“Let me see!” squeals the prettiest brunette. She grabs his shoulder and tries to pull him forward. He’s a head taller than her and a lot stronger. His back stays pressed against the metal lockers.
The less pretty brunette is rough, aggressive. “C’mon! Show her!”
“Is it true?” asks the redhead. “Do you wet the bed? Do you?”
The less pretty brunette pulls on his other shoulder. She’s an athlete and makes some headway. The boy’s planted feet squeak on the linoleum.
The redhead keeps up her simple interrogation. “Do you wet the bed? Do you?”
“No!” He’s panicked now. The brunettes are too close to success. The redhead doesn’t move a muscle. She’s in charge of giggling and asking questions.
The less pretty brunette grabs the front of the boy’s shirt and pulls with everything she has, forcing him off balance. He takes a stagger-step forward, and the pretty brunette seizes the moment, pushing her foot against the back of his knee. The boy’s leg buckles. One more shirt tug sends him to the floor.
“See! It does say he wets the bed! You wet the bed! You wet the bed!”
He looks up, and something crystallizes within his brain. He is bigger than them. He is stronger than them. He should be the boss of them.
The boy bursts from the floor with his right fist raised, catching the redhead under her chin with such force she’s knocked out cold. His next motion is to grab the pretty brunette. She tries to run away, but her long hair is easily caught. She’s ripped off her feet, and a second later she rolls on the floor, grabbing her head and crying. A small fist cracks the boy across the cheek. It’s the less pretty brunette, scrappier than her fellows by half. Her punch only serves to further enrage him.
When he unleashes on her, everything falls together. Like a crick in the neck snapped into place, the boy’s brain pops and is put right. It is a beautiful undoing, a beautiful becoming. He doesn’t stop to think about it when the punches follow her down to the ground. He doesn’t stop to notice when she goes still or when the pool of blood under her head pillows out into a great, liquid heart. He doesn’t stop until he’s pulled off her, and he doesn’t start to think again until that night, when he’s back at home. For hours and hours his brain stays beautifully popped into place.
CHAPTER FOUR
I’M FROZEN, THINKING OF MY parents, who believe I’m with my friends, and my friends, who believe I’m with my parents. My shock pleases the Wolfman. I can see it in his face.
He says, “Why’d you stop dealing? Seven to both of us.”
As I deal the cards, I pray. Dear God. Help me. Please help me. Please, God, help me.
“Caleb’s texts made for interesting reading. Not too bright, is he?”
“He’s smart; he’s just dyslexic. That’s why he can’t spell. But he’s smart.”
“Not smart enough to get away from you.”
His mockery of Caleb makes me angry. “And neither are you, apparently,” I say.
He likes my threat, thinks it’s cute. “You really are the -toughest case yet. You haven’t even cried.” With relish he adds, “This is going to take some work.”
There’s a disturbing undercurrent of perversion beneath those words. So far he’s been oddly rational, under control. But I know I’m not here to play cards and be lectured to. I’m here to be purified, and it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to realize that the purification he has planned will defile and destroy me, and eventually leave me dead.
I want to get back to cards and lectures. “And now there’s seven cards dealt. What are we playing?”
“It’s a game I invented. If you win, we keep playing. If you lose, we play a new kind of game. The record holder is seven games won. But she lost in the end, of course. They all do.”
It is evident that I don’t want to move on to whatever the “new kind of game” might be. “What are the rules?”
“The goal is to get the queen of hearts.” He pauses. “I call it the Virgin Queen.”
There it is. His rational veneer has slipped, exposing his slimy underbelly, and now the cards really are out on the table. I bark out a laugh and pray it sounds authentic. “If that’s what you thought you’re getting, I hate to break it to you, but I’m no virgin.”
I’m lying. But I figure, if it’s virgins he wants, it’ll be sluts he hates. I have nothing against sluts, personally. I try to channel Rachel, a girl from school who likes to brag about her conquests. She even once bragged about acquiring a disease. I call up our conversation. Not too hard, as it was a memorable one.
“Truth is, two weeks ago I had to go to Planned Parenthood. Turns out it was trich. You ever heard of trich? It’s not even a bacteria or a virus; it’s a protozoa. A little animal.” I try to nod knowingly, but it probably looks more like I’m having a seizure.