Cornered (27 page)

She presses onward. “I would have never dated you if I'd known you were such a weakling.” She pulls the raft in one direction while I pull in the other.

“Don't you ever want to see your family again? How about all your friends and Trigger, your dog?”

“Let go you stupid fucking son-of-a-bitch! You coward! I wish Knight were here instead of you.” Veins pop out of her forehead as she thrashes about. “He's stronger and would have pulled me with him on his back all the way to the island.”

“Calm down, Blyss. Please. Please. You're losing energy. We need to stay tranquil.”

“Tranquil? Here's tranquil.” She cocks her large fist and starts pounding the ocean. Waves hammer against my face, making me spit out water. “I wish I had never met you, Wimp!”
My eyes leap with surprise at the power in Blyss's punches and I let go of the raft. I stop a memory of Gus from flooding my brain. If she'd jabbed him with her inflamed fist, she'd have massacred him.

She stops and catapults all the power in her arms to help her paddle forward toward the island. I grab her foot but can't keep her from speeding ahead.

“Don't you get it?” she says without looking back. “I won't rot in juvie or get thrown in jail for a crime I didn't commit. That asshole's death isn't my fault.” The clouds take on a dark, eerie hue as the sun sinks in front of us and the water becomes black as onyx.

“We won't make it out of here alive. We need food, supplies, and shelter. . . .” I start swimming in the other direction and momentarily look back. “Follow me!”

“No! Don't leave.” She spins around on the raft and hurriedly gets to me. She holds on to my neck and won't let go. “I'm sorry for everything I said. I didn't mean it. . . .”

“I know,” I try to assure her. “Let's go. Grab on and I'll swim you back to shore.”

“I can't.”

I slide out from under her grip and plunge into the sea, promising myself I'll come back for her. I swim as if a killer whale is chasing me, for what feels like hours until I hit a large rock. I haul myself up, gulping huge gasps of air as I look around.
Damn. That girl has guts. I can't believe she stayed, alone.
It's pitch black by now. I must be where I first started. I get up
and move carefully, one foot in front of the other, making my way downhill. My eyes throb with so much pain. I reach up to rub them but my fingers penetrate the empty sockets. I shudder. My eyes have fallen out of my head.

This can't be. You're dreaming.

Carefully, I walk downhill without animals hooting, clawing, or hissing. I must be taking a different way out. I stumble upon a pliable surface. It feels like the taut canvas I came through. I step into it, listen to the material tearing and feel the cold ground under my feet. I hear city noises: barking dogs, car horns, and airplanes overhead. Truck exhaust, cigarette smoke, and perfume fill my nostrils. I'm definitely back in Miami.

Voices come at me from all directions, “Whoa, boy, watch where you're headed!” I shiver and hug myself. I'm back in frigid February temperatures and I'm fully dressed; I've got on my jacket, shirt, shoes, and socks. I'm not soaking wet like I was seconds ago.
How can this be?

My hands feel frigid, unmovable. I'm sure they're turning purple. I blow warm breaths into them and clap them, but nothing helps the cold seeping my bones. I walk carefully, slowly, with trembling arms stretched forward so as not to stumble or crash into anything or anyone. A veil of hopelessness drapes over me. I no longer belong to the human race. I've lost myself, my girl, my eyes. The police are searching for me. My poor family is probably desperate to find me, and someone I know has died.

With every step I take, my head becomes crowded with flashes of Gus's play: Alyssa left the earlier scene and reappears as a totally different character: a drag queen named
Papayúa
, which according to our Cuban friends, translates to “immense vagina.” It's something like having guts—except you know, huge balls—and it's supposed to be hilarious, but Blyss didn't find the humor in it, and so I didn't either.

When Papayúa batted long pink lashes, Blyss whispered to me, “The clickety-clacking of that sicko's stiletto heels makes me want to puke.”

The crowd started getting rowdy. Some hooted and hollered while others tried to shush them. Mrs. Carrillo settled the hecklers by yelling, “Stop or you're all getting afterschool detention!” It prompted everyone to shut up. Everybody except Blyss. She cupped her hands around her mouth and blasted, “Shut it down!”

