Part 9 (1/2)

”Sure.” Leulah's eyes were hooked to Luke's face; it was like the guy was d.i.c.kens, f.u.c.king Samuel Clemens. I pushed my way into the GIRLS bathroom. ”Jade?” It was sticky, murky as unclean aquariums. Girls in tube tops and tight pants swarmed the mirror, applying lipstick, running fingernails through hair stiff as soft-drink straws. Unrolled toilet paper wormed along the floor and the hand dryer shrieked, though no one dried their hands.

”Jade? Jade? h.e.l.lo?”

I crouched down and spotted her green metallic sandals in the handicapped stall. ”Jade? Are you okay?” ”Oh, forf.u.c.k's sake, what is it? ”Oh, forf.u.c.k's sake, what is it? WHAT?.'” She unlatched the door. It bashed against the wall. She marched out. WHAT?.'” She unlatched the door. It bashed against the wall. She marched out.

Behind her, stuffed between the toilet and the toilet-paper dispenser, was a man, approximately forty-five years old with a thick brown beard that cut his face into crude shapes first graders tape to windows during Art Time. He wore a jean jacket too short in the sleeves and looked as if he'd respond to various shouted commands, including, ”C'mere boy!” and ”Sick 'em!” His belt was undone, hanging like a rattlesnake.

”Oh, I-I-” I stuttered. ”I-”

”Are you dying?” Her face was pale green in the light, seal slick. Fine gold hairs stuck to her temples in question marks and exclamation points. ”No,” I said. ”Are you planning to die anytime soon?” ”No-” ”Then what are you bothering me for? What am I, your f.u.c.king mother?”

She turned on her heel, slammed the door, and locked it.

”What a b.i.t.c.hy s.l.u.t,” said a Hispanic woman reapplying liquid eyeliner at the sink, her top lip stretched tight over her teeth like Saran Wrap over leftovers. ”That your friend?”

I nodded, somewhat dazed.

”You kick her s.k.a.n.ky a.s.s.”

There were times, to my infinite horror, Leulah disappeared, too, for fifteen, sometimes twenty, minutes into GIRLS (Beatrice had come a long way in seven hundred years; so had Annabel Lee) and afterward, she and Jade both sported pleased, even conceited looks on their faces, as if, in that handicapped stall they believed they'd single-handedly come to the last digit of pi, discovered who killed Kennedy, found the Missing Link. (From the looks of some the guys they brought in with them, maybe they had.) ”Blue should try it,” Leulah said once on the drive home.

”No way” way” Jade said. ”You have to be a pro.” Jade said. ”You have to be a pro.”

Obviously, I wanted to ask them what they thought they were doing, but I sensed they didn't care to know what Robard Neverovich, the Russian who'd volunteered in more than 234 American runaway shelters, wrote in Kill Me Kill Me (1999) or his follow-up account of his trip to Thailand to investigate the child p.o.r.n industry, (1999) or his follow-up account of his trip to Thailand to investigate the child p.o.r.n industry, Wanting It All, All At Once Wanting It All, All At Once (2003). It was evident Jade and Leulah were doing just fine, thank you, and certainly didn't need the feedback of a girl who stands ”deaf and dumb when some dude wants to buy her a hurricane,” who ”wouldn't know what to do with a guy if she had a manual with ill.u.s.trations and an interactive CD-rom.” But at the same time, as scared as I was every time one of them vanished, afterward, when we were back in the Mercedes; when they were howling over some scab they'd taken into GIRLS together, who'd emerged from that handicapped stall with a sort of madness and, as we walked outside, chased after them shouting, ”Cammie! Ashley!” (the names on their fake IDs) before the bouncer threw him down like a sack of potatoes; when Jade was speeding back to her house, crisscrossing between semis and Leulah screamed for no reason, head back, hair tangling around the headrest, her arms reaching out of the sunroof as if grabbing at the tiny stars sticking to the sky and picking them off like lint, I noticed there was something incredible about them, something brave, that no one in my immediate recollection had written about-not really. (2003). It was evident Jade and Leulah were doing just fine, thank you, and certainly didn't need the feedback of a girl who stands ”deaf and dumb when some dude wants to buy her a hurricane,” who ”wouldn't know what to do with a guy if she had a manual with ill.u.s.trations and an interactive CD-rom.” But at the same time, as scared as I was every time one of them vanished, afterward, when we were back in the Mercedes; when they were howling over some scab they'd taken into GIRLS together, who'd emerged from that handicapped stall with a sort of madness and, as we walked outside, chased after them shouting, ”Cammie! Ashley!” (the names on their fake IDs) before the bouncer threw him down like a sack of potatoes; when Jade was speeding back to her house, crisscrossing between semis and Leulah screamed for no reason, head back, hair tangling around the headrest, her arms reaching out of the sunroof as if grabbing at the tiny stars sticking to the sky and picking them off like lint, I noticed there was something incredible about them, something brave, that no one in my immediate recollection had written about-not really.

