What Was That? Was That Me?

There were a series of events that collected to create the angry girl I was that day. There are facts, dealings as they occurred without judgment or filter, and there are memories, like a record or a copy of a record that gets more and more faded over time. What brought on my vengeance? A complex, nested history:
1. The wooden bars of my crib. Lime green walls, lilies framed in oval beside a small window that let in foggy, jagged shadows. The yellow call of morning. A great sighing breath into night, fogging the dark windows into new: bright, day, light.

2. Childhood. The unadulterated sense of things—the smell of rain on blacktop, the yellow curl of dried maple leaf crunching beneath bare feet, my mother’s rich black coat splashed with white. Memories like overplayed, overwhelming songs mixed in alongside red stains, white shirts, yellowed armpits, nightstands with stubbed-out Luckies on smeared glass, dark with leftover life.

3. A young mother. One that started out young but aged fast and hard. I still remember something of what she was early on. In the beginning, we were like two souls washed up on a beach together, found after a long parting. She taught me like a child teaching a child, like games, and I helped her with everything. Some days she had no strength, and I did it all.

4. There are gaps in what I know. I know that I once could draw a picture for her that clearly showed a family just like ours was: father, mother, two sisters, all in crayon, black clothes with pink cheeks and hands. All our arms and legs there under the clothes, in single lines. I feel soothed to think of it, as if by her hands, when I was too small to remember. There was always something between us, like a roof that kept rain from touching me.

5. The way I see it is this: my mother is a giant icicle clinging to the gutter where the robins make their nest in spring. I can’t keep myself from touching it. I test it with my finger—what makes it hold? It cracks and plummets, piercing the snow without a sound. I stare, powerless at the rippled, broken weight going down.

6. She had me at the age of 18 and then, 20 months later, my sister, Sophie. We went through it all together. We were opposites and we were equals. Once, I made her mad just to see her that way. She lunged at me, her small jaws set, a vein standing taut on her baby-bird throat. Syllables spilled out in a tangle she made no attempt to smooth. Then it got physical. Pushing down, pulling hair, falling to the ground. I grabbed her pudgy arm, my sister’s soft flesh, the one I love most of all. And in that touching we both were proven real. Blameless, faultless as a dancer’s moves: from the bone. Me: courage in my mouth, trying to slow down and manage to stay out of harm’s way. Sophie: gentle and placid as a pond, dandelions crushed in her hair.

7. Sophie wouldn’t talk to anyone but me until the age of five or six. My mom didn’t even believe that she did talk and tried to test her in various ways. When Sophie was five and I was seven, we were playing in the sprinkler in the back yard when my mother came out and asked, “Sophie, what color popsicle do you want, red or green?” Sophie looked at me and I answered, “She wants red.”
“No,” my mother shook her head, “Sophie, you talk to me. What color popsicle do you want, red or green?”
“Mom,” I threw my hands in the air, “I already told you.”
“No, Jane, I want Sophie to answer me.” She kept her eyes on Sophie, who was still looking at me. “Sophie, what color—”
It went on like that. My mom might have thought I was making Sophie’s choices for her, but I always knew what she wanted. For verification I caught the sparkle in her eye confirming I had answered correctly, comforting me with a kind of praise, like the unexpected music when an empty glass is hit unintentionally. We shared a brain sometimes, it seemed. We agreed without speech, without looking at each other, wearing identical bracelets, my hand swallowing hers, the air between our fingers joining us like petals, signaling our position to the world. We discussed things with our mouths closed, yet left nothing to the imagination. Everything I discovered about the world I taught to Sophie.

8. My dad. The world looked its worst through his eyes. He was the heavy, musky smell of arm hair in full growth, strong and thick. He was years surviving on stealth and pure dumb vegetable will. He made me feel safe and unsafe. He preferred my company to Sophie’s. Maybe it was because I was older. Maybe it was that I was a tomboy even at the age of four. We spent hours together playing video games, wrestling in the living room, watching cartoons and baseball games, riding his bike, me up on the handlebars wanting him to go faster, thrilling at the feeling of my hands just loose, ungripped enough to pass for letting go.

