Pieces of Us (9 page)

Alex

T
oday is chicken day, and I’m pumped.

“How can you watch it?” Katya asks as she heads to the swings.

The real question should be, how can you
not
watch it? It’s
Survivor, Real World,
and straight-on documentary all rolled into one.

I’m not some sicko (but no worries, I’ve been called worse) who gets his jollies watching headless animals flail around. It’s just something to do.

I jump over the bench and sit next to Julie. Today Chicken Man got himself a name. “Wilbur,” I say laughing. “Talk about ironic.”

“Look who finally learned to read,” she says. Wouldn’t surprise me if
she
secretly gets off on watching Wilbur wield his knife.

“Watch it little girl, or I’ll have to spank you,” I say, knowing this will skeeve her out. She plays it so innocent but I wonder if she’s the type who’d be into getting paddled. Not that it matters, since I’m with Katya. Besides, she’s more Kyle’s speed. He needs someone like Julie who doesn’t know a guy’s cock from his balls. A girl who knows what she’s doing freaks him out. I’ve been watching the two of them in the lake, playing tag like lame-asses. How is that kid sixteen? If it were me, there’d be no swimming away.

Wilbur takes out his knife and starts slicing away. The first victim is a feisty one. They usually aren’t. When the knife cuts the chicken’s artery, severing its head, blood splatters in Wilbur’s face and hair. I laugh, and everyone stares at me but I don’t give a fuck. That chicken deserves some respect. It’s fighting it out, trying to show ol’ Wilbur that it ain’t going quietly. It flies high in the air over the other chickens, raining blood on their feathers. Take that, bitches! You’re next. See you in chicken heaven! Wilbur curses, and the chicken is losing steam. It lands on Wilbur’s bloody shoes. Some feathers fall to the dirt. He picks it up, puts it in a plastic bag, and gives it to a grandma, tossing the head in the green dumpster behind him.

Julie looks like she’s going to hurl. “Shouldn’t stick around if you can’t hack it,” I say.

She swallows. “I can hack it,” she says quietly, a fierceness on her face I’ve never seen on Katya’s.

“Huh,” I say. “Maybe you can teach your big sister to
be tough.”

She clenches her fists when Wilbur pulls out the next chicken. “Bring it,” she snarls, like this is what she’s been waiting to hear.

Her eyes flash fire and hate, and I’m glad Katya is not here to see it.

Alex

T
hree weeks since the chicken man came, and nothing has changed. Same old shit. The grandgeezers play cards and dominoes all day. The clothes make the same sound on the line outside:
Thwack. Thwack. Thwack.
At the first sign of gray clouds, the grandmas take down the clothespins and rush the clothes inside. Sometimes I wish for a surprise thunderstorm just to shake things up. If it weren’t for Katya, I’d lose my mind. Doesn’t hurt that we still haven’t done it. I save that for the sluts back home. I don’t want Katya to become one of
them
. They get me off, but they’re growing stale, like we’re one fuck away from growing mold.

The saddest, most pathetic shit of all here? Kyle and Julie. One of them needs to grow a pair soon and I’m putting my money on Julie. I’m watching Kyle from the window now, playing another game of Spit. He’s not even trying to touch her. She puts her cards in a pile, leaves her hand in the middle of the damn bench, and I can see she wants him to touch her hand like in those dumb-ass chick flick movies. It’s embarrassing, really. For all the game Katya has, Julie has nada. And I don’t think it’s the age thing, because I had plenty of game by the time I was fourteen.

So she finally moves her hand after my loser of a brother picks the other pile. The bigger pile. Which makes me wonder if he didn’t go for that one on purpose. You’d think the kid could get play any time he wants with his pretty boy looks—dark hair, god-given athletic build (shithead doesn’t even have to work out), even has a fucking dimple in his cheek. Maybe he just thinks she’s a woof. Sure, she’s a little on the chubbo side, but it’s not something puberty won’t fix. And the thing is she knows she’s chubbo and those kinds of girls, they think they’re not all that, so even when they thin out and get hot, they’re still thinking they’re nothing. That’s why it’s good to get them now so they think, “Wow, he liked me back when I was all fugly and shit.”

But Kyle doesn’t get that. Holy fuck, she’s leaning forward now, her tits almost in his face, and he’s ignoring them. Jesus. It shouldn’t surprise me, I guess. Even when we do our thing and I let him share, he’s not that into it. He swears he’s straight. So I guess he’s just a pussy.

Like before we came here, there was a girl—Sarah. Totally into him, totally wanted his shit. Not who I would have picked for him, which I told him. Which he ignored. If I were choosing, I would have picked the girl who lived next door to us: cute little thing, black hair down to her tiny shoulder blades, not much makeup except for pink gloss. Instead, he chose this girl with “natural” bleach-blond hair. Natural my ass. Wore jeans with a hole in the knee, shirts that fell off the shoulder. Fuck, she had
slut
written all over her. “Don’t talk about her like that,” Kyle whined. “She’s cool. She reads poetry. She’s into Dylan Thomas.” I didn’t care if she published her own damn poetry book, the girl was a whore and how Kyle didn’t see this or care was crazy.

