Rampage Page 3

  “Fine,” I mutter.

  “That’s right,” Greg says as I turn away. “Do as your mother says.”

  I clench my fist and pause in a half-step. Do as your mother says. He’s such an asshole, one of those losers who can’t resist the last word, one of those losers who thinks it gives him power. The thing is, it probably does. I feel pretty weak and useless as I walk silently away into Travis’s room.

  He’s sitting up in bed, his gaming console controller in hand, staring into the corner of the room at his TV. He’s already in his soccer gear with his rucksack on the floor. “Move, sis!” he snaps.

  I hop out of the way of the TV. “I guess it’s hard to sleep with them out there, huh?”

  “Same shit, different day.”

  “Travis!”

  He shrugs. “I heard it in a movie.”

  “What movie was that? I don’t remember hearing it in Finding Nemo.”

  “I haven’t watched Nemo since I was a little kid. I don’t remember what movie it was in.” On the screen, he murders wave after wave of bug aliens. “Did you hear the start of this one? Mom said that she wanted to have a picnic because it’s meant to be nice today and then Greg said that she only wants to go to the park so she can look at other guys. I don’t get it. I don’t get any of it. Mom didn’t say anything about other guys. It makes no sense.”

  “Sometimes people just want to argue.”

  “But why?”

  I search my mind. It’s a good question but I’m not sure I have the answer. “Because it makes them feel big?”

  “That makes sense.” He pauses the game and looks at me. “There’s kids in school like that. One time Freddy kicked a soccer ball at me, so I went right up to him and told him that if he ever did that again I’d break his neck. I heard the same shit thing in a movie. He leaves me alone now.”

  I touch his face, smoothing my thumb along his cheekbone. “One day this will all seem like a bad dream.”

  “You just say things.” He’s eerily calm, his eyes almost devoid of emotion. “All grownups just say things. Don’t you have to get ready for work?”

  “Listen to me.” I take his hand in both of mine. His is small, damp, and cold. It’s like the hand of a boy who died a long time ago. I ignore the strange thought and go on: “I’m going to get us out of here one day soon. I’ve got a new job. It pays more than the secretary position. I’ll save up, and then we’ll go somewhere else, somewhere faraway.”

  “No.” He withdraws his hand, as he does every time I bring this up. “I won’t leave Mom with him. I don’t like Mom. But I love Mom. And I won’t leave her. That isn’t fair. I won’t leave her. Okay?”

  I sigh. “I get it.”

  I leave his bedroom and go into the bathroom. Greg and Mom are downstairs now, the sound of bacon frying and an egg cracking traveling from the kitchen. I get ready quickly, washing my face and armpits and tying my hair up, and then go about applying my makeup, which involves more than shielding my face; I also have to cover the bruise on my neck and the bruises on my arms from where Greg grabbed me a few days ago. Once those are covered with foundation, I go into the bedroom and lay the bikini out on the bed. It’s skimpy, some would say slutty. It’s difficult to believe that in a just over an hour I’ll be wearing nothing but this. For now I throw on the bikini and a shirt and pants, and then go to Travis’s room.

  “Time to go,” I tell him.

  “Two minutes.”

  “I’ll be downstairs. Hurry up, okay? We don’t wanna be late.”

  “Two minutes!”

  I go downstairs, grab my car keys, and wait near the front door. Morning sunlight shines in through the rectangular pane of glass, resting on my face. I stand in the sunlight and close my eyes. I imagine I’m at a beach in some European country, Spain or somewhere like that, and everything is peaceful and perfect and then Dusty sits down next to me with nothing but his shirt on. “You should have got my number,” he says.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Greg barks. He paces over to me. At least he’s thrown on a T-shirt now, even if it is covered in dirt and holes. I think he likes wearing grubby clothes for some twisted reason. Maybe he knows it makes him look scarier. “I always knew there was something wrong with you. And now look! Standing there like a fucking psychopath!”

  I look over his shoulder for Mom, but Mom is too busy making his king-sized breakfast to help me. “I’m just waiting for Travis.”

  “Huh?” He cups his ear and leans forward melodramatically, all with a mean grin on his face. “Speak up! I can’t hear you!”

  “I said I’m just waiting for Travis.”

  “Oh, right. Soccer. Always thought that was a sport for pansies. I was always a football man.”