Dodging Trains Read online

  “So the city director of law becomes the mayor for the remainder of his term. He’s a good person, Rob,” Mom says and scoots another draft across the counter at the crook of his finger.

  “Thanks. You’re putting it on my tab, right?”

  “Yes, but this is the last one. It’s the end of the month, darling, and time to pay up.”

  New hiss from Rob. “It’s like the new guy’s celebrating Cyril’s death now. What the heck, Margaret. The rest of the country must think Rigita’s nuts.”

  “Cyril died two months ago,” Mom soothes him. “We wanted a party, a real inauguration. We even voted on whether or not we wanted it. You know this.”

  “I think he’ll be good too,” I chime in, my statement upsetting my stomach. “And we did grieve over Cyril. That was a big funeral.”

  Mom’s fellow bartender, Cindy, glares at me. I’m used to it. Women in this town hate me. They complain about me sleeping with their men, but if they asked, I’d tell them it wouldn’t happen without their men needing me.

  “Miss Know-It-All,” Cindy mutters, surprising me. Then again, if she spoke to customers the way she did to me in high school, the owner would fire her.

  I respond by sliding a slow look over a preppy boy who started frequenting Ivy’s Café a week ago. Cindy’s been eyeing him. She’s too shy and not much of a looker as they say, so why not? Payback rocks.

  “They took over the Coral Mansion,” Rob informs us, still scowling.

  “Duh, Robert,” Cindy retorts, mad at me for eye-flirting with Preppy Boy and taking it out on Rob. “It’s where the mayor lives.”

  “Yeah, but Cyril’d lived there for a decade, and that’s just not right.”

  “Well, he lived there because he was the mayor for a decade,” another, more patient customer says. “And Cyril doesn’t need a house anymore. Does the new mayor have little ones?”

  “He doesn’t.” Mom pushes a dishrag over the trails of beer Rob leaves on the counter. The man never uses his coaster. “Ulises and Silvia are my age and have one grown son. I doubt he’ll be moving back to Rigita.”

  “Yeah,” I add, swallowing a small tremble in my throat. “He’s a mixed martial arts fighter, and his name is Keyon.”

  It’s the second day of the first year of high school. Girls are tall and pretty, and boys short and ugly. One boy is shorter than the others and pretty like the girls with long, pitch-black curls. His eyes are round and golden, too golden, and the boys don’t like him for it.

  “Fag!” they shout at him during the breaks, a new word I ask Mom about at night. “Don’t look at me, fag!”

  He’s in my homeroom, spine ramrod straight in the seat next to me. He doesn’t meet my eyes the first days we’re in the same school, but I see the defiance in them from the side. I pass him notes. Later, I whisper that they’re the fags though Mom never explained what it meant. On the fifth day, Keyon enlightens me on the way home from school.

  “They’re jerks. They’re saying I like guys, not girls.”

  I blush because I like him. I also like his long hair, his eyes, his skin that’s a little bit brown. “Do you?”

  He looks up. Meets my stare with as much hate as he bores into his tormentors at school. “Hell no! I love chicks. I wouldn’t touch a guy with a fucking knife.”

  “Good,” I whisper low, because I didn’t mean to upset him. And I don’t want him to prefer boys to me.

  His laugh is rich and clucking, a funny laugh I know from raspberry lollipops and backyard swings. I peek up from the sidewalk.

  “You’re right,” he says. “It would’ve been bad if I touched someone with a knife.”

  That’s true, and his mood change is contagious. Soon we’re both cracking up. “Rule number one,” I manage through our fit. “Don’t touch people with knives.”

  We would have kept laughing if Tyler’s gritty voice hadn’t interrupted us. “Oh my, if it isn’t our little homo. Are you done grooming your girly-curls and now you’re getting ready to pick up a dude? Paislee, what’re you doing with that loser?”

  “Stop it, Tyler. Keyon isn’t a—”

  “Fag! Loser! I’ll mash in your pretty-girl face,” Aaron interrupts, passing Tyler and socking Keyon in the mouth.

  I don’t register Keyon’s moan as much as the shriek ringing in my ears. It’s loud and disturbing, and it comes from me.