9. I was walking with Sophie and my Aunt Grace when my dad rode by and stopped to talk to us. I eyed the bike and he offered me a ride home. He set me on the boy-bar sideways, telling me to keep my feet lifted. We sped through the streets, the ground a blur, almost flying. Rounding the last turn before our house I pulled in my left leg, abruptly halting the front wheel and sending the bike flipping, airborne, downside-up, tossing my dad’s solid body into the pavement as if by a bucking horse, while I went flailing―a blur of limbs, hair, chrome, and red metal.
I looked at once for my dad. Was he hurt, angry, laughing? My eyes found his face. Following his gaze I lowered my eyes to my own body. I saw my foot tangled in a jumble of thick, bent metal spokes, a violent cut along my ankle oozing thick and quick into a bubbled puddle on the concrete.
My dad untangled my ankle and lifted me. He rushed me to the house, my sister and my aunt running toward us, their eyes wild with alarm. My dad laid me in the bathtub to keep me from bleeding all over the cracked brown linoleum. My mother ran in from the kitchen with pink rubber gloves on, saw my foot nearly dangling at the ankle half-attached, registered the blood, turned white, and vomited into the toilet. I heaved at the sight and smell of my mom retching. My aunt wrapped my ankle in towels and held me in her lap while my dad sped us to the emergency room in our orange Toyota Tercel, the broken hatchback door, loosely tied, rattling and clanking all the way.
They did the stitching though I remained painfully lucid, unanesthetized, kicking and screaming, sweating from the tender, shocked skin being pierced by the needle, then the peculiar friction of the yellow fiber threading through, pulling it closed, stretching and bunching the inflamed, purple tissue.
“It’s almost over. Just hold on, sweetheart; I know it hurts,” the doctor said, his eyes never leaving the careful motions of his latex-covered fingers.
The sound of Aunt Grace crying just outside the room echoed against the room’s steel surfaces while my dad stood at my side, a vault of held breath, his white shirt red with blood.

10. During my recovery, we worked side-by-side, painstakingly piecing together an enormous Star Wars jigsaw puzzle and then gluing the pieces in place. The day was too rainy to play outside, so we sat on the living-room floor with the furniture pushed back and the pieces spread out, concentrating on what fit where while my mom wrote in her journal in the kitchen and Sophie sat on the couch watching Scooby Doo. My dad mounted the finished puzzle on a piece of cardboard and hung it in their bedroom. It stood for all that was good in him.
We lounged on the living room floor with blankets and listened to the Doors. Dad smoked his Lucky filters, drank his Old Styles, got high, and listened to music with me. Sometimes, he retreated into the basement where I instinctively knew I couldn’t follow him, where he had his guitar room. He played his guitar down there.

