Something Wicked (18 page)

“You don’t need to apologize.”

“You want me to feel bad. I don’t. That’s just life sometimes. Girls can be bitches. What am I supposed to do? Let her punch me in the face?”

“Of course not. Let me ask you this, without you jumping to conclusions. This is not the first physical altercation you’ve had with a girl. In no way do I think you bring on these fights. But I get the feeling that they are often about the same thing: guys. And that’s one of the things that will happen if you have many partners who have many partners. Why do you think she wanted to fight you?”

“Because I’m with Fortune.”

“And so is she?”

“So she says.”

“Is it possible?”

“It’s possible.”

“Well, Fortune is a lucky guy to have two women fighting over him. So, is it possible that the one you should both be mad at is Fortune? Not each other?”

I think about this a second. Sometimes he makes me feel like an idiot. “Probably.”

“So tell me again, why are you not mad at him?”

“I am,” I say.

Thirty-Eight

I am
mad at Fortune.

Even before I came over to AJ’s apartment, I was pissed. And it’s like I’m trying to find a reason to fight. I know it’s crazy, but everything Fortune does and says lately is just plain wrong. Part of the reason is that girl at the party, but it’s also because now that I’m almost sure there’s no hope of Michael coming back to me, I can no longer look at Fortune as a distraction. Now it’s like he’s actually a boyfriend, and that makes all his bad points stand out even more.

I just can’t bring myself to be nice. I’m a royal bitch, but instead of calling me on it, he just ignores me and chills with four of his friends, who are all gathered around the television watching a football game. Which makes me smoulder in agitation until I find a big enough spark that I explode.

And there it is.

We’re sitting watching the halftime show when Fortune puts a pepperoni on the floor, calls the cat over, and then reaches down to put his cigarette out on its back. With pepperoni in its mouth, the cat screeches in response and takes off.

“What the fuck?” I yell, jumping to my feet, watching the cat scurry away down the hall. “What the fuck was that?”

Fortune looks up at me. “What? What?”

“What did you just do?”

He laughs, realizing now what my freak-out is about.“Relax. We do it all the time. Butt is used to it. AJ’s been using Butt as an ashtray for years. That’s how he got his name. Butt Out.” Everyone starts laughing.

“Holy shit!” I look at him like he’s the Devil.

“What?” The smile disappears from his face and suddenly he gets all angry. “Why you looking at me like that? It’s a fuckin’ cat.”

I go to look for the cat, who’s hiding somewhere, terrified. I find him in the back bedroom, under the bed. I grab a blanket, shoo him out, and throw it over him before he can get away. Predictably, he freaks out, gets all tangled up, and I wrap him tight so he can’t move. Almost immediately, I feel him relax in my arms. “Shhhhh …” I comfort him. “It’s okay. It’s okay.”

I reappear in the hallway, the bundle in my arms.

“Where are you going?” Fortune demands.

“Home.”

“You can’t take AJ’s cat.”

“I’m taking him.”

“You can’t steal someone’s fuckin’ cat.”

“I’m not stealing him. I’m rescuing him.”

He laughs, glancing at his friends, who seem to be rather amused by the whole thing—even AJ, who clearly doesn’t care about his cat.

“Take the mothafuckin’ pussy,” Fortune says. “Who the hell cares.”

“Exactly. No one cares.” I turn and walk away, wondering if he’ll yell or come after me. But he doesn’t. There’s just
collective, male, stupid-ass laughter. “You’re all fucking morons,” I mumble.

I bring the cat home and put him in our washroom. Cats like little places. Having been traumatized, he’ll lay low for a few days. I wish Michael were here—he’d know exactly what to do. I leave the blanket on the floor so he can disentangle himself. I get the cat food I bought at the corner store, and a water dish. Then I get the recycling blue box, lay it on its side, and stuff it next to the toilet. He’ll need somewhere to hide when we go in there. I put a sign on the door for my mom and Scott.

BEWARE! POST-TRAUMATIC STRESSED CAT INSIDE.
WON’T HURT YOU, BUT DON’T TOUCH.

I go to bed early, feeling totally sorry for myself and my pathetic life. The cat’s desperate
meow meow meow
from inside the washroom echoes throughout the apartment. His scratchy, desperate cries make me feel all the sadder and more pathetic. Just when I try to like someone, to get over Michael, I fall for an asshole.

Then the cat’s meows get louder and uglier, changing from sad to annoying. I eventually become so pissed off that I have to get up out of bed. “You’re an idiot,” I scold him when I open the bathroom door and see his scared face peeking out from inside the box. I get down on my knees and reach in, soothing him with my now gentle voice. “It’s okay. It’s okay. You’re safe now—”

Hssss.
He lashes out with his paw.

“Owww!” I scream, pulling my hand away, two long streaks of blood already pooling. I punch the top of the container.
“Shithead!” Then I run my hand under cold water, staring at the stinging, swelling skin.

Afterward, I bend back down to look inside. The cat peers out with shiny green eyes. “It’s okay … I know you’re just scared.”

I head back to my room, my hand now wrapped in toilet paper and carrying the recycling box. I put the box down on the floor beside the bed, figuring the cat will probably go under there at some point during the night.

Little does he realize, I think before I go off to sleep, how similar we are
.
He’s more scared in this safe place than he is in his familiar home of tortured hell. He’s so fucked up, he only feels good when he feels bad.