He ignored me every time I tried to bring this up. Just took out the damn controllers and started on the Wii. Then, the day before he brought her home for the first time—the only time—he snapped. Threw the controller across the room. “Shit, Alex, can’t you just let it go? Just because all your girlfriends are hos doesn’t mean Sarah is. Okay?” I didn’t bother answering him. Just left the room. What was the point in arguing, when I could just show him.

The day he brings her home, Mother Dearest decides to be Super Mommy. She’d broken up with her guy du jour and spent the week watching sappy chick flicks. This always transforms her into one of those fifties moms—the ones who actually pretend to like their kids, who ask about their day, who wear clothes that cover their tits and cooch (when they’re not doing their stripper gig, anyway).

“Hi, honey,” she said, apron-clad, voice smooth as Cool Whip, when Kyle brought Sarah home.

“Hi, Mrs. Miller,” said Sarah, smiling, extending a hand to our mother.

“Well, aren’t you sweet? Can I fix you kids something?” Mom asked, and I rolled my eyes. The way she said it would make anyone think this was how our house functioned, like our mother wore that stupid-ass
Something’s Cookin’
apron every day, like she gave a damn about us on a regular basis.

I would have told her to fuck off right there, but Kyle bringing a girl home was an event in itself. He smiled at
my mom, playing nice for Sarah’s sake. “Sure, Mom. Whatever’s good.”

“Oh, baby,” she said, laughing, “everything’s good.”

Kyle clenched his fist by his side at this, and I coughed a little too loudly. I mean, who was she kidding? More than half of the food in the fridge was past expiration. That’s why we had enough take-out menus to wallpaper the kitchen. Anyway, while mom busied herself in the kitchen, Kyle took Sarah to our room. Since it was Kyle, I figured they’d just be playing video games for the next half hour, but when I got upstairs, I saw them dry humping, her hands rubbing his back, her eyes closed while he kissed her. They didn’t see me and I waited until Kyle finished and went to use the bathroom. Her shirt was still unbuttoned when I walked in and she scrambled to pull herself together.

“Hi,” she said, blushing.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt.” I said this all gentleman-like.

“No worries,” she said, brushing her hair from her face and sitting up on the bed.

I sat down next to her, real close. So close that I smelled her cheap-ass perfume. Same perfume the last whore I was with wore. Lust or Flirt or something like that. I put my hand on her knee, and she didn’t move it away.

I leaned in next to her ear. “You know,” I whispered, “you can read all the poetry you want, but that’s not going to keep your legs closed.”

Now she moved to the other end of the bed. Fast. Her face went white. “I’m not like that.” She said it quietly.

“Maybe not now, but you’re like that. Trust me.”

She stared at me, her eyes tearing. She sniffled. A tear fell down her cheek.

Damn. I hate it when girls cry. Only bastards don’t have weak spots for that. “Hey, hey,” I said softly. “Don’t do that. Look, I’m not judging. You’re not a one-guy-at-a-time kind of girl. More power to you. I just don’t think that’s what Kyle needs.” I tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear. I smiled at her.

She smiled back, uncertain. I leaned in, kissed her. Her body went all rigid but she didn’t move away. “See?” I said, pulling back, leaving her looking confused, embarrassed, guilty. “Cheating comes naturally, doesn’t it?”

“Oh my God! Oh my God!” She just kept repeating that, and then jumped up, ran to the door.

I grabbed her hand in the hallway, just as I heard Kyle coming back. “It’s okay to be a whore,” I whispered. “Just don’t pretend you’re something you’re not.”

She snatched her hand away and ran, Kyle calling after her. I tried explaining that I did him a favor, but he wouldn’t listen to me. Ungrateful shit.

Kyle

H
anging out with Julie has stopped being easy, now that you have to monitor every move, wonder about every touch. An arm around her isn’t playful anymore. You find yourself stopping, thinking too much. You’re not clueless, like Alex thinks. You know how girls act around guys they like. You know what Julie is doing. You just don’t want it.

The sky darkens, and she talks about going to the swings. Her voice is hopeful, and you have to squash the hope. “I’m tired,” you say, which is true. You’re tired of Spit. Tired of avoiding Julie’s fingers each time she lingers on a pile. You’re tired of losing the game because you’re too busy watching her hands and where they’ll go before you commit to a pile.

“All right then,” she says too quickly, like she’s trying to be noncommittal. “Rest up. We have a Spit rematch tomorrow.” She hesitates for a minute, like she’s waiting for a hug. You used to say good-bye with hugs. You almost reach for her, but that would give her the wrong idea. “Later,” she finally says, and gives a small wave before running into her cottage.

You feel regret and relief. Then from behind you hear, “Nice work, pussy,” and there’s no more relief. Just regret and fear.