I doubted I I could write about it either, being ”the total flat tire in any bar or club,” except that they seemed to inhabit a completely different world than the one I did -a world that was hilarious, without repercussion or revolting neon light or stickiness or rug b.u.m, a world in which they ruled. could write about it either, being ”the total flat tire in any bar or club,” except that they seemed to inhabit a completely different world than the one I did -a world that was hilarious, without repercussion or revolting neon light or stickiness or rug b.u.m, a world in which they ruled.

There was one night that wasn't like the others.

”This is it, Hurl,” Jade said. ”The night that will change your everything.”

It was the first Friday of November and Jade had gone to considerable lengths to pick out my outfit: four-inch malevolent gold sandals two sizes too big and a gold lame dress that rippled all over me like a Sharpei (see ”Traditional Wife's Bound Feet,” History of China, History of China, Ming, 1961, p. 214; ”Darcel,” Ming, 1961, p. 214; ”Darcel,” Remembering ”Solid Gold ” Remembering ”Solid Gold ”LaVitte, 1989, p. 29).

It was one of the rare occasions someone at the Blind actually approached me-a me-a guy in his thirties named Larry, heavy as a keg of beer. He was attractive only in the way of a seriously unfinished Michelangelo sculpture. There were tiny patches of remarkable detail in his delicate nose, full lips, even in his large, well-molded hands, but the rest of him-shoulders, torso, legs-had not been liberated from the raw slab of marble, nor would they be any time soon. He'd bought me an Amstel Light and stood close to me while he talked about quitting smoking. It had been the most difficult thing he'd ever done in his life. ”Patch is the greatest thing medical science's come up with. They should use that technology for everything. Don't know 'bout you, but I got no problem eatin' and drinkin' with the patch. Days you're really busy. 'Stead of fast food, ya stick on the patch. Half hour later? You're full. We could all have guy in his thirties named Larry, heavy as a keg of beer. He was attractive only in the way of a seriously unfinished Michelangelo sculpture. There were tiny patches of remarkable detail in his delicate nose, full lips, even in his large, well-molded hands, but the rest of him-shoulders, torso, legs-had not been liberated from the raw slab of marble, nor would they be any time soon. He'd bought me an Amstel Light and stood close to me while he talked about quitting smoking. It had been the most difficult thing he'd ever done in his life. ”Patch is the greatest thing medical science's come up with. They should use that technology for everything. Don't know 'bout you, but I got no problem eatin' and drinkin' with the patch. Days you're really busy. 'Stead of fast food, ya stick on the patch. Half hour later? You're full. We could all have s.e.x s.e.x with the patch too. Sure save everyone a lot of time and energy. What's yer name?” with the patch too. Sure save everyone a lot of time and energy. What's yer name?”

”Roxanne Kaye Loomis.” ”What do you do, Roxy?” ”I attend Clemson University with a major in engineering. I'm from Dukers, N.C. Also an organ donor.” Larry nodded and took a long drink of his beer, s.h.i.+fting his heavy body toward me so my leg pressed against his chunky one. I took a tiny step in the only other possible direction, b.u.mping into the back of a girl with th.o.r.n.y blond hair.

