. I’m really tender.” I sit up straight in an effort
to not cry. Why even cry over this? Caddy would laugh his heart out,
schadenfreude abound.

“You
just have a different facet to yourself is all. Not bad.”

“Not
bad?”

“Everybody
has a story.”

“A
sob story.”

“You’re
strong. Don’t listen to those crazy voices inside your head. You’re
fucking strong. More than me.”

“No.
Not at all.”

“You
are.”

“How?”

“I
was kicked out first of all. You
moved
out. That’s fucking strong.
You had a
plan
.”

“Anybody
could’ve.”

“But
not everyone goes through with their plans and succeeds. You did.” Bishop
lifts my chin, squeezing the tip with his beefy fingers. “You did well.
You did and do what you have to. You’re not killing anyone, right?”

“No!”

Bishop
laughs and taps the steering wheel. “All right then. You’re
good.”

“Like
that I’m good?”

Bishop
nods. “If you want to change, you can always change. You already did that
once, strong girl.”

“I’m
not strong. Just trying to be honest.”

We
cuddle in the car, just sitting in front of the Spanish restaurant, waiting for
whatever people wait for: the impetus to leave.

With
Bishop, though, I never want to leave. To be with Bishop means to share my
happiness, my story, with someone who
cares
in a romantic capacity.

Someone
who cares. Someone who might eventually come to love me.

CHAPTER 12

“And
I let everything out.”

“Everything?”
Caddy sticks a spoonful of cereal into his cheeks. “You told him
everything?”

“Not
everything everything but enough that he has a picture of what I do. And he
accepted me. And now I can begin my game plan. The next part of my life that
doesn’t involve borderline illegal activity.”

“You’re
turning into a saint. The boy’s good. By the end of the year,
you’ll be canonized.”

“If
he’ll do so, I wouldn’t object.”

“You
are
in love.”

I
stir my cereal bowl, thinking of the possibilities. “Not infatuated. Not
in love either. I’m in the comfortable middle. Just before the spiral
into love starts. The sweetheart zone.”

Echoing
in the hallway are the rapid fire tap-tap-tap sounds of Piranha’s fingers
against the keyboard. Caddy puts an imaginary gun to my forehead and shoots.

“She
played God Bless America and the Star Spangled Banner last night. Both. You
were lucky, girl, she kept me awake the entire night. Tell me you got
laid.”

“Caddy,
it wasn’t that kind of night. We were—or I—was very
emotional.”

“Oprah-esque?”

“I
had to go through my entire childhood again.” Caddy’s expression
grows severe.

“You
really trust the man then. You didn’t tell me any of that until year two
when you were banging the football team.”

I
cross my arms. “Whatever, Caddy. The point is, I finally could confide in
someone else outside of these four walls.”

“Something
wrong with Piranha and me?”

From
Piranha’s room sounds off the notes and tenor of an opera group. Guess
what they’re singing.

“Oh
say, can you see,” Caddy says. “Shoot you, shoot me.”

My
phone rings. I answer.

The
voice on the other end is a manager at a local hotel. They would like to
interview me for the position of a receptionist.

“You’re
ecstatic looking,” Caddy says when I’m off the phone.
“What’s up?”

“A
big change in my life. It’ll be the start of new me. This should be the
start of new you too, Caddy. You should start applying. Look at Piranha,
she’s already slaving at the market.”

Caddy
props his feet onto the table. He rocks back in his chair, picking at his teeth
with his nails. “I want to see how long you last. Then maybe I can
weather that kind of storm.”

“And
I’m the dramatic one. C’mon, we can be receptionist buddies.”

“They
only hire hot girls for that kind of stuff.” Caddy rubs his paunch. He
lets loose a few belly hairs from underneath his electric blue t-shirt.

“One
day. Soon. Promise me you’ll give up the cheating business
eventually.”

“Eh,
we’ll see.”

“I
want us all to have bright futures.”

Caddy
removes his feet. He shrugs. “Heaven, good intentions, Hell. Something
like that. Anyways,” he says, “send me good vibes. The prof’s
not curving this next exam.” Caddy slings his backpack over his shoulder
and pats me twice before leaving.

I
make a beeline for Piranha even though she’s entranced by her computer.
“You and I are going out,” I say. “You need a break.”

Piranha
ops from her seat like a flying fish, shimmying towards me. “Thank Sam,
are we going shopping?”

“What
could be more American?”