Bleed

  “Okay,” I cave. “You can stay. But I’m padlocking the door so you can’t leave my room unless it’s through the window, and you can’t make any noise, and you can’t use any of my stuff. Got it?”

  She nods.

  I’ve let her stay here before when I’ve gone out; with the door locked, she’s safe. It’s not like anyone here notices anyway. Plus, I feel bad sending her home—somehow, her house seems even more screwed up than mine.

  Sadie takes her Game Boy out of her skirt pocket and camps out on the beanbag chair in the corner.

  “You still have that old thing?” I ask her.

  Sadie shrugs, whining something about how it was her sister’s, how her mother won’t buy her any of the new game stuff. Meanwhile, I grab my lunch box and count up all the pins, all my cuts. Eleven of them. Not bad, even if a couple were done by the same person twice.

  I’ve written all of my friends’ names on tags, even names of people I don’t hang around with that much. Slowly, each of these tags gets attached to a pin, like Kelly’s. She finally cut me after I lied and said that Derik LaPointe was spreading rumors about her—that she was a slut, and a bad one at that. Personally, I don’t know why she even cares what he thinks. Who’d want to date someone their mother fixed them up with anyway? Still, she cut me in exchange for the information—for some bogus stories that I made up. I guess everybody has a price.

  I wonder where I’ll have Nicole cut me. All last night and most of this morning I’ve psyched myself up, thinking how today she’ll finally do it. I guess listening to my mother’s Tony Robbins tapes is making me believe I can have whatever I want. Like everyone else, one of these days Nicole has to give, and when she finally does, I hope it’s a cut to my inner thigh, or my belly, or someplace like that. Though it seems easier for people to do it on my arm, like that makes a difference, like my arm is separate from the rest of me.

  It’s a little after one o’clock. I wonder where Nicole is. It’s kind of weird to be going out, just the two of us. Usually it’s always Kelly jammed in the middle of us, the filling between two pieces of bread. Except when I really need her, that is. Nicole is just one of those people who likes to help others out, who likes to try and solve everybody’s problems, including mine.

  She’s coming over because we’re supposed to be planning a welcome-home party for Kelly, who’s been away all summer at her father’s in California, but will be home in a few weeks. It was my idea to throw a party. I thought we could go to Celebrations to plan out what to buy, go back to her house for a swim, and then somewhere along the line she could finally do it.

  I wonder if she might be tied up working at the hospital. Some old geezer she delivered flowers to on her shift might have her trapped, chatting about how the good old days are now gone, gone, gone.

  I finger through the individual pins, reminiscing over each one. My ex-boyfriend James cut me twice. Once on my lower back, while we were dating, so he could tag me. The other time it was on my shoulder, just as we were breaking up, because he wanted to leave his mark.

  Then there’s Mimi from Dunkies. We used to hang out all the time when I worked there two months ago, even though Kelly always called her a ho-bag. Cutting me didn’t faze her one bit—she had burned a four-inch Celtic knot into her own upper arm—so it was really no big deal for either one of us. She didn’t so much as blink out of sequence when I told her I wanted it on my chest, right over my heart. She just did it. Sort of a waste of a pin.

  Jessie, the papergirl, was one of the first people to cut me. It was almost a year ago. She used to try and throw the rolled-up Salem News toward our front steps to avoid coming up to the door. On collection day, though, she had no choice.

  “Is it that time already?” I asked as I opened the door. She just nodded and looked down at her moccasins. “Now, let me see here.” I reached deep into my Levi’s, pretending to scrounge for a couple bucks. “I don’t think I have any money. Do you have any?”

  She didn’t answer, just kept looking down at those ridiculous beads, threaded together at the toe of her shoe in the form of an orange Indian with blue jeans.

  “You’re scared of me, aren’t you, Jessie?”

  She shook her head.

  “I don’t want you to be scared of me. I just want to be your friend. Do you want that, too?”

  She shook her head again, mouthed a tiny no.

  “That’s sad, you know that? That really hurts my feelings.”

  She shrugged.

  “So, what do you want?” I asked.

