Cornered (16 page)

I threw a balled-up napkin at her. “Thanks, babe. What a compliment.” I shrugged. “I guess I'm not that worried about tomorrow. I mean, whatever happens, happens. I really don't want Brian and Anya and the rest of those idiots ruining the rest of the year.”
Or the rest of my life, for that matter.

Erin nodded, her eyebrows raised so high that they were, like, in the middle of her forehead. “Totally,” she said. “I mean, I agree completely. It's just a bit of a one eighty.”

“Well, my other strategy wasn't really working for me,” I said wryly. “By which I mean not at all.”

“I won't argue with that,” Erin said. She crawled over the couch to where I was sitting and hugged me, hard. “This is awesome, Cee. Just let it roll off your back.”

• • •

Erin passed out in a food coma around ten o'clock, but I wasn't the slightest bit tired. I covered her with an afghan on the
couch, turned off the light in the den, and went upstairs to take a shower.

She was right—I felt serene, like the feeling I get when I'm coasting down a hill on my bike, kind of carried by the breeze.

I lingered in the shower, letting the warm water run over me, soaping up my hair twice, shaving my legs. I was finishing up my right calf when I felt a sharp prickling in my back, like something was uncoiling between my shoulders. The razor clattered to the tile floor as I stood up, twisting and craning my neck to see behind me. My pulse quickened at what I saw.

Two tiny dark things, springing swiftly and painlessly from my back. I saw they would soon be too large for the shower enclosure. I stepped out onto the bathroom floor, still dripping, and gazed into the mirror.

Like Ashley, I had wings, but that's where the similarities ended. While hers had whirred anxiously, mine fanned out majestically. They were wide, long, and muscular—I could see the tight tissue working between the tendons, strong and flexible. They were black and shiny, like those of the diving cormorants we'd seen in the Everglades on last year's family vacation. I stood perfectly still, trying to isolate the muscles in my back that manipulated them. With great concentration, I discovered that I could fold my wings in and spread them out. The movements were jerky at first, but at least I knew I was in control. I watched myself in the mirror, in awe of my visage.

The rest of my body was covered in a soft down, and off of
that, the water from my shower was rolling. Beads formed atop the fluttery feathers, and if I shook from side to side, water sprayed from my body.
Like water off a duck's back
, I said to myself, almost laughing at the perfection of it all.

The next step was obvious. I mean, new wings beg for only one thing, right? To be flown? And so I
obviously
had to put on clothes, before I gave the neighbors the weirdest show they'd ever seen. I shimmied into a strapless dress—something loose and flowing that wouldn't crimp my feathers—and then I crept outside, being careful to skip the third stair, which creaked. What would I say if Erin or my parents woke up?
Oh, just trying out an early Halloween costume!
Thank god everyone I know sleeps like they're on sedatives.

Outside on the lawn, I allowed my wings to unfurl to their full span. I felt powerful and otherworldly. And also confused. How do you start to fly if you've never done it before? They should put that on the SAT. I tried to jump and flap my wings at the same time. No go. I tried getting a running start. Ended up falling face first onto my mom's geranium planter. Oops. Then I tried pumping my wings until I was kind of hovering above the ground, and
then
propelling myself upward. It worked. I zoomed into the dark sky, leveling off around the tree tops. Buoyed by exhilaration, wind, and my new, working parts, I flew. Down my street. Past the bike path. Along my route to school. Everything looked miniature from up there.

When I soared above Cornwall High, my mind swam with visions of Brian slobbering on my neck, my former friends
pointing at me from their lunch tables, my teammates shying away from me in the locker room. I felt my body tense up; my wings came together in a narrower, more aerodynamic fashion. I started speeding downward, like I was going to dive-bomb the school. I sliced through the air, and I didn't even feel like I was falling. As I pitched toward the ground, I heard myself shouting, at the top of my lungs, “NO!” Over and over. “NO!”

And just before I smashed into the building, I made a smooth arc and began to climb back into the sky, flapping my wings, thrusting myself upward and above it all.