” 'Scuse you,” she said. I tried stepping back in the other direction but effigy-Larry was there. I was a piece of hard candy stuck in a throat. ”Where do you see yourself in, say, twenty years?” I asked. He didn't answer. In fact, he looked as if he didn't speak English any was a piece of hard candy stuck in a throat. ”Where do you see yourself in, say, twenty years?” I asked. He didn't answer. In fact, he looked as if he didn't speak English any more. He was losing alt.i.tude, and fast. It was like the afternoon Dad and I parked the Volvo station wagon a few meters from the end of the airport runway in Luton, Texas, and spent an hour sitting on the hood, eating pimento cheese sandwiches and watching the planes land. Watching the planes was like floating in the depths of the ocean and observing a 105-foot Blue Whale drift over you, but unlike the private jets, the airbuses, and the 747s, Larry actually crashed. His lips. .h.i.t my teeth and his tongue darted into my mouth like a tadpole escaping from a jar. He slapped a hand onto my chest, squeezing my right breast like a lemon over dover sole.

”Blue?” I tore myself away. Leulah and Jade stood next to me. ”We're blowing this joint,” Jade said. Larry shouted (a markedly unenthusiastic ”Wait a minute, Roxy!”), but I didn't turn around. I followed them outside to the car. ”Where are we going?” ”To see Hannah,” Jade said flatly. ”By the way, Retch, what's up with your taste in men? That guy was fugly.” didn't turn around. I followed them outside to the car. ”Where are we going?” ”To see Hannah,” Jade said flatly. ”By the way, Retch, what's up with your taste in men? That guy was fugly.”

Lu was staring at her apprehensively, her green Bellmondo prom dress sagging open at the neck in a permanent yawn. ”I don't think it's a good idea.”

Jade made a face. ”Why not?”

”I don't want her to see us,” Lu said.

Jade yanked on her seatbelt. ”We'll take another car. Jefferson's boyfriend's. His heinous Toyota's in our driveway.”

”What's going on?” I asked.

”We'll probably b.u.mp into Charles,” Jade said, ignoring me, glancing at Lu as she jammed the key in the ignition and started the car. ”He'll be wearing camouflage and those night-vision goggle things.”

Lu shook her head. ”He's with Black on a double date. Soph.o.m.ores.”

Jade turned around to see if I'd overheard this (a triumphantly sympathetic look on her face), then accelerated out of the parking lot, merging onto the highway and heading toward Stockton. It was a cold night, with thin, greasy clouds streaking the sky. I pulled the gold lame tight over my knees, staring at the pa.s.sing cars and Lu's fancy parenthesis profile, the taillights signaling her cheekbones. Neither of them spoke. Their silence was one of those tired adult silences, that of a married couple driving home from a dinner party, not wanting to talk about someone's husband getting too drunk or how they secretly didn't want to go home with each other but someone new, someone whose freckles they didn't know.

Forty minutes later, Jade had disappeared inside her house for the car keys-”Only be a sec”-and when she emerged, still in her rickety red sandals and firebird dress (it looked like she'd gone through the garbage at a rich kid's birthday, removed the most exotic sc.r.a.ps of wrapping paper and taped them to herself), she carried a six-pack of Heineken, two giant bags of potato chips and a pack of spaghetti licorice, one piece dangling from her mouth. Looped around her shoulder was a giant pair of binoculars.

”We're going to Hannah's house?” I asked, still confused, but Jade only ignored me again, dumping the food into the backseat of the beat-up white Toyota parked by the garage. Leulah looked furious (her lips were pulled tightly together like a fabric change purse), but without a word, she walked across the driveway, climbed into the front seat and slammed the door.

”f.u.c.k.” Jade squinted at her watch. ”We don't have much time.”

