Dyed souls, p.14
Dyed Souls, page 14
“We’re gonna get caught. Besides, don’t you have a home pass to go on?”
Margo stiffens.
“Is what happened to your dad why you never want to go home?”
“It’s got nothing to do with that!”
“What then?”
Margo pushes me away and starts grabbing at her clothes.
“Why are you so mad?”
“Because I don’t want to talk about any of this shit!”
“You have to!”
“Why?”
“’Cause we played tag!”
“Fucking don’t make you the boss of me!”
“I’m not saying I’m the boss of you!”
“So, what’s fucking got to do with it?”
“’Cause it means we’re closer than anyone else in the whole world, and we can tell each other anything!”
Margo gets up and starts pacing. “So you think fucking means you get to own a piece of me? Fine! You wanna know the real reason why I don’t wanna go home?
Something tells me I’m not ready for what’s coming next, but I can’t turn back now.
“Yeah,” I say warily.
“Fine. After my dad got killed, my mom was kind of losing it, you know? She started drinking all the time, and forgetting to feed us, ’n’ shit. And then she meets this…this piece of shit!”
She kicks at the ground, cutting her foot; but it’s like she doesn’t even feel it.
I try to go to her, but she points a finger of warning at me.
“You asked for this, Bambi.”
“I know,” I say, groping for anything that will bring Margo back to me. “I mean, I know what that’s like—my mom’s a drunk and all.” I’ve never said that out loud before.
“Really, yo? So, you think you’ve been where I’ve been, Bambi?”
“I’m just saying…”
“Does your mom come into your room and fuck you too?”
“What?”
“Are your ears painted on, white boy?” A tiny droplet of blood forms where she’s bitten her lip—just like you’d see at the end of a thorn. “It don’t matter though,” Margo says, putting on a crazy-fake smile.
A million things go through my mind, but all I can do is stare back at her.
“I…uh”
“I…uh,” she mocks. “You’re a real fucking genius, yo!”
“Can’t you say something to your mom?”
“I tried that once. She called me a lying little bitch and smacked me across my face.”
“But, Margo, you have to tell somebody! The staff, your social worker, somebody!”
“Yeah, right. They’ll just think I’m lying or trying to get out of something. Or worse, they’ll throw his ass in jail, and my mom will hate my ass forever. No thanks.”
“I don’t like him hurting you like that, Margo.” I can feel my hands ball up into tight fists. “Not one bit!”
“Well, there’s nothin’ you can do about it. And you better not go blabbing to anyone, white boy, or there ain’t no more you and me!”
“But Margo…”
“Fuck, yo! Don’t you see? It’s just some cock and jizz. He’s so lame, it don’t take no more than a minute anyways. You can put up with a minute of anything if you have to. Besides, I just go off, you know?” she says, pointing to her head. “I just pretend I’m fucking somebody I like, or I’m doing some scene in a movie.”
Margo’s eyes suddenly go dim, just like at the time-out table.
“This guy once made a video of him and me doing it, and I have to say I looked pretty damn good. I’d be great being a movie star, you know? Lots of money, and everyone’s gotta kiss your ass, ’n’ shit. The best part is, you’re the one calling the shots. People gotta do what you say, and you don’t have to take any bullshit from nobody.” Her expression changes to sadness, and she turns away. “I probably make you want to puke, huh?”
I do want to puke, but not for the reason she thinks. I place my hands on her shoulders, but she flinches.
“Come on, let’s get busted. I don’t care if I get a month. I don’t want you going home—not now, not ever!”
“I gotta to go.”
“No, you don’t!”
“Yes, I do.”
“Why?”
“Because. I got a letter from my sister.”
“So?”
“So? Don’t you be saying so! He’s trying to fuck her now, that’s what’s ‘so’!”
“But Margo…”
“She’s not tough like me, Charlie! I can just laugh in his face, but my little meja…”
“Margo, this isn’t right!”
“Don’t you get it, dundo? If he’s doing me, he ain’t doing her!”
“So, what does he do when you’re here?”
I knew right when I said it that I was going to wish that I hadn’t for the rest of my life.
“If I’m stuck here, then there ain’t nothing I can do about it, is there!” Margo grabs her clothes and tears down the hill. I catch up to her and try to hold her still.
“It’s you and me, okay? No matter what.”
What am I saying? I don’t want that fucking bastard anywhere near her! But I can’t figure out what else to do.
I turn her toward me, sweeping her hair from her face. Margo looks up at me. She looks just like the Richardsons’ dog when he fell through the ice—right before he realized that none of us was going to be able to get to him in time. Her eyes are searching for something to grab hold of, but instead I just stand there naked and empty-handed.
“You’re my sweet Bambi,” she says sadly, before turning and running down the hill.
I lie on my bed, scarcely breathing. I play “Spirit in the Night,” but instead of replaying it like I usually do, I let the tape run. When the first strands of “Mary, Queen of Arkansas” begin to play, I bury my face into my pillow and start crying.