11. I dropped my notebook down the stairs and went down to get it. I didn’t hear the guitar so I assumed nobody was down there. Curiosity drew me to the forbidden door. I approached cautiously, gripping my notebook against my chest. Five steps away, the door opened. I dropped my notebook and stared into the wild eyes of my dad, white powder on his nose. He looked behind him, glanced up the stairs, darted toward me so fast that I jumped. He picked up my notebook and handed it to me. I ran up the stairs, slamming the door closed behind me. I heard him coming so I ran into the bathroom. He exploded from the stairwell and looked frantically around. He spotted me in front of the medicine cabinet and froze, just staring at me. I knew he wasn’t right and I didn’t know what to do. I opened the cabinet and took out my toothbrush. I applied paste and started brushing my teeth. I looked at the soiled clothes in the gaping laundry hamper, studied the white spots on the countertop where toothpaste or soap had dripped and left a mark. All this time I saw him from the corner of my eye, still standing silent and straight looking at me. His sky-blue t-shirt was ripped at the neck and his eyes were desperate. He was looking at my shoes, my shoelaces, I was sure.
I was still little, maybe five years old, and he had just taught me how to tie my shoes. Instead of the slender bunny ears he taught me how to make, I had created knotted caterpillars, bound larva, repulsive insects with two plastic tipped antennas. He rushed toward me and fell to the floor. I shuffled back and almost fell over the side of the tub before managing to regain my balance. He grabbed my ankles and steadied himself. He started unknotting my laces. I gazed at the back and top of his head, dumbfounded. The white paste and my saliva swirled in my mouth and dripped onto the back of his head. I slapped my hand across my mouth. He stopped, reached back, snaked his thick fingers through his dark, scraggly hair and felt the toothpaste. He looked at the substance on his hand for what seemed like a long time in silence.
I could hear my mom getting Sophie dressed in the other room. I knew she would come out soon and see him like this. I knew she would be mad. My dad looked up at me and smiled. My mouth was filling fuller and fuller with minty liquid. I leaned over the sink and spat.
“What’d we say about the bunny ears?” he said in a deeper voice than usual. I wiped the back of my hand over my mouth, gaped at him. He didn’t look the same. I was afraid of him.
“What’d we say, Janie?” he asked again quietly. I wiped my mouth again, looked away from him, listened for my mom.
“What did we say?” he shouted. I jumped, almost fell back.
“Make two loops like a bunny’s ears and tie them together,” I said.
“Why didn’t you do it like that?
“I tried, I…”
My mom appeared in the doorway with Sophie. She looked down at him crouched on the floor before me, looked up at me.
“What’s going on here? Why are you yelling?” she asked. My dad jumped to his feet and whirled on her.
“I got it, Christine!” he yelled.
“Are you high?” she asked, her face turning red.
“I got it!” He pushed by her and headed back toward the basement. She ran ahead of him, slammed the basement door, turned and leaned her back against it. She crossed her arms and glared at him.
“Get outta my way,” he growled.
“You’ve been doing that shit again,” she said, her voice shrill. “You bring that around our kids now?”
“I just had a little to smoke,” he said.
“Lie. You still have it on your nose!” She grabbed his nose hard and twisted it. He grabbed her arm and wrenched her away from the door. She backhanded him with her free arm, her knuckle catching his cheek bone in a way that cracked, like a twig snapping. He grunted, fumbled back, whirled on her and grabbed her left breast, squeezing and twisting it so hard that she cried out in pain. I grabbed Sophie and pulled her to our room when they fell to the floor wrestling and screaming.

12. He drank himself tough, clumsy, and rough, setting his mouth in a long, lipless minus sign, then watched cartoons in his chair until he dozed off or passed out. I came in from playing outside and saw him asleep in the chair. I knew what to expect, but I approached him anyway as if nothing had changed. An ashtray full of butts balanced on the armrest and Old Style cans littered the floor around him. Wiley Coyote was in fervent pursuit of the Road Runner on the TV. I touched his arm and said, “Dad, we’re building a fort outside and we need your help.” I must have spoken too softly because he didn’t stir.
“Dad!” I shouted and pushed on his shoulder. He jumped and his rage flew out with his hand, knocking the ashtray off its perch, spilling the black, sooty contents all over his lap and into the chair.
“God damn!” He jumped up. I backed away, shoulders stooped. He came after me, pushed me toward the door and out, shouting at me through the screen: “Go play with your sister and leave me the hell alone!” The door slammed closed and the lock slid into place with a soft click.
Eventually, he passed out and there was silence. I listened to traffic; the faint, distant sirens of Chicago. Listening hard enough to those sirens, I could stop the echo of his drunken voice in my head. Usually, my dad had a nice, warm, deep voice until he drank too much and it blurred. It was that voice that I could stand the least about him: bored hostility, loud and smug, alternately anxious and preening. These things I knew would go on and on. They were parts of my life without any distinguishable beginning or end like the cycle of routine. It was not something I could stop, prevent, or wish away. Certain things cannot be rejected, as if the catalyst for acceptance is necessity mixed with impenetrable repetition. Another siren, this time close by, lulled me with its circular whining, close then far, close then far. Like an unbroken horn on a merry-go-round, it was always going away and coming around.