Thirty-Nine

I
drag my ass to my regularly scheduled appointment every Monday with Eric. As soon as I go through the door, I’m Echo. There’s so much I don’t tell him now, about my mom and Fortune and Michael, there’s almost no point in seeing him, except that I have to. It’s like I’m not even present in the room. I just let Echo blah blah blah …

But this time I do have a reason for coming. It takes me almost the whole hour to gather the courage to ask.“You know that group home you told me about a long time ago?”

“Yeah,” Eric responds.

“I’m not saying I want to go, but I’d see it. Take a tour or something.”

“Sure. Any time. All you have to do is call. I have the number here, if you want to do it now.”

A panicked feeling rises in my chest, even though I’m the one who brought it up. I’ve been thinking about moving out for a while now. I don’t have money for rent, and since Michael’s gone, maybe a group home is my only choice. Still, when it seems like it could actually happen, I start to second-guess myself. Living with ten other messed-up girls?
Having staff around all the time, enforcing rules and giving you “community time” like it’s a reward? Having to share a room? “I didn’t mean now,” I retract. “I can’t do it now. Maybe soon.”

“Okay. It’s just a call, though. Doesn’t mean you actually go. You just ask when you can drop by.” As he’s talking, he opens his book to find the number. “I’ll call for you. No pressure at all. Just so you know when their times are.”

He dials and talks to someone he knows. Says he has a client interested in checking out the house. He’s all casual, like it’s no big deal. Then he hangs up the phone and turns to me. “Every Wednesday afternoon, one o’clock. If you want, we can book a personal time.” He writes down some stuff on a piece of paper and passes it to me. Before I know it, I have the address and phone number of the group home in my hand.

“Thanks,” I say, wondering what the hell I just did.

“No problem. If you want me to go with you, I’m happy to do so.”

“Yeah. No. Thanks. I’m just thinking about it. You know?”

He leans forward a little. “You okay, Melissa?”

I lean back, reclaiming the safe gap between us. “Yeah. Yeah. I’m okay. Why?”

“You seem a little … distracted. Tired, maybe? Something happen?”

“Happen?” Echo shrugs her shoulders and pushes farther back into the chair. “Not really. Just thinking about a change.”

We sit there and Echo talks about nothing important for a while longer. Meanwhile, the words I really want to say rip up my insides like stabbing knives.
I want to get the fuck out of my house. I want to get the fuck out of my life. I won’t let my mom bring me down again. I won’t take care of her and a kid.
I hate everyone—my friends, my mother, Fortune. I even hate Michael. I hate my school. My city. My life. My clothes. My face. Everything. I want out. Out of this head. Out of this body. I want to get the fuck out of this skin
.

Forty

I stay
in bed for a few days. Sometimes I do this, when things get to be too much. Especially when the weather is crap. When things are grey and ugly and the trees have no leaves and it’s like the sky is an inevitable looming overcast of gloom. I feel like my head is a cement block that I’m dragging around. I am numb and there’s nothing inside. I don’t care about failing school, or pissing off my friends, or hurting my mother. I just don’t care.

My mom comes in every morning, yelling and trying to get me to go to school. Ms. Dally calls and threatens discharge from the program if I don’t get to class. But none of it matters to me. I just want to sleep all day. I just want to turn off and disappear into a shadow.

On Saturday afternoon, Ally calls me while I’m making Kraft Dinner. I complain about how miserable I am. Every second word is a swear word. She thinks that Fortune and I should get back together because it will make me happier. I tell her, “Not over my dead body.”

“So, where’s the cat?” she asks, seemingly changing the subject.

“I don’t see it ever. It lives under my bed.”

“Maybe it’s dead.”

“No. I leave food out and a litter box in my room, so I know it eats and shits.”

“So then call Fortune and tell him to take the cat back. Come on.”

“No way. I’m not talking to him.” And then I add, “Or any other guy besides Michael.”

“Okay, this is getting annoying, Mel. Who do you like, Michael or Fortune, huh? Decide. ’Cause I’m sick of hearing about this shit.” Leave it to Ally to tell it like it is. She doesn’t have Jessica’s patience or tact.

I try to make it as simple as possible. “I love Michael. I like Fortune.”

“Earth to Melissa: Michael is gone. So maybe you better love Fortune. Love the one you’re with, you know the song?”

“You don’t understand.”

“I don’t understand what? What’s there to understand? Yeah, okay, so you and Michael were in love. I get that. But he’s left you. We talked about this a billion times. He probably freaked out about how old you are. And so he’s gone. Are you going to become a nun?”

“I can’t go out with someone who treats a cat like that.”

“What are you talking about? You get all freaked out about a cat, but you’re fine kicking some girl in the face?”

“That’s different. She asked for it. This cat did nothing wrong.”

“You’re crazy. You know that? Fortune’s not a bad guy. If he put a cigarette out on
you
, that would be a different story. But everyone knows Butt. Everyone butts out on Butt.”

“Have you?”

“No. Are you insane? Come on,” she whines, “make up with him. He’s
sooo
cute.”

It sounds weird her saying that about him, seems so superficial. As if it’s something she thinks I’d like to hear. And I don’t know why she’s going on like that, since she’s not truly into guys anyway. I sigh deeply. “Why are guys such assholes?”

“They’re born that way. It’s just the way it is. So … will you come out with us tonight?”

I sigh again. It’ll mean I have to see Fortune.

“Come on. It’s Saturday night.”

“Yeah. Okay. Only because I don’t want to be around home. But he’s kidding himself if he thinks I’ll talk to him before he gives me one big fat apology.”

Turns out Fortune’s big fat apology is a fantastic night in bed, and by one A.M. all is good. It’s hard to break up with someone when the sex is so great. It’s like guys who are good in bed get this immunity card that can be played at any time, only it’s an immunity dick.