17
I See a Darkness
At first light, I try sneaking over to Margo’s cottage but am stopped in my tracks by the sight of Millie, who’s standing by the open kitchen window. Her sleeves are covered in a light dusting of flour, and each pinch of the pie she’s turning feels like it’s sealing Margo’s fate. So, I’m confined to sitting beside the front window, hoping that the sight of me will make Margo come to her senses.
It’s not long before a beat-up canary-yellow Chevy enters the circle and pulls up next to her cottage. The engine cuts off with a knock and a ping, taking the mariachi music it was playing with it.
Under a shroud of early-morning clouds, Margo comes out carrying a little suitcase. She’s decked out in black T-shirt and jeans, and around her neck is a knotted black bandanna. Her face is plastered white as talc, and a thick layer of dark-green eye shadow covers her eyes. Her mouth is tarred shut with black lipstick and does not move.
Millie just stands by the kitchen door, smiling and waving. I’m wondering if she’s really this stupid, or if Margo has tormented her so much that she’s secretly enjoying knowing what’s coming.
When her stepfather sees her, he opens the car door and oozes out from under the steering wheel. He waddles to the trunk, smearing his long, greasy black hair behind his ears, while stuffing a half-smoked cigar under his mustache. His basketball-sized head pivots from side to side like a thief who’s trying to make a clean getaway. He takes her suitcase and tries to give her a hug, but instead of hugging him back, Margo stiffens. Fucking bastard! At least snakes have the decency to go straight about their business; they don’t go cozying up before they do their dirty work.
I don’t know why I do it, but I get up close to the slider and slap the glass hard with my open palms; loud enough to make Margo jump and that fat pig to glance over.
Margo walks to the passenger side and gets in. Her step-shit squeezes his belly back behind the steering wheel and starts the car. As he turns the car around the circle, he looks straight at me and tosses his cigar in my direction. Margo never turns her head; she just stares straight out the windshield.
Tires crush gravel. There is a fading rumble—and Margo is gone.
I feel a tiny hand on my hip.
“Whowasthatman with Margo?” Walter asks.
“Her stepfather,” I say, through clenched teeth.
“Helookslikean asshole,” Walter says.
I put my arm around Walter’s shoulders. I figure he’s seen enough assholes in his life to be able to spot one right off the bat.
He looks up at me with sorrowful eyes. “You likeher, huh?”
I don’t say anything.
“She actstough butshe’snice. She’s alotlikeyou. You’d makea nicecouple.”
I just stand there with tears streaming down my face, choking on the words that always fail me.
18
Unnatural Selection
Daemons fill every corner of my head. I can’t stop imagining what that fat bastard is doing to Margo. Worse, I keep replaying how Margo wanted to get busted, and all I did was shove her into that filthy pig’s clutches.
I stare at the mountains, trying to make sense of what she said. But none of what Margo said makes any sense to me. I know Darwin says that for an animal to survive, it has to adapt to the new challenges that it faces in its environment, but this couldn’t possibly be what he meant. Margo thinks she’s saving her sister, but what she’s doing doesn’t make any more sense than the things my mom does. How can letting yourself be raped, or drinking yourself stupid, or having sex for money help anyone survive? And what about Kenny and Nick going off, and Billy torturing animals, and Tyrone getting BJs from Ron, and Frankie doing what he does to the little guy? How does that help them to survive? And yet, they do. For some twisted reason, they all survive. That’s what this place should really be called: The Children’s Home for the Survival of the Unfit. When it comes down to it, everyone here, including me, are crazy byproducts of unnatural selection.
And I’m no better than anyone else. How could I just stand by and let horrible things happen to people I’m supposed to love? How does that help anyone’s chances for survival—including my own?
If I don’t get out of this cottage, I’m going to go raving mad. I race through my chores and then ask Ted for my spyglass.
“Be back for lunch,” Ted says, relocking the cabinet. “Remember: nature is a great place to invite your inner child to come out and play.”
“Bite my cock,” I say under my breath.
“What?”
“I said, right you are!”
“Oh…good.”
How can anyone be such a fucking douchebag?
I head up to the corral, not knowing whether to cry or hit something. When Breezy sees me, he ambles toward me, but after a quick frisk, he turns his head, and with a flick of his tail, he walks away. Even Breezy knows I’m useless.
I head to the back of the corral and try to settle in among the sagebrush, but I see Margo everywhere. This was the place we called our own. But now it’s like Carthage after the Romans salted the fields.
I pick up the spyglass and, through the tears in my eyes, finally see what I’m looking for: the main road that leads out of this place. Go down the canyon, hang a left at the valley floor, and go straight for twenty-five hundred miles, and we’d be there. We’d be safe in Virginia. I could show Margo the snow, and the ocean, and all the other things she’s never seen—and we could leave all of these terrible things behind.
I peer at the road again, hoping to see Margo trudging her way up the hill after giving her step-pig the slip. I can’t wait to tell her my plan…
A tap on my shoulder makes me nearly jump out of my own skin.
“Sorry, dude,” Javier says. “I called three times, but you didn’t hear me.”
“It’s okay,” I say, trying to regain my composure.