13. Mrs. Dalby. She came into my life by way of a fight that started while we were at K-Mart. Sophie and I were playing with an Etch-a-Sketch in the toy aisle and we had lost track of time. Finally, I looked up and didn’t see my mom and dad, so I grabbed Sophie’s hand and dragged her along to go and find them.
“You’re not always gonna be right, Christine, so don’t act all high n’ mighty with me. You know I’ll knock you right out.” They were in the toilet paper aisle. My dad had my mom pinned against a shelf with the cart full of cleaning supplies and fluffy blue towels. My mom shoved the cart into him and stormed away, grabbing me by the hand as she went. We walked fast down the aisle toward the front of the store. I had to skip to keep up. I pulled at her grasp, but she wouldn’t let go of my hand. I looked up at her anger-chiseled face and stopped resisting. Her lips pursed together, nostrils ablaze, eyes stone, unblinking wrath.
“Where are we going?” I asked. She didn’t as much as glance down at me. I gave up and blindly followed along. We entered an El station. She let go of my hand and pushed me ahead of her on the stairs climbing up to the platform. We rode the train in silence. When we got off, we waited what seemed like hours for a bus only to ride on it what seemed like miles to where we got off only to walk what seemed like a hundred blocks to our house. My dad and Sophie beat us home; the car was parked crooked on the street when we walked up. I found Sophie on the bathroom floor, crouched over the toilet, crying, staring into the water where her teardrops rippled away her reflection.
“Sophie, what’s wrong, what happened?” I asked her. She looked up at me wide eyed.
“Jane! You’re here!” she yelled and threw her arms around me.
“Of course I’m here. Did you think I wasn’t coming back?”
“Daddy flushed you down the toilet!”
“What? What are you talking about?”
“When we came home, I looked for you and couldn’t find you. Dad was in here peeing and I asked him where you and mommy went to and he flushed the toilet. Said he flushed you down there and walked out.”
“Oh, Soph,” I said and hugged her close.
“It’s not possible; don’t you know that? How could daddy flush things as big as mom and me down that little toilet?” I asked. She just held her arms tight against my back and sniffled. I heard my dad start to raise his voice and then my mom’s voice even louder, talking over him.
“You don’t know anything! You barely graduated high school! You can’t just quit now! What will we do for money? Your janitorial career won’t cut it, Bobby!”
“Keep your voice down, goddammit!” my dad yelled back. I heard a crash, a painful yelp from my dad, a fist connecting, a series of grunts. I hurried Sophie into our room and locked the door. Sophie ran to the back of the room and crouched against the wall, jamming her fingers in her ears. I pushed a chair against the door and sat down on it. My mom was screaming: “Get away from me! Help me! Somebody!”
I got up and ran out of the room, down the hall to where I heard her screaming. She was on her back on the floor, my dad over her, grabbing and twisting one of her ears, pinning her arms down with his free hand. I gasped at the blood on her and when my dad looked up at me I saw the gash on his forehead, bleeding freely. As soon as he saw me, he let loose of her hands. She swung wildly, punching his face and knocking him down on his side. He landed on his elbow and reached for her hair. She scrambled to her feet and kicked him hard in the face. He went down and I screamed.
“Get Sophie and get out of this house!” my mom yelled at me. I ran to our room. Sophie was humming and rocking on the carpet with her fingers still in her ears. I shook her and dragged her to her feet. She got up and started running with me. We ran out of the house and down the street into the 7/11 on the corner. There was a big, dark-haired lady with heavy breasts at the register. Items were scattered along the counter while her customer was leaning over with one hand in her purse and one hand on her daughter’s stroller, frozen in this position as she stared at us. I stood there silent for a moment and looked back at them, breathing hard and clasping Sophie’s hand, our fingers laced together tightly enough to cut off all blood flow.
“Someone call 911!” I barked. I heard the panic in my shaking voice. The woman with heavy breasts dialed the numbers, no questions asked.
“Jane, are you OK?” asked the woman with the baby. It was Mrs. Dalby, the guidance counselor from school. I didn’t recognize her in jeans and a t-shirt.
“Mrs. Dalby!” I said, surprised. I looked down at her baby. A beautiful little girl, maybe 18 months old.
“Jane, what’s wrong? What’s happened?”
“My dad’s hurt. He’s unconscious!”
“Oh my goodness! Where do you live?” she asked.
Heavy Breasts called out to us: “Girls, tell me what happened and where.”
“My dad’s hurt. Just down the street. 3309 Avers,” I called back. Sophie cuddled close to me, letting go of my hand and burying her face in my armpit. I wrapped my arms around her and watched Heavy Breasts repeat what I had said into the phone, reciting my address twice before hanging up the receiver. I looked back at Mrs. Dalby; she was coming toward us, pushing her baby ahead of her.
“Would you like to come to my house until things get settled, girls?” she asked. Sophie looked up at her and nodded.
“I don’t know if we should,” I said.
“It’s OK, Jane, I don’t live far. I won’t ask any questions. I just want to make sure you’re safe until the ambulance comes to get your dad, OK?”
“OK, we’ll come,” I said. Her offer to withhold questioning me made me feel like I could trust her. We walked in silence away from the store in the opposite direction from our house.