  “What’s your problem?” I scream. Keyon’s knees fold under him on the asphalt. He covers his mouth, blood sliding around his fingers like Halloween rings. We’re on Cider Street, a busy street, a miracle no one sees us. Tyler and Aaron must realize, because they run off, hooting.

  I tattle to Mom.

  Mom tattles to Keyon’s mom.

  Keyon’s mom tattles to his dad, who tattles to the principal.

  The principal suspends Aaron and Tyler for a week, and when they return, it’s with a vengeance.

  “Hey. I’ve been watching you. You come here often, don’t you?” Preppy Boy sidles up next to me as Ivy’s fills with thirsty Wednesday night regulars, keeping the waitresses busy.

  I don’t swing toward him. Instead I turn my head slightly and brush my chin against my shoulder. With my lashes lowered, I gaze at him playfully. Preppy Boy gets that look on his face, the one telling me I can rule him tonight.

  “And you like what you see?” I ask, surprising him. I feel the smirk on my face grow at the awkward pause while he rummages for a reply.

  “Maybe,” he finally counters. It’s lame, and I let it slide. “So I’ve just moved here from Atlanta, and— It’s for AT&T.” He straightens on the stool, proud. “I’m in charge of setting up the new office down on Cider Street.”

  “That’s you?” I say, impish, because it’s hard to muster impressed when you’re not. I don’t care about status or money.

  “Yeah, that’s me.” He clears his throat, misinterpreting my response, and I play into it.

  “The Boss, huh?” I flirt.

  He laughs, scratching his baby-bottom-clean neck. I think I see a blush growing up his cheeks. “Ha, you could say that.”

  “Nice. I’m honored, Mr. Boss-man.”

  “Aaron Jones,” he says, stretching out a hand. After my last film clip, Aaron isn’t a good name, so I don’t memorize it.

  “I’m Paislee.”

  It’s late by the time I say my goodbyes at the café. Mom waves. Tries to ignore that AT&T Guy leaves with me. We’ve been through this. She knows she doesn’t get to make choices for me. Back when she could have, she was too busy picking up the pieces of her own sanity after the divorce. I don’t blame her for taking a few years’ vacation from being a mother. I’d have done the same thing, I’m sure.

  Note to self: never have kids.

  “I had a good time tonight,” AT&T says at my side, and I realize he’s still trudging alongside me. Something to be said for that when a girl isn’t paying attention.

  I look at my watch. Twelve. I have to get up early for work.

  “Me too,” I say sweetly.

  “You wanna come to my place for a, um, nightcap?” Despite his meticulous grooming and his baby face, he doesn’t seem practiced in the pickup department.

  I do my regular bit, check in on my feelings.

  The street we’re on is gloomy. Though I hate the cold, I like it better when snow falls, softening the night and leaving a blanket of hope on the ground. The darkness turns less dark that way. I clamp down on sucked-in lips, verifying that I don’t feel content.

  “Where do you live?” I ask.

  He answers quickly. “After Yellow Pub, it’s the first corner if you know where I mean?” AT&T points down the street. Of course I do. I walk past Yellow Pub every day to get home from Ivy’s, and only by two blocks. Things are looking up for the boy.

  I do another check. Imagine what it’ll be like to return to my apartment. Old-Man doesn’t live in his kingdom of mirrors, and the falafel place owners don’t either. It’s just me there. Will loneliness flood me tonigh
t? Will it make me think of railway stations, of World War II trains, or will I fall asleep before I get that far?

  AT&T’s hand settles on the small of my back as he alerts me to a puddle. The gesture is considerate, and from within his spineless appearance, he makes me less forlorn and afraid of the dark.

  “Thanks,” I say. “A small nightcap won’t hurt, I guess.”

  “Sure won’t,” he agrees, a smile plumping his cheeks.

  An hour later, I’m out of my shower. I rub my hair dry and lock the dark lengths in a fresh towel before I go to bed. Then I warm myself on the film clip of the last sixty minutes. Quick but pleasant, AT&T seemed new to one-night stands, but attentive and letting me rule him the way I needed.

  “What’s your poison?” AT&T asks, holding a well-stocked fridge door open like it’s a weaponry cabinet.

  “I’ll take a Diet Coke.”

  “Here you go. Sorry about the mess,” he apologizes. I laugh softly. The apartment screams “tidy man.”