BY
Z
ETTA
E
LLIOTT

“O
H
! O
H
! I have to go! I have to go!”

This bitch is gettin' on my
last
—
fuckin'
—
nerve
. I been stuck in here all day with these hyper, snot-face brats—it's like fuckin' romper room! These kids are laughin' and playin' and tearin' around like this is some kind of party. Like they're at Chuck E. Cheese and all those social workers out there are waiters about to bring in the pizza. I want to snatch them up and yell, “YOU'RE IN CUSTODY, STUPID!” But then they'd start whinin' and cryin'—and one of 'em already pissed his pants. I can smell it. Goddamn! And this white bitch—little Miss Mary Poppins—she's been playin' nanny to all the rug rats, but the social worker just took the last one away. They always take the little kids first. People show up for little kids.

Now it's just me and this whitegirl, and I can tell she ain't never been in custody before—she's freakin' out and I swear, if that bitch don't calm the fuck down, I'm a go upside her head with that stupid plastic dollhouse over there.
After
I finish my nails. They call this color “Galaxy Moon” but it looks just like regular old silver to me. When I get home I'll add a coat of
glitter. That'll make it pop. Chynna says find somethin' to think about while you work. I focus on my nails.

“Oh . . . I have to go!”

Whitegirl's pacin' up and down, mumblin' to herself. Except the room's a mess so every few steps she has to stop and bend down to pick up a toy or book or stuffed animal. She must be some kind of maid 'cause she looks like she's used to cleanin' up after other folks. Her arms are full of toys and she's tryin' to pick up even more, but then she trips on a little dump truck and lands on her ass. I laugh out loud, but then this rubber ball hits the floor, bounces straight at me, and
almost
knocks the bottle of nail polish right out my hand.

I give her a look that says, “Don't fuck with me, bitch.” She don't apologize, but she sure looks scared! She picks herself up and goes over to the far side of the room. I smile to myself and keep blowin' on my nails. I still got it. It's been a while, but I still get respect.

Few minutes go by and this whitegirl starts moanin' and pacin' again, talkin' 'bout how she gotta go—like I ain't got someplace to be my own damn self. Finally I get sick of hearin' her mess and say, “Chill, girl! You ain't goin' nowhere till that lady comes back and calls your name.” I raise my voice a little so whoever's behind that two-way mirror can hear me. “Bitch took my phone!” At least I still got my purse.

“But I must go! I must! My baby needs me. . . .”

Baby?
I stop blowing on my nails and take a good look at this whitegirl. I guess she's about my age, but she's dressed like
she just stepped out of a time machine. She's wearin' this big baggy dress that's got long sleeves and buttons all the way up to the top of her neck. And it's pink—like the color of chewed-out bubble gum. She got these ugly-ass shoes on, too—clunky brown loafers that you almost can't see 'cause her dress is so damn long. She looks like Cinderella before she met her fairy godmother. “YOU got a baby?”

Whitegirl ignores me and just keeps on fussin'. “She needs me—my baby needs me. . . .”

I watch as her long braid swings back and forth while she paces. I don't know why, but I decide to talk to her. Nothin' else to do in here. “Where you from, girl?
Little House on the Prairie?
No offense, or nothin', but you don't look like
that
kinda girl.”

“What kind of girl?”

“The kinda girl who gets busy AND gets pregnant. You look more like a nun or somethin' in that corny dress. You know—uptight. Goody Two-Shoes.”

“I am NOT uptight! I'm upset! They took my baby!”

I take my compact out of my purse and flip it open. Ain't nobody I'm tryin' to impress up in here, but I still want to look my best. The cops hauled me outta the house in the middle of the night. Lucky for me I was in between customers and had my favorite little black dress on. Tarell bought it for Chynna just last month, but he says it looks better on me. Every time I wear it, I think of the look on that bitch's face when Tarell told her to shut up and go put on somethin' else. Chynna thinks
she's Tarell's favorite. I wonder if he's bailed her out yet.