Minutes later, we were in the Toyota, merging onto the highway again, this time heading north, the opposite direction of Hannah's house. I knew it was pointless to ask where we were going; both of them had fallen into that trench-silence again, a silence so deep it was difficult and tiring to heave oneself out. Leulah stared at the road, the sputtering white lines, the drifting red sequins of the cars. Jade was more or less her usual self, though as she chewed a strand of licorice (the girl was chain-licoricing; ”Hand me another one/' she demanded three times before I wedged the packet by the emergency brake), she wouldn't stop fiddling with the radio.

We drove a half hour before swerving down Exit 42-”Cottonwood,” read the sign-barreling across the deserted two-lane road into a truck stop. A gas station was off to our left, and, in front of the eighteen-wheelers slung across the pavement like dead whales, a wooden A-framed restaurant sat glumly on bald hill. STUCKEY'S, announced the yellow letters over the entrance. Jade was slinking the Toyota between the trucks.

”See her car?” she asked.

Leulah shook her head. ”It's already 2:30. Maybe she's not coming.”

”She's coming.”

We circled the lot until Leulah tapped a fingernail on the window.

”There.” She was indicating Hannah's red Subaru; it was sandwiched between a white pickup truck and a van.

Jade swung into the next row and reversed into a spot by a bank of pine needles and the road. Leulah flung off her seatbelt, crossed her arms, and Jade blithely helped herself to another black shoelace, gnawing one end, and wrapping the other fast around her knuckles like a boxer before he puts on his gloves. Hannah's Subaru was in front of us, two lines of cars away. Across the parking lot on the hill slumped the restaurant, legally blind (three windows in the back boarded up) and seriously balding (roofing coming off in clumps). You couldn't see much in the dimmed windows-a few s.h.i.+fts of tired color, a row of green lamps hanging down like moldy showerheads - but one didn't have to go inside to know the menus were sticky, the tables seasoned with pie crumb, the waitresses crabby, the clientele beefy. One definitely had to beat the saltshaker senseless - maggot-like grains of rice visible inside-to coax out a mere speck speck of salt. (”If they can't do salt, I wonder what makes them think they can do chicken cacciatore,” Dad would say in such a place, holding the menu at a safe distance from his face in case it sprang to life.) of salt. (”If they can't do salt, I wonder what makes them think they can do chicken cacciatore,” Dad would say in such a place, holding the menu at a safe distance from his face in case it sprang to life.) I hunched forward and cleared my throat, a signal for Jade or Lu to explain what we were doing at this awful roadie watering hole (a place Dad and I would go to great distances to avoid; it wasn't unheard for us to take a twenty-mile detour simply to avoid breaking bread with ”men and women who, if one squinted, resembled piles of tires”) but when they still still said nothing (Lu, too, was stuffing her mouth with licorice now, chewing goatishly) I realized it was one of those things they couldn't put into words. Putting it into words made it real and they'd be guilty of something. said nothing (Lu, too, was stuffing her mouth with licorice now, chewing goatishly) I realized it was one of those things they couldn't put into words. Putting it into words made it real and they'd be guilty of something.

For ten minutes, the only sound was an occasional door slam-some loot-stomached trucker coming, going, starving, stuffed-and the angry hisses of the freeway. Visible through the dark trees edging the parking lot was a bridge with an endless bullet-fire of cars, red-and-white sparks shooting into the night.

”Who'll it be?” Jade asked blandly, looking through the binoculars.

Lu shrugged, chewing her licorice cud. ”Don't know.”

”Fat or skinny.”

”Skinny.”

”See, I think pork this time.”

”She doesn't like pork.”

”Yes, she does. They're her Beluga. Reserved for special occasions. Oh.” Oh.” Jade jolted forward, banging the binoculars on the winds.h.i.+eld. ”Oh, Jade jolted forward, banging the binoculars on the winds.h.i.+eld. ”Oh, f.u.c.k me f.u.c.k me . . . s.h.i.+t.” . . . s.h.i.+t.”

”What-is he a baby?”