Mrs. Carrillo stormed up to us and reminded Blyss in a brutal whisper, “If you start up again, you won't pass English, and I'll need to see your parents.” She spun around and walked back to the front of the audience. Blyss threw the finger at her back, which made me chuckle.

“This is America,” Blyss said as she shut her eyes. “I won't be forced to watch this piece of shit. If everyone can state their opinions, I should have the same freedom to express mine.”

I agreed but had to keep my focus on the play. I didn't want to fail after how hard I'd worked all year to maintain As and Bs. Our parents took out loans and worked overtime to place us in
such an expensive academy. I wouldn't think of flunking and doing Mom and Dad wrong.

Papayúa stormed into the stage wearing a tall orange wig, blowing wispy purple bangs out of her face, snapping fingers and saying things Blyss found morbidly distasteful, like, “Roly, if you've never dated another boy, how do you know you're straight?”

Roly turned on the TV to get away from listening to Papayúa, but the station was interrupted by an emergency news broadcast: “Don't let your daughters and sons befriend heterosexual counselors, teachers, or priests. Remember, child molesters and rapists in jail are ninety-nine percent heterosexuals. Sixty-five percent of heterosexuals are divorced. Ever since we granted straight people the right to marry and equal rights in some states, their divorce rate has been extremely high. . . .”

A handful of people in the audience belted out laughs. I could tell by the way Blyss grabbed my knee and squeezed it hard she was still furious. Instinctively, I cracked my knuckles, flexing with pent up anger that my girl could be so upset.

After the play, between periods, Blyss followed Gus. I trailed after her. “Pussy Boy thinks he's a glam girl, eh?” She kept teasing him. “Listen up, people. Gus has a tiny, squirmy little worm, not an orchid. I made him show me.”

Peals of laughter filled the halls. Gus kept walking and called over his shoulder, “Please stop.” That only made Blyss sing louder, “Fake Pussy Boy's feelings are hurt. Boo, hoo, hoo.”

Blyss and I chased Gus home after the play. I didn't want to pursue him but needed to be with Blyss. We ran through an alley to cut Gus off, and Blyss stuck her foot out to knock him down. He fell face first and stayed put, probably hoping we'd leave if he didn't move a muscle. He seemed so helpless and pathetic I wasn't motivated to laugh along with Blyss, but I did. She pulled him over on his back and kept at it, with a singsong voice, “Gussy will never be a real girl like me / Wussy Gussy has no pussy. . . .”

Gus's eyes gathered tears. He begged, “Please quit. You've been at it every day, all year. . . .” His pleading inspired Blyss to continue singing even crueler things to him. When he wouldn't get up or stop sobbing, Blyss asked me to help carry him—which I did. I wanted to prove I was stronger than Knight, that guy who was into her, and she could count on me for anything.

I grasped his legs. She held on hard to his arms. We swung him back and forth, back and forth, until we gathered enough momentum to throw him in a Dumpster. He landed with a loud
bruunk
. The kid didn't even put up a fight. He was weaker and frailer than I had originally thought.

Blyss kicked the Dumpster and we began to walk away, back home I thought, until she pulled me to the side. We ducked in silence behind a cherry bush farther down, watching Gus climb out of the trash on his own. When he passed us, he was filthy, smelling of sewer, with rotted globs of slimy food clinging to his hair and dress. We trailed him. He sniffled as he wobbled home, wiping gunk that dripped down his body.

Gus lived in a wealthy, oceanfront Cuban community across the way from our school, which Blyss envied. Our neighborhood was always filled with dangerous police sirens and blasting music, but his had uppity classical compositions with lively cello and violin tunes seeping out of three-story waterfront villas.

The sky turned an ominous black as if it were about to storm any second. The scent of winter blooms and gardenias surrounded us. I wanted to get back home, but said nothing. Instead, I marched forward with my girl, proud to remain at her side, fighting against what she believed to be the evils of the world.