“Damn, girl—relax! You're gonna wear a hole in the carpet.” I put just enough edge in my voice so she knows that's an order and not a suggestion.

The whitegirl stands still but keeps up with her sob story. “They lied—they lied to me!”

I click the compact shut and look at Laura Ingalls. “Who lied to you?”

“The social workers—the police. They tricked me! I did everything they said, but they still took my baby away. . . .”

Next thing I know, this whitegirl starts to
bawl
. She catches me smilin' and turns away so I can't see what a mess she is. I roll my eyes, then feel kinda bad for the newbie. That's what Chynna calls me, uppity bitch. She's only a coupla years older than me, but Chynna treats me like I'm a child. I look at this whitegirl and think maybe she could use a little help right about now. So I pull up my legs to make space for her on the tacky, stained sofa. I move my purse onto my lap and pat the seat loud enough for her to hear. “Come on. Sit down 'fore you fall down.”

She glances at the sofa, then at me. She hesitates, then accepts the offer and sits down, still snifflin'. I dig a tissue outta my purse and hand it to her. She waits a second, then takes it and blows her nose.

“So. Is it a girl or a boy?”

She panics. “What?”

Maybe she's slow. Maybe that's why she's dressed like a reject. “Your baby!”

Whitegirl smiles softly and starts to rock back and forth. “A girl,” she says in this real soft voice. “Her name's Abigail.”

Abigail? I pity the kid already. My mom gave me a crappy name, too—Verline. First thing I did when I left home was change my name. I got five or six now. A girl needs a few stage names in my line of work. I look at this whitegirl and wonder if she's got a name as ugly as her baby's. “Who's the daddy?”

She hangs her head and mumbles, “My only interest right now is my child.”

“In other words, you don't know who the daddy is.”

“Of course, I do!”

“So what's his name?”

She clamps her mouth shut like she don't wanna say.

“Uh huh. That's what I thought. Don't sweat it—ain't no big deal. A trick's a trick, right?”

Whitegirl turns to face me then and starts to nod. “Yes—they tricked me!”

I sigh. I've definitely been there before. “Happens all the time. Trick says he got a rubber on, but 'less you wrapped his dick up yourself, you're just rollin' the dice. By the time the deal's done, you could have AIDS, gonorrhea, or even worse—a kid up inside of you!”

She sputters and stands up. “A—rubber . . .?” she says, her mouth wide open like she's shocked.

I look up and see her face has gone from pasty to pink. Even her ears are red! “Yeah. A rubber. You know—a condom?” I roll my eyes and sigh. “You put it on a trick's dick so you don't
catch nothin' nasty—and so you don't get pregnant! That's Sex Ed 101, girl. Where you been?”

Whitegirl picks up a one-eyed doll off the floor. She smoothes down what's left of its blond hair and looks up at the ceiling. “Man's seed must be spilled so the tribe may thrive and prosper. It's a sin to defy God's will.”

I look at the ceiling to see what she's gawking at. Ain't nothin' there. “God? What the hell's he got to do with it?”

She leans in close to me and whispers, “What a man and a woman do in bed is . . . sacred!”

I cross my legs and fold my arms across my chest. This pushes my boobs up and that makes her look away. “Oh yeah? How 'bout what they do on the floor—or up against a wall—or in the backseat of a car? Is that sacred, too?”

She twirls her fingers in the doll's stringy hair. “Well—uh—so long as the union has been blessed by the Prophet. . . .”

“Profit? Now you're talkin' sense. ‘It's all about the almighty dollar.' That's what Tarell says, anyhow.”

She sits back down and holds the doll in her arms like it's a real baby. “Who's Tarell?”

“Tarell—he's like . . . well, it's kinda complicated.” I wait to see how curious she really is, but this whitegirl looks like she's been raised to mind her own business, so I just spill the beans. “Okay, so Tarell's like my boss, but he also takes care of me. I mean, I live with him in this big ol' house out in the burbs, and he buys me clothes, and he takes me to get my hair and nails done . . . stuff like that. And if any punk messes with
me, Tarell kicks his ass.”