“What’s up, yo? When I saw you at breakfast, you looked like a fucking zombie.”
I can’t tell him anything that’s going on. I promised.
“I’ve been thinking,” I say, trying to feel him out.
“I don’t like the sound of that,” he says with a laugh. “What about?”
“You know…like, with my mom, and some other people I know.”
“Yeah?” he says, sidling next to me.
“I was just thinking about how they do things that they think are helping, but all they end up doing is hurting themselves. It’s like the wires in their heads got crossed up—so bad means good, and wrong means right.” I wait, figuring I’ve done my usual shitty job of explaining things, when I see him nodding his head.
“So, how do you help them?” Javier asks, like he’s read my mind. He takes a deep breath. “I don’t know anything about any wires, man, but I know what you’re saying. I grew up with people who talked about la familia all the time, you know? How important it is. How nothing else matters. But it turns out that it was all just a bunch of words—something that people say over and over again, like just by saying it, it will somehow make it real. But I believed it, man. I swallowed it, hook, line, sinker, pole—everything.” Javier plucks at a long piece of dry grass and puts it in his mouth. “I can’t tell you how many times I tried getting the people in my family to stop doing the crazy shit they did so we could actually be a family. But, you know what? No matter how hard you try, you can’t stop someone from fucking up their lives if they don’t want to. Maybe it is screwed-up wiring. Like you said, it’s like they’ve got themselves backed into this corner that they can’t get out of without doing something crazy. They’re so convinced they gotta do what they gotta do, that nothing you say is going to change their minds. Even when they are drowning in a pool of their own shit, they still think they gotta stay in the pool. And no matter what you say, they ain’t gonna listen to a word of it.”
“I think that’s why I like animals more than people. What they do makes sense. But people…”
“I’m right there with you, yo. But that’s not even the worst part. If you try too hard to help them, they’ll just pull you right into the shit with them. You think you’re throwing them a lifeline, but what you’re really doing is tying an anchor around your own neck.” He spits the grass out and runs his tongue over where the grass used to be. “All I know, yo, is that you gotta know when to cut it loose.”
“My grandfather says that there’s always a reason for everything. And if you know the reason, then you can figure things out.”
“I don’t know, man. I thought I knew the reasons behind everything. I got all political, ’n’ shit and thought all my family’s problems were because we were poor, and if you just took money from rich people, and gave it to the poor people—you know, sort of evened things out—it would make all of the bad shit go away. But you know what? My tios and tias in Agua Caliente are poorer than shit, and they are way happier than we are. And they didn’t do any of the crazy shit my family did.” Javier takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly.
“Here’s the thing, yo: you gotta start worrying about yourself, you know? Think about what you’ve gotta do for you.”
“But what if…you know.”
“Yeah, I know. You and me, we got a problem. We don’t know how to let go. But if people can’t figure shit out for themselves, then there ain’t jack you can do about it. The more I think about it, the more I think we gotta start worrying about ourselves. The more time we spend trying to do things for everybody else, the less time we’re gonna have to turn our own shit around.”
“Yeah, but you aren’t like that,” I say. “I seen you with Larry and Nick. You do stuff for other people all the time…”
“You don’t get it, yo. I don’t do it for them. I do it to keep from drowning in my own shit.” Javier sighs, and then puts his hand on my shoulder. “Come on, man. The van is leaving in ten minutes. We’re going to Huntington Beach. You should come with us and take your mind off things. You can watch everyone freak out when they see our van. It’ll be funny, yo. Besides, there’s nothing you can do until she gets back from home pass.”
Just when I’m wondering how it is that some people can see right through me, even when I think I’m being clever, a thought flashes into my brain.
“There is something I’ve gotta do first.”
Javier doesn’t say anything. He just gives me a big brotherly smile, but there is a sadness in it just the same.
I put on my usual act with Ted, and he arranges for me to stay at Margo’s cottage. After I settle in, Millie goes to the staff room to start writing in her logbook.
This is my chance.
“Millie, can I talk to you?”
She looks up, surprised. “What is it, Charles?”
“Did you notice anything funny about Margo’s stepfather?”
Millie turns in her seat and stiffens. “What do you mean?”
“He looked kind of funny, don’t you think?”
“I’m not sure what you’re getting at.”
“Don’t you think there was something about him that isn’t right?”
Millie puts down the logbook. But rather than being concerned, she looks annoyed.
“You know, Charles, it’s important not to judge people simply because they look or act differently. Did you know that I’m part Mexican on my mother’s side?”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“What I am saying is, just because people dress differently, or speak with an accent, or have a different color skin than yours, doesn’t mean there is something ‘wrong’ with them.”
“I know that!” I can feel anger rising up within me like a geyser. “But don’t you think there was something about him that wasn’t normal?”
“Charles,” she interrupts, “Just because someone comes from a different culture doesn’t give you the right to judge them. Besides, right and wrong, normal and abnormal—all these things are relative terms. Perhaps you should attend the cultural sensitivity workshop that I’m giving at school next week…”