Angry Kid

It’s true, I was an angry kid. I once tried to give my mother the measles. I remember the day clearly, the summer when I was 13 years old. Smallish hacks in the bark of all the trees lining the driveway were what I noticed first. I was on a mission–I found a carrier and was on my way to visit the sick boy. When I first explained the plan to my best friend, Jake, he thought I was kidding.

“Are you serious?” his eyes wide, mouth open.

“I’m very serious,” I said. I lowered to squat next to him.

“Nobody tries to give somebody a sickness,” he said, prying the lid off of a paint can with the blade from his Swiss Army knife. I considered that for a moment silently. I knew I was very angry. The fact is, I couldn’t help but wonder if Sophie and I had infected the baby; we were in the same house, after all, and it was a very contagious disease. The possibility alone ground guilt against jagged rage and tore something dark open in me. I wanted her skin to burn with rashes, her chest to heave and cough, her eyes to feel on fire. I wanted her to catch the measles.

“You know I’m nobody,” I said. He smiled without looking up. Laying the lid aside as though it were a flower, delicate with thumb and forefinger, he lifted the can and spilled thick white paint in a pan. The smell of latex and glue reminded me of my dad. Fat bees hovered around our sweaty heads, hectic in the air.

“You might be the craziest kid I know.” He winked, half smiled.

“I’m three months older than you and I’m mad.” I stood, kicked his foot.

“How do you think you’ll pull this off?” He faced me and made his eyes big. A challenge.

“Easy. I heard about a kid who has it. I found out where he lives. I’ll go there and get some of his germs.”

“Just like that?”

“I’ll figure it out. Shouldn’t be too hard.”

“What’ll you do, say ‘can I have some germs, please?’”

“I’ll figure it out.” I gave him my hardest look. He waved his dismissal and picked up the roller propped against the house. He was repainting his parents’ house. Shirtless and barefoot, he shone bronze in the late afternoon sun.

There I was that evening looking at notched trees wondering if he was right, if I really was crazy. I stopped and took a deep breath, looked around. The house loomed immense, silhouetted. A nicely-landscaped yard and a heart-shaped wreath on the front door beckoned. I approached and knocked on the door. An sound exploded from inside and I leapt back. The door flew open and a girl emerged, hair pulled back, strong face, angled like a boy, frowning. She was a young girl but older than me, maybe 16. I was half concealed by a shrub, close to turning and running.

“Who are you? What do you want?” she said, stepping forward to get a better look at me. I stepped away from the shrub and looked at her hard. She met my gaze and held it for a long silent moment before I answered.

“I’m Jane. I live a few blocks from here. I came to see Dave,” I said quickly. My heart was battering against my lungs; I couldn’t decide if it was fear or exhilaration. I began to doubt my plan.

“Dave’s too sick to see anybody right now; he’s got measles,” she said, still glaring directly into my eyes. I smelled something smoldering or melting, like burnt grass.

“What happened?” I asked, looking past her into the house.