  “Have a seat?” His is a question, maybe because I show no such inclination.

  “Where’s your bedroom?”

  The sound isn’t there, but his chest sucks in surprised air. Cute. “Speak up if I’m talking too fast, honey,” I say. Poor guy blushes. Goodness, he’s too much.

  I help him off with his clothes, and he’s so ready it looks painful. His Adam’s apple trembles with every swallow as if he can’t believe his luck.

  It’s turning me on. Doesn’t matter that he’s got baby fat going around his belly, that his arms are working-stiff skinny and his shoulders are rounding and not from workouts.

  He has a nice happy-trail, one of my weaknesses. I stroke my way down it, making him shiver with anticipation. I bite my lip and wink at him. He smiles a weak smile back, fingers digging into the bed at his sides as he watches me.

  God, I love their groans when I take them in my mouth. I do that to him a little bit, before I let go to undress. He watches me hungrily but doesn’t dare to move. I know what he’s thinking, and I love this game so much.

  He’s afraid to break the spell, because maybe I’ll reconsider and run off. I could too—I really could—and he wouldn’t stop me. Men are good people. They aren’t bastards. Numbers speak volumes, and only that one time, only then and never again, have they been evil.

  I’m here now, enjoying this. I’m warm, craving to connect with him.

  “Do you have condoms?” I ask though I’m always prepared. I’ve got a package in my purse. It’s just an awkward power game, perfect for tonight.

  “Yes! Sorry, what was I thinking?” he whispers, his stomach tightening as he sits up and gets off the bed. He returns quickly. Scrambles to open the foil. When he’s done, he takes in my curves. Reaches out and touches my waist. Besides the one move, he has no plan, so I tip him to the bed and climb up over him. Rub myself against his belly to enjoy the friction and feel him hard and nudging against my behind. He groans, which I like.

  “You ready?” I ask him the way some guys ask me. AT&T looks like he needs reassurance, like he needs to be warned.

  “Uh-huh,” he squeaks. That Adam’s apple bobs thickly again.

  “Okay, you asked for it,” I tease, hold him still, and pop him inside of me.

  “Shit,” he wheezes, angling his chin up so the back of his head digs into the pillow when I sink down on him.

  “You like it?” I’m so in charge. I’m on top of the world, ruling every man’s desire, every man’s lust because I want to, not because I have to.

  “God, yes.”

  I stretch in bed, smiling. AT&T was fun. He came fast too, but then he serviced me, which was nice. Someone had taught him well back in Atlanta.

  Afterward, he mentioned the movies, dates, and I was honored. So nice of him, but I’ve been through this before.

  Small-town gossip will get to AT&T. He might be rosy-eyed now, but it won’t last long. At first, he’ll be surprised when he learns my treatment of him wasn’t special, that I’ve been with half the virile guys in town over eighteen. For a minute, he’ll still think we’ve got something special, and he might even take me out on that public date.

  He’d soon understand that I’m an outcast and not someone he should be associated with. There are no whores in Rigita, but Rigita does have me, the town slut.

  I can’t complain. My curves do wonders for me. My face, my eyes, my lips, my hair. I’ve heard it all from every male; they love different parts of me, being with me, being in me. They come back and back, and they know better than to give me money. At times I do accept gifts though.

  Some men are polite. Others don’t meet my eyes when we pass in public. The worst ones stare straight at me, upper lip curled in a silent snarl.

  I’m used to every variety. It rarely hurts anymore. But when the most hostile of them text me for “hugs” more than the others, I can’t deny that it surprises me.

  I want to fall asleep on a good thought. I think of the wonder in AT&T’s gaze when I went down on him without being asked. It morphed into gratefulness as I rasped my teeth over his member and made pleasure shudder up his spine.

  When I wake up with the morning light teasing my eyes, the last flash of a film clip comes from a dream—

  A smooth face on a too-thin neck, a young boy growing into a teenager. Dark waves in tousled disagreement with the mandated orderliness at school. Years ago, he raised his chin so he could keep my quivering lip within view. He wasn’t going to let me leave crying.

  “Paislee, I’m sorry, but the last months have been hell for me.”

  “I wish you’d tell me what’s going on!” I shout, and he grabs my arm hard—as hard as he grabs people he hates at school—and jerks me close to him. He’s only sixteen, but he’s strong, and he keeps getting stronger.

