The Knife and the Butterfly (15 page)

No matter how much you lay it on, though, I guess when it comes to girls it always boils down to: how fast can I get your clothes off? Now that I’ve got the time to think it over, I feel kind of bad about that. Looking at a female’s tits and liking her from there when I don’t even know a name. Even with Becca. I got to admit I was thinking “pussy” before I fell in love with her sad smile and that long straight hair begging me to wrap my fingers up in it.

But this Lexi chick is easier than a game of tic-tac-toe. Sticking her tits in everybody’s face. Just asking that fool to give her trouble. And wanting the trouble, too, for all I can tell. Like she’s saying, “Hey you, got nothing but screwing on your mind? Sweet, so long as you toss some Xanax my way.” She’s no Becca, that’s for sure.

As soon as I think of Becca, it’s like somebody punches me in the gut. Making fun of Lexi and her fool boyfriend can’t protect me from the fact that I’m the one with my ass in the wringer; I’m the one who doesn’t even know what he did or what they’re trying to pin on me. Because there’s Becca’s letter. There’s Becca saying good-bye to me like there’s no going back.

I’ve got to keep from falling into that nothing place where I can’t think nothing but Becca, Becca, get Becca back. Before I know what I’m doing, I’m pulling the pencil through the springs of the cot above me. I flip to the back of Lexi’s notebook and let loose. I guess my brain is all soaked with Lexi’s business, because what comes out on the page is her standing outside that convenience store. Just like she said, she’s got the Sharpie in her hand, only it’s not just her arm that she’s marked up. Her whole body is covered with designs and writing, and for a second I think of the
mareros
from El Salvador and Honduras that I met a couple of times, their faces and necks and arms and hands tattooed completely. I keep drawing, and the tattoos climb over her face. Then the designs spill out onto the brick wall behind her, and I realize that she’s standing in a pool of ink that comes up to her ankles. I keep drawing, and the ink climbs in spirals halfway up her legs. Her face doesn’t change. She’s still standing there, her whole body saying, “I’m cool, I’m really fuckin’ cool.”

“She doesn’t know,” I say out loud. “She doesn’t know that she’s in deep.”

It freaks me out that I’m talking to myself. I feel kind of shaky, and I put down the pencil real careful this time, making sure not to break it. I’m not sure what the drawing means, but I know I don’t like it.

I find my place again in Lexi’s notebook and yank it back up in front of my face. I have to push my eyes across the lines. It’s slow going, and every word I read has to kick that drawing out of the way before it can hit my brain. But I’ve got to keep reading.

Here is what I didn’t tell Janet about that time Richard took me to McDonald’s when I was eight. I didn’t tell her that I wore my favorite dress, or that I was disappointed when Richard got there. That he was just an old guy with hairs sticking out of his nose, brown splotches all over his hands, and a greasy bald spot in the middle of his gray head. That Richard let me sit in the front seat and did my seatbelt for me even though I was plenty big enough to do it for myself. That he didn’t seem to listen when I answered his questions about my favorite TV shows. That my legs stuck to the leather seat of his big Buick and made a sucking sound when I got out at McDonald’s. That I ate my sundae as fast as I could and asked to go home. That he said no and told me to play on the playground. That I didn’t want to, but I did it anyway because I thought that then we could leave. That he watched me climb the netting all the way to the top of the play set. That when I came down the slide, he was waiting for me at the bottom and smiling. That I didn’t like his smile. That he picked me up and carried me over to an empty bench and sat me in his lap even though I was too big for that. That he just laughed when I tried to get down. That I felt something inside Richard’s pants press against me, something that made me feel dirty even though at the time I didn’t know what it was.

I didn’t tell Janet because I’ve never told anybody.

I wrote Cartoon another letter, and toward the end I reminded him of what a good time we had, just him and me. I write dirty stuff for him because I know he likes it. Meemaw is always telling me I need friends who are girls, but chicks hate me. It’s basically automatic. Girls hate anybody that boys like. And boys like me.

I use what I’ve got, I’m not gonna lie. I make sure my shorts pull tight across my butt, and I wear my tank tops so that plenty of tit shows. Shauna is always trying to say I ought to lose weight, what a knockout I’d be if I did, but no way am I gonna give up Meemaw’s goodies just to have a flat belly. I get plenty of looks the way I am now.

It’s the being wanted that I like, hands and eyes drawn to my body like magnets. Yeah, when I’m walking along and boys are talking about my ass, I act all pissed. But I love it. It makes me feel powerful, like I could karate-chop my way through the whole world right then.