Before Gus turned the corner on a stop sign, Blyss boomed, “Listen, Pus Face. You're male and too hideous to be a girl!” Her bangs fell over her eyes and obscured her enraged, contorted face. “Cut the crap and stop trying to be like me. It looks retarded. Asshole!”

Gus turned around and faced Blyss, who walked up to him until she was inches from his face. He straightened his spine and stood tall, with his head held high, like he'd never done before. Gus's normally fearful jade eyes lit up. You could tell he was forcing himself to act brave.

His voice quivered and his chin trembled. “Why don't you and your boyfriend find another hobby, like bungee jumping back into the Mesozoic era. You know . . . the age of dinosaurs? I'm sure you'll feel quite at home there.”

Something in me snapped. That kid had never, ever, talked
back to anyone, especially not Blyss. It hit me for the first time he was suffering. I knew by his twisted expression he could no longer withstand another second of the torturous, sickening lashings from Blyss.

I grabbed her arm and tried to pull her to me, but she thrashed out of my grip. “Leave me alone, Mik. If you can't deal, then run away to your mommy.”

I crossed my arms over my chest.

She got right in front of his face and almost pressed her nose to his. She sniffed him. “You smell putrid, like you always do.” She gagged and stepped back away from him. “Girls don't stink. We smell like lilies and daffodils. Not a single boy is ever going to love you or see you as a real girl, Dumb Ass. Being female means not having been born with a sausage and balls between your legs, imbecile. I'm a girl. You're not. Get it, sicko?”

He snapped his fingers in Blyss's face with a crooked, forced smile. “Ha, ha.” His voice cracked like he might cry. “You're so comical.”

Gus looked down at his feet with such a sad, devastated expression I knew Blyss had really sliced him up good. I wanted it all to end so I could be with Blyss. It just wasn't funny anymore.

“Come on. Let him go,” I interrupted. “He's not worth our time.”

She didn't even acknowledge me. Instead she pulled her arm back, and with hatred pulsating in her eyes, her fist delivered
a sharp blow to Gus's jaw. I heard his bones crunch. She kept striking him with a left and then a right jab, with such force his neck snapped back. I watched as he wobbled around, then vomited chunks of undigested food and yellow bile. He kneeled and fell forward, right on the throw-up.

My stomach turned. I shifted my eyes away from Gus and listened to him moan.

“If you tell on us, I'll kill you.” Blyss's voice was harsh. I grabbed her, and we took off. I should have stopped her, but I didn't. I liked that she could whip a guy's ass, but that had gone way too far. We ran home, holding hands. When I stood outside her house, Blyss kissed me, and I forgot all about the violence, as if it had never happened. We parted and I headed home in a love-sick daze.

Memories of last night dissipate, only to be replaced by haunting questions that won't leave my mind.
Did Gus die because of Blyss? Because of us? Are we to blame for the death of another human being?

My chest feels as if it's caving in. I clutch at my stomach and imagine Gus's body, sinking deep into the ocean. Nobody helped him. Especially not me. No one heard him sob but us, and we ran away.

Horrified, I try hard to shake these thoughts and feelings. Recall something else. Anything. I twist and turn my brain around and think about my immediate reality: the horror my parents will feel when they see me without eyes. I see everything clearly now that I can't see at all. Is this my punishment?
Are these consequences I must live with forever? I want to run but I can't. A feeling of doom washes over me. My troubles loom huge.

I stop cold when I hear a loud siren whizzing by and remember that police are looking for me. I hear footsteps nearing me on what seems like a sidewalk. “Would someone please help me home?” I say aloud. I tell a willing lady I'm blind, that I forgot my cane, and give her my home address. I must confide in my parents about what's happened and find help for Blyss.

The woman grabs my arm and pulls me with her. “I know someone who lives on Oak Street, too. I'll get you to your house safely, young man.”

The cold wind whips my hair across my eyes, and I thrust it back. I pit my eye sockets against the wind's assault, but the freezing breeze gnaws at my face as I put one foot in front of the other. The lady stops abruptly. “Oh my. We're in front of a
Santería
temple. A
Santera
in the community is having a preliminary ritual for her grandchild who died tragically.”