  Keyon used to be tiny. Now, he’s not. How tall will he be in the end? Tall is good on a guy, but it doesn’t work for him. Those muscles he’s developing don’t work for him either—Keyon is too strong. Over the last months, he’s been suspended from school several times. Anyone else would have been expelled for the blood he’s shed. If it weren’t for his lawyer dad…

  “I’ve told you!” he shouts back. “I’ve had it with the assholes, okay? The BS, the bullying. It’s over. You know I’m not the only one they do it to either.”

  “But they don’t anymore, Keyon. Now you’re the asshole.”

  Golden eyes widen as he breathes hard in front of me. Keyon is still a good person—I know this—but he needs to reel in his power. I’m the only one at school who’s not afraid of him. I’m not, because he’s my friend, and because I’m there when his lips relax from their cruel set. They can smile and be soft. They’ve kissed me.

  “They just need to stop, all right?”

  “They have stopped. You’ve been on them for months, Keyon, and not only Aaron and Tyler. You even beat up their friends.”

  He drops my arm, snorting. “Really? Don’t tell me you haven’t seen the way their fucking posse supports them while they torture people.”

  “Yeah, but they’re just followers. They’re too scared of being reprimanded to take part in stuff. Posses don’t beat people up.”

  Keyon dips his head, groaning with impatience. “I thought at least my girlfriend would have my back. You need to trust me; once I’m done teaching those jackasses manners, the school will be safe for everyone.”

  We’re both silent as his statement sinks in. I’ve known his plan and his reasoning for a while now, and we have this discussion after particularly violent fights when he’s once again avoided the teachers. Today though, the first part of his outburst is new. And it’s what I get stuck on.

  “I’m your girlfriend?” Our disagreement fizzles at this bigger issue.

  He straightens next to me. Looks away so all I can see are messy locks and a shoulder that’s filling in with muscle.

  “If you wanna.” Keyon sniffs like he doesn’t care, but he’s suddenly knotted up, arms tightening over hi
s chest while he waits for my answer.

  Wow. I could be a girlfriend. I’ve never been someone’s girlfriend. Like Melissa and Irina and the other popular girls. Just, I’d be the girlfriend of a bully.

  Paislee, the bully girlfriend.

  “Doesn’t matter to me. Either way, ya know.” He shrugs, but though his shoulders make the move, his body’s so tight, his heels might not even be on the ground. I zoom in on his feet to check. Sure enough, Keyon has tipped up on his toes, the way he used to do to seem taller when he was the shortest kid in school.

  “You’re doing it again,” I say.

  “What?” His heels meet the ground slowly—inconspicuously, he thinks.

  “Cheater.” I smile and get a quick eye-roll in response.

  “Yes or no?” he asks, suddenly brave and facing me. Keyon, my friend, who’s grown up at the speed of light. I was never one of the popular girls, and it certainly didn’t help that I started hanging out with “the fag.” My plummeting popularity is his fault, but I don’t regret it.

  They’ve stopped calling me Fag Hag. They fear me because I’m the bully’s friend. The last time anyone called me names was six months ago.

  “Why?” I ask, regretting my question immediately. I should have gone for a yes or a no.

  His mouth pulls into a grin. From his posture, from the mischief growing on his face, I can tell he won’t shy away from embarrassing me.

  “Because then I’ll get to touch your boobs. They’re getting all juicy.”

  He snickers like a kid, and I am mortified. “Omigod, shut up! You’re so— Ah. How old are you anyway, Keyon, like, five? I’m going inside. Bye, for forever.”

  I don’t know that it’s the last time I’m the one stomping off and leaving him behind.

  KEYON

  “Dude!” Jaden oomphs out. “I know you’re inspired and all and want to beat the shit out of Sanchez, but c’mon. Sparring partners, all right?” He rubs his face like a total pansy. “I’m helping you out here, man.”

  “I’m helping you out,” I say, massaging my taped knuckles. “You need to toughen up if you want a shot in this business. Vegas, right? At some point?” I add the last part because MMA isn’t Jaden’s life and he’s nowhere as dedicated as me. He’s four years older and spends more time figuring out how to become an awesome stockbroker than on physically obliterating opponents. It’s ridiculous.