“Nothing, er, it blew up; the stove blew up,” she said, turning and gesturing toward the open door. The end of her ponytail was singed and black, still smoking; the smell was coming from her hair.

“Your hair!” I said, pointing to her ponytail. She reached for it, grabbed it, quickly withdrew her hand, turned, and ran.

“Oh my God; I’m on fire!” she screamed while running back into the house. I stood there for a moment in stunned indecision. I followed her in and pulled the door closed behind me. She was in the kitchen with her head in the sink, the faucet on full blast, splashing out onto her shirt, her legs, puddling at her feet on the light blue linoleum. I looked at the stove. A pan sat on a charred black burner, a can of spray grease rolled on the floor beside it. The top of the white stove was charred with brown and black streaks.

I shoved my hands into my pockets and stared at her feet. She was wearing Birkenstock sandals that were now soaked from the faucet runoff. Each slender ankle was adorned with a braided white rope, the fray of the knotted ends sticking up and out on the left one. A tattoo that looked like a slender black vine with thorns snaked up the inside of her leg and disappeared into her shorts. I took my hands from my pockets, rolled down my sleeves, crossed my arms, let them fall.

She turned off the faucet and reached for a towel. It was just out of her reach, a set of yellow dish towels stacked neatly on a shelf. I stepped forward to fetch the towel. She took it from me, her body still bent over the sink. Long muscles in her back showed through the thin white material of her T-shirt; her hair fell forward around her face shiny black, dripping wet, freed from the ponytail. She toweled off her head and stood up to face me. Letting the towel rest on her shoulders, she pushed her wet hair straight back, combing it with her fingers. Her white shirt clung translucent to her body. I stood still, staring. Her stomach and small breasts beneath the wet shirt were riveting. Tan shorts rested low on curved hips. She bent to wipe the puddle on the floor. She looked up at me. I felt like a caught thief. I dropped my eyes immediately to the floor, glanced at her face, her body, back at the floor.

“Maybe you should take a picture,” she said, standing. My ears whirred. Little hands painted murals in my stomach. I stared at the floor. I felt heat rise to my face. She came closer, brought her face near mine. I felt her lips brush my ear. A strain instantly developed in my groin. I couldn’t move; I couldn’t breathe.

“I saw you look,” she whispered. My skin pricked up all over–every attempt at movement was an edgy twitch. She lifted a hand toward me. My whole body jerked. She laughed and stepped back without touching me.

“I’m kidding, Jane,” she said, still laughing. A clump of nerves had congested in my pelvis, a delicate, foreign pain.

“I’m Anna,” she said, extending her hand. I was almost desperate to touch her but didn't. I couldn't move. I heard a noise from another room and looked in that direction. She let her hand drop. Disappointment.

“Why do you want Dave? You his girlfriend or something?” she asked.

“No. I, no…” I had forgotten why I was there. “I just wanted to get his germs,” I blurted.

“Get his germs?” She narrowed her eyes at me, amused.

“Well, yes. I need to get measle germs.” I tried to think of a reason quickly. Nothing came. She was waiting. I could only think to tell the truth.

“I want to give my mom the measles,” I said. She looked at me in silence for a moment, then threw her head back and laughed a hard, genuine laugh. My eyes fell again to her body. I couldn’t stop looking.

“Now that’s one I never heard before. I like it,” she said. She leaned against the counter, ran her fingers through her hair again. It was slicked back and glossy, inky dark.

“You’re mom seriously piss you off?” she asked, totally relaxed. I shifted on my feet, felt a rubber band in my pocket. I pulled it out. I gathered my hair to the back of my head and slipped the rubber band around it. She watched me with that same easy, amused expression. I looked away and noticed again the burnt stovetop.

“What happened with the stove?” I asked.

“Don’t change the subject,” she said.

“She lied.” I said.

“Wow, that’s all? You don’t fuck around, do you?” Her smile widened.

“It’s a long story, really. Actually, I’m not sure it’s such a good idea anymore.” I looked down. All I wanted to do was leave.