  “I want you to leave me alone.”

  “Fair enough. I’ll leave you alone. But you have to do something for me first.” She finally looked up at me as I pulled the safety pin out of my pocket. “I want you to cut me. Right here.” I pointed toward my forearm.

  “What?” she cracked out—the loudest I’d ever heard her voice. “What’s wrong with you?”

  “It’s not going to kill me or anything. I’m just doing this experiment.”

  She crinkled her eyebrows together and made a sour face. “You’re crazy!”

  To that, I grabbed at the front of her pants and pried the roll of ones and fives from her pocket. “I bet you want to cut me now.”

  “Give it back, Maria. I’ll have you arrested.”

  “And I’ll make your life hell.” I held the safely pin out to her.

  She hesitated, then took it. “Just an experiment?” she asked.

  “Exactly.”

  She held the point up to my flesh and scratched like a cat. “There.”

  “No,” I said. “The rule is, you have to make me bleed.”

  She didn’t do it right then. It took more than five full months of psyching her out, glaring at her in gym class, and throwing her impossible-to-read smiles—sometimes evil, sometimes delirious, mostly sheer cunning—as I passed her in the hallway.

  And so began my mission, making sure I was home on collection day, making sure I was the one to answer the door, to harass her, to try and make deals with her, to take her money.

  When she finally did go through with it, I kept my promise and never so much as blinked in her direction again. I kind of regretted making that promise, though. I wonder what it would be like to have a friend like Jessie, if it’d be anything like having an extra Nicole around when you need one.

  I look at the clock. It’s one thirty. Where the hell is Nicole? Sadie peeks up at me from her Game Boy, like she’s enjoying that Nicole isn’t here yet. I guess I’ll give her a call.

  The phone rings and rings, but then it’s the answering machine that picks up. She’s probably on her way, probably just running late. I hang up and glance over at my lunch box. There’s a name tag sticking out. Nicole’s. I try her number again. “Hi, Nicole,” I say, after the beep. “It’s me, Maria. I’m not even sure what time it is, but I didn’t know if we’d be going swimming after we went to the mall, and if I should have my bathing suit… . You’re probably on your way now anyway, so I guess I’ll just bring it in case. I’ve spent all day planning out Kelly’s party and can’t wait for you to hear my ideas. Okay, I guess I’ll see you soon. Bye.”

  I hang up. Leaving the message makes me feel better, like maybe she just fell asleep, and between the phone ringing and my voice on the machine, has gotten up and will be calling me back any minute to say she’ll be right over.

  I decide that when she does call, I’ll need to have that list of party ideas ready. I open up an old chem notebook and start brainstorming on the blank pages in the back.

  I’m actually excited now about the party, about telling Nicole all my ideas. I look at the clock. It’s five minutes before two. What the fuck? Why is Nicole doing this? Why hasn’t she even called?

  I turn my back to Sadie and squeeze my arm hard so that the blood oozes through the freshly crusted slit, like ketchup through used-up packets. I touch the blood, get it on my fingertips, wonder if I’ve bled at least a teaspoon altogether. I squeeze again, waiting for the blo
od to seep out just a little more. But when it doesn’t, I pick up the phone again.

  “Hi, Nicole. It’s me again. Are you home? It’s two o’clock and I don’t know where you are. You were supposed to pick me up. If you’re in the shower, give me a call when you get out. I really need to see you. I really need to talk.”

  I click the receiver off. I don’t know what I’ll tell her when she asks why I need to see her so bad or what I need to talk about. Usually all I have to do is give the slightest hint that I’m not doing well, and there she is on my doorstep with IOU tickets to Cryptic Slaughter, copies of her favorite books, or a wad of tissues to cry into.

  Unlike Kelly. Not that Kelly isn’t a good friend. We have good times together, she and I. It’s just been different ever since she cut me. Nicole has sort of been the only constant in my life; the only one I’ve ever relied on. Even though she hasn’t cut me yet.

  There’s a knock on my bedroom door.

  Luke.

  “Maria?” he calls, his head turned sideways, his spouty lips just visible through the door crack.