“Leave me alone,” you say, but when has Alex ever listened? You turn your back to him and head toward the creek. Your dad once showed you how to skip stones on the water. Today you want to make up your own rules. You focus on distance, on the biggest splash. You feel Alex behind you and don’t turn around. You grab a rock and this time you hold it tight. You feel it dig into your palm and it’s all you can do not to heave it at Alex’s head. Anger radiates in all directions, and it’s like in comic books where the hero is surrounded by an invincible bubble. Your bubble is red. You squeeze your eyes shut and push the anger down. The bubble lightens to yellow but it’s still there. You hear his breath behind you and try to calm down. For yourself, not for him. He has enough power over you. He must sense you’re not you, must sense something is off, because he waits to speak until you’ve let go of the rock and slumped against a tree for support.

He lights a cigarette, takes a drag and blows smoke in your face. “So, what is it?” he says, like we were in the middle of a conversation. “Does she not give you a hard-on or something?”

“I like her as a friend.”

He looks at you like you just ate dog shit. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean? You’ve known Julie for years, been hanging out with her every day this summer, and you like her ‘as a friend’? Are you ten?”

The orange tip flickers as he takes another drag. You don’t like smoking. The smell makes you sick. But when he offers you a drag, like he always does, you take it. Like you always do.

“She’s nice. That’s what I mean.” But you know he won’t let this go. What are you supposed to tell him? That even if you did think a girl was pretty, there’s no way in hell you’d tell him? That dating someone close to your age, dating in general even, makes you want to throw up and you don’t know why?

He blows smoke rings and then spits on the ground, and this makes you think of Julie and you smile.

“Nice?” he says, and your smile is gone just like that. “That’s all? Well, you can fuck nice, can’t you?”

When you were younger, you thought he was God. Maybe not God, but someone like that, someone important, someone big. He was all you had after your mom gave up on being a therapist and connecting with you through index cards. When she decided ten was too old for hugs, when she thought she looked too young to be anyone’s mom, and instead hit the gym to get back the body she claimed she’d had before she met your dad. She tried to get back that life, too, and it didn’t include you and your brother.

But she didn’t just leave you. That would have been better. She was still there, sometimes cooking meals, usually leaving cash for delivery men, all the while looking for something better. And you knew it. With each want ad, each informercial, each outfit that looked like it belonged more on the girls your brother brought home than on a forty-year-old woman, you knew. So you had Alex and he watched out for you and you thought he was right. You thought you owed him. But as time went on, and he called you fag, and pussy, and hit you a little too hard, you started to hate him.

Then there was Sarah. You didn’t think she was everything. You didn’t know what she was. But she stopped you from being numb. Kissing her made you less scared. And Alex can claim she wanted him all he wants, but you know she liked you. Not that it matters. Not that she’ll ever talk to you again. All because of Alex. After that, your hate for him grew stronger. So that’s where you are now. Hating him, in the woods, with him and his putrid cigarettes, hoping he will just shut the hell up. But he doesn’t.

“Shit, kid, all the girls you kissed were on my coattails. Except for Sarah. And she was definitely
someone’s
sloppy seconds.” He pauses. “And thirds and fourths too.”

He laughs, and you’re in the red bubble again. This time it’s harder to talk yourself down, and you’re not sure you want to. The woods turn red. You aimlessly throw the rock. You hear shouting and pick up more rocks and keep going. Then it’s just black and pain as your arm is twisted behind your back. His breath is right by your ear. “Are you fucking crazy?” he asks. “You could have hit me.”

Now you laugh. Did he think you cared if you did?

He pins your arm tighter to your back, and it’s just you and him in the woods. No colors, just pain. “Are you done, psycho?” he asks. The pain is bad. You nod and he lets go of your arm.

“What the hell was
that
? I was just trying to help. What are you going to do when I move out and can’t look out for you anymore?”

Fucking celebrate.
“I don’t need you,” you say quietly.

“Please, little brother. Who the hell else do you have? You think mommy dearest is going to pull a Julia Roberts and bring home some millionaire daddy who loves her for her soul?”

“Babushka and Dedushka are here.”

He laughs. “How long do you think it will be before they kick it? And they only have us for the summers. Face it, I’m all you’ve got.”

Your throat goes dry as the truthfulness of that sinks in. Sometimes you think your mother cares, but she’s too busy trying to bring in money any way she can to see anything else.

He watches your face, amused, knowing he got you. He takes another puff of cigarette and moves in likes he’s going to punch you, but at the last moment moves his hand and combs his fingers through his hair. “Psych,” he says, laughing.

Julie could be someone else who’s there for you. She could be a way to freedom.

“Fine,” you say, “I’ll ask Julie out.” The words come out thin. You don’t want to ask her. You don’t want to ask her because of
him
. Why does everything have to be on his terms? How did that happen? Why do you still let it happen?

“Well, bravo.” He claps real slow, like in the movies. “I think I see a ball,” he says looking at the zipper of your pants. “But word of advice? It’s summer, asshole. You don’t need a whole production. Just grab her, give her some tongue, and don’t worry about a relationship.”

You’re quiet as the red surrounds you again. You know right then that he’ll fuck everything up. Just like he did before.

“You still there?” he asks. When you don’t say anything, he gives you a cigarette.

You inhale deep and feel the burn in your lungs. You hate it but do it again. You need the burn. You need the pain. That’s the only thing that feels in your control right now. You inhale again and again and again.