“Hell, yes, it’s a great idea! Best idea I’ve heard in a long time,” she said and laughed. I laughed too. That made her laugh harder, so much that she bent forward and held her side. The laughter faded and an awkward silence followed. I heard the birds singing outside, the sound of cars passing by on the street.

“How should we do this?” she asked. I pulled a tissue and a plastic baggy from my pocket and held them up to her.

“Aren’t you going to get sick, too, if you carry around Dave’s germs with you on some tissue?” Her eyes were dark and bright like her hair.

“I already had the measles a few months ago; I can’t catch them again.” I grinned.

“Why didn’t you just give it to your mom then?”

“It was before.”

“Before she lied?”

“Well, she always lies. But, yeah. Before she lied this time.”

“What she lie about?”

“It’s a long story.”

“Got all day.” She crossed her arms, leaned against the burnt stove. I thought about telling her. I pictured spilling it all out to her. She would hug me, maybe lay down on the couch with me and run her fingers through my hair like she did hers. What? No. I couldn’t do it. What was I thinking? I wanted to get what I came for and get out. I shook my head. Laughed at my stupid imaginings.

“I don’t really want to talk about it,” I said.

“All right that’s cool.” She approached me and reached for me. I took a step back.

“Can I have the tissue? I’ll go get you some germs,” she said.

“Oh, I should do it; you’ll get sick.” I pulled the tissue out of her reach. She came closer and grabbed it.

“I had the measles, too. I’m in the clear,” she said, still close. Too close. “Thanks for your concern, though,” she said. I stepped away and tripped a little. She laughed and walked out of the room.

“So jumpy,” she said.

I stood there appalled at myself. What the fuck was all that? I wanted to tell somebody, needed to tell somebody. I could tell Jake about the stove exploding and her hair burning. But the rest? I walked out of the kitchen into the front room. It looked like they were getting ready to sell the house and were using this room as a model of what a gaudy living room might look like. Plastic covered all the furniture; all the picture frames were gold or silver and still held the placeholder photos they came with. The wallpaper was gold and silver striped and the carpet a pale brass. A glass coffee table sat in the center of the room with a gold trim and single red rose in a glass vase as a centerpiece. The rose reminded me of Anna. All slender and bright with thorns. How could a girl like that live in a house like this?

“Here’s your contagion,” she said from behind me. I jumped and turned, startled. I hadn't heard her coming.

“Easy there, Jane. It’s just me,” she said, smiling. She had big, white teeth and a smile that pulled her front lip up and under too far, revealing too much gum. The rest of her face, which was well proportioned and pretty despite it's hardness, seemed complemented by it. She looked best with a sly, closed-mouthed smile. As if reading my mind, she closed her mouth. She held the baggy out to me. I took it.

“Thank you,” I said. There was a look that lasted too long. I broke it and walked toward the door.

“Leaving so soon?” she said when I reached the door. I opened it and turned to her. She was leaning in that cool, relaxed way against the entryway to the kitchen, her arms crossed in front of her, her tanned legs crossed at the ankles.

“I better get back.” It was all I could think of to say. I walked out.

“Don’t be a stranger,” I heard her say before the door clicked shut.

I walked back up the driveway, my body ringing with relief, desire. I wondered again about the grooves in the trees, how they were like grooves in my mind, places so familiar yet undefined, disconnected. I felt the urge to turn around and go back in, return her serious gaze. I didn’t know what I would say or do, so I kept walking, somehow let down and satisfied together. I had what I came for, which was a wonder. I never thought about how I would actually obtain his germs once I got there.

I told Anna that I lived a few blocks away, but that was a lie. I actually lived a few miles away and had to take the bus to get there. I didn't even know why I lied. I sat on the bench to wait for the bus and thought about my next move. It’s true; I was an angry kid. I realized that at the time. What I didn’t know is what other people saw when they looked at me. A blond, lanky girl with a ponytail and a hard attitude. A desperate child?

Across the street from the bus stop there was a woman sitting on the street with a blanket around her. It wasn't the typical neighborhood for bums, so I noticed. She looked back at me, unblinking, expressionless. I couldn’t possibly know what she saw.