  “Yeah?”

  “Did you want to go down to the video store? Get those movies?”

  My skin ices over. “I don’t know. I might be going out.

  “Well, let me know, okay?”

  “Yup.”

  I pick up the phone, try Nicole’s number again. This time it’s busy. A warming relief. I try again. The machine. “Nicole? Are you there? It’s me, Maria. If you’re home, pick up. I need to talk to you. Please … it’s important. We’re supposed to go out today. Where are you?”

  I wait. And wait. And then the machine disconnects me.

  I can hear Luke pacing in the kitchen, his wingtipped shoes against the cold ceramic tiles. I try Nicole again. This time it just rings and rings.

  No machine. No Nicole. No nothing.

  “You have to leave,” I tell Sadie.

  “Why?” she asks, her eyes and thumbs still glued on the Game Boy. “If she’s not coming, why can’t we just do something?”

  “Go!” I choke out. I can feel my chest get tight, like someone’s tying it up in strings. Can feel my eyes fill up with tears.

  “Just another minute,” Sadie says, probably finishing up a level.

  “NO! NOW!”

  I think I’ve scared Sadie shitless. She pops the Game Boy back into her pocket, wrestles up from the beanbag chair, and walks toward the door without another look in my direction—a firm finger-clamp to the eyelashes; lips, rosebud tight; and cheeks, red like fireballs.

  When she leaves I tear the list of party ideas from my notebook and rip it up into a hundred tiny meaningless pieces. I open up my lunch box and take out a safety pin. I hold it between my teeth so I can take down the straps of my overalls, pull up on my T-shirt.

  And free up my belly.

  I rub my palm across the fuzzy tan skin. With the other hand I’m able to unhook the needle part from its fastener. I stare at the point. Then push it into the left side of my belly. Down, as far as I can bear to make it go. It stings so sharp; I almost have to close my eyes. But I can’t. I want to watch. I want to see everything.

  With gritted teeth and watery eyes, I glide the pin across my stomach, past my belly button, and to the other side. One long clean slit. The blood fills the crack and bubbles up at the seam. I have to pinch the flesh hard to get the blood to trickle down, toward my lap, in quick tiny teardrops.

  I sit there on the floor, squeezing, blotting, and re-squeezing, for as long as my belly will let me. Then I rip Nicole’s name tag up and toss the paper bits to the floor. Since she was never my real friend anyway.

  SATURDAY, AUGUST 12, 9:40 A.M. WEST COAST TIME, 12:40 P.M. EAST COAST TIME

  It was the way he talked about her. The way his eyes filled up, like the tears could drown you in just one blink. The way his dimpled chin trembled when he spoke. How his voice was all splintery, slivered into a million pieces—all about her, about how much he loved her and couldn’t accept that this had happened, that he had done it.

  The trial had lasted a little over two weeks. But I watched it a lot longer than that. Thanks to Court TV and my VCR, I watched every night before I went to bed and sometimes until the sky turned blue again. Some nights I just couldn’t say good-bye, couldn’t bring myself to look into those watery eyes or hear that broken voice and shut the power off. That would be like abandoning him in some way—leaving him all alone in that cold, impersonal courtroom, trapped in the TV.

  I’d play and replay the tape, noticing new things each time. Like that his hair was really dark, dark brown, rather than black like all the papers said. And that he had a Madonna-like mole on his bottom lip that moved with his mouth when he talked.

  The tape became fuzzy in parts. Parts where it was his turn to talk about Melanie. When he said how nothing else meant anything, including prison, or death, or whatever else they might do to him, if he couldn’t see her every day, if she couldn’t read him one of her poems.

  I just never knew someone could love that much.

  I look over at the armchair in the corner of my room. My clothes are already laid out. My yellow sundress—the short flowy one I’m wearing in the photo I sent him; the barbell necklace Maria made me when her tongue hole stretched and she upgraded to a size six (not the classiest piece of jewelry, but she said it was for luck and it looks kind of cool); my strappy black sandals with the two-inch heels (so I’ll be tall enough to talk to him and not feel like I’m five). The same heels that have the straps that cut into my skin and make blisters—a necessary sacrifice.