I love being sexy, but I don’t love sex. Maybe it’s because of Richard. Maybe it’s because Shauna took me to get on the Pill when I was thirteen. She said it was for my cramps, but I know it was because she thought I was already doing it. Sex has never been that exciting to me. When I’m actually with a guy and he’s doing his thing, it’s like waiting for laundry to finish or trying to get through the last five minutes of Meemaw’s church without falling asleep. Anyway, lots of people don’t really like sex. What matters is knowing how to pretend that you do.

I make lots of noise and grab the dude’s hips. Make him think he’s driving me crazy. Pull him close, shout some shit, give him a little nip on the ear. Guys are so sure that they’re the shit, they never think you might be faking.

The first guy I kissed was this real sweet kid I knew when I was ten and we lived out in La Porte. Nestor. He had this cute gap between his teeth and long eyelashes. He was always a gentleman, holding my hand and stuff, kissing me with closed lips, never trying to touch me anywhere. He was all the time telling me how smart I was and helping me out at school. That was when Meemaw lived with us, and she always said that Nestor was good people.

Me and Nestor lost touch after a couple of moves, and it wasn’t until last year that I found out he got leukemia when he was thirteen. And he died from it. Dead. I felt so pissed that I hadn’t been there for him, that I hadn’t sat by his bed and told him jokes to make him forget about losing his hair and the tubes in his arms. I wonder if he died a virgin.

I already finished all the sweets Meemaw sent in her package. I’ve been in here long enough to know how to cry so nobody can hear me, and I’m getting by without pills. But I haven’t figured out how to make Meemaw’s cookies and donuts last me the week. It doesn’t matter how much she sends, two days and it’s gone. Because when you’re stuck in a little room with nothing to do, how are you going to keep yourself from pulling that box out from under the bed and scarfing down another peanut butter cookie?

All that’s left in the box now is her note. She didn’t write much, just “I love you and am praying for you.” She sends me these cards with Bible verses and little sayings on them. They’ve got a sticky side like a bumper sticker so you can put them on the wall or something. Here’s one.

“Come now and let us reason together,” says the Lord.
“Though your sins are like scarlet, they shall be as
white as snow.”—Isaiah 1:18

Free! Free! As soon as we give over our hearts to the
Lord, we are free! Free from shame, guilt, fear, and all the
darkness that once surrounded us! Praise the Lord!

I want to tell Meemaw that I have that whole Bible she sent me, so she shouldn’t waste her stickers on me. But that would hurt her feelings.

Those words belong to some other world. I mean, I can read them. I’m not stupid. But it’s like reading a poster on the bus. This stuff is real to Meemaw, but it’s not real to me. All those exclamation points just make me want to laugh. Meemaw might as well send me quotes from the Driver’s Ed manual. Or the phone book.

I guess after these weeks of group I’m kind of used to it, and maybe I even like it a little. But I still don’t say anything. Today when all the girls were telling what was what about their past, how they felt alone or apart and shit, I wanted to say something. I almost did, too, but it was like there was this invisible hand clamped over my mouth. I couldn’t do it. Just couldn’t.

I wanted to say, you know how sometimes the thing that sticks with you isn’t that big a deal, or it wouldn’t seem like it to anybody else, but to you it stands for everything that’s busted up and sucky in your life? If I had any balls, I would’ve told about this one time when I was maybe eight and Meemaw made me go into the big church with her on Sunday.

Before that I stayed in the children’s room. I was bigger than the other kids, but I was kind of like a helper to the teacher lady. And I never wanted to leave. Always music playing and juice and graham crackers. I remember all the toys had the name of the church written on them in Sharpie. The Pentecostal Way Living Water Church. Like who was going to steal toys from a church?

Anyway, Meemaw dragged me into the main church room that day. There was singing, which I liked because I have a good voice just like my mom. Then they prayed and this guy in a cheesy white suit talked for a long time. The whole time people were shouting Amen from all sides.

I had my head on Meemaw’s shoulder and I was thinking up new moves for the number-one song on Mega 101 when the preacher called for people to come down to the front, to come down to the altar and be healed of darkness and washed of sin. I looked around and all of a sudden lots of people were crying and shaking. One lady’s false eyelashes were halfway down her cheek. A man fell into the aisle and started saying things I couldn’t understand. A woman in front of us swished her green skirt back and forth. Then she started dancing with her hands lifted.