  And my new silky pink bra. I unravel it from the pink-and-white-striped paper the saleslady wrapped it in, and hold it up to my chest. They’re demi-cups, with scalloped pink sheering that borders the top, and a tiny plastic clasp in between. I hope it’s the kind he meant.

  I wore a bra kind of like this on my date with Derik LaPointe last year. Derik was this guy my mother fixed me up with, the son of some friend of hers. And while I never meant for him to see it, I kind of knew he would. And then he did.

  My date with Robby will be different.

  I manage to get the dress on, despite my fumbling fingers at the back zipper, make my way over to the mirror, and take a peek. And suddenly—even though I’ve come this far, or maybe because I’ve come this far—I feel sick. Like I can’t possibly go through with it.

  I yank the hot rollers from my hair and flop back onto the bed, pull the covers up to my middle. I think back to how this whole thing started, with just one innocent letter.

  But then there were more letters. Five and a half years’ worth. Five and a half years of him constantly asking me for my phone number. Me, forever ignoring the question. Both of us feeding into each other’s idea of fantasy and sharing our deepest secrets—how we’d meet when he got out; all of our plans for when and where; how my father lives in Santa Cruz, and isn’t that so close?

  And I never really intended any of it. Mostly.

  It’s almost ten. A lump forms in my chest. I swallow to try and dissolve it, but it feels like it’s only getting bigger.

  What if I’m not what he expects? Or … what if I’m exactly what he expects? I know he says he loves me, but will he love me in person? And could he possibly love me as much as Melanie?

  I move over to the dresser and take out the last ingredient of my outfit, the last stitch I’ve promised to wear.

  Even more important than the bra, the panties are pink and silk and two sizes too small. They’re the bikini kind that dip low in the front and have accordion-like straps on the sides. I wouldn’t normally buy a pair like this, especially because they cost nineteen dollars and give me permanent wedge, but they’re the kind he wanted. I just hope the color’s right—that the pink is pale enough, but not too light. That he doesn’t tear them the way Derik did.

  I haven’t told anyone about Robby, even though sometimes it’s practically killed me. Like when I came up with the idea for our Tuesday night smell-m
y-perfume-and-we’ll-think-of-each-other date. I so wanted to tell Nicole. It just seemed like the romantic kind of thing she’d have thought up. Or when I needed advice about whether or not I should even come to California.

  But keeping him a secret, all mine, where no one else can touch or ruin him for me, makes it better. More romantic.

  Plus, I can just imagine what Nicole would say about me pen-paling with a convicted murderer. She just wouldn’t understand. No one would understand. I even say the words aloud to myself sometimes, only to find that it sounds different in the air, out my mouth, so far from my heart.

  I unpin the price tag and slip the panties on. The seams cut into my cheeks and thighs, as do the accordion straps at my hips. I wonder if maybe Melanie might have had a pair just like them; if she was ever scared of Robby, or just drawn to his excitement. Or maybe it was a little of both.

  I try to imagine what she was thinking that day, her fifteenth birthday, just after the family party, when he suggested they take a walk up that dirt path behind the school to talk. If she played the whole breakup speech over in her head before she actually said it.

  If she even saw the rock coming.

  Standing at the mirror, I try to concentrate on my face, on putting on my makeup. My lipstick—Fuzzy Peach #9. But there are other faces I can’t seem to blot out of my mind. Faces of the jury when the lawyers showed the rock, still stained with Melanie’s blood. When the pictures of her head were flipped in front of them. This one woman, sitting to the right. Her cheeks, bubbling up and then exploding into a thousand puffs, like she couldn’t breathe, like she was going to pass out.

  There are hives dotted across my chest like navigational points. I need to breathe, to relax. Robby would never hurt me. He served his time. He paid for his mistakes. Plus, it was an accident. I’ve thought so all along. An accident. I remind myself of these things all the way down the stairs and into the kitchen for breakfast. Only, I can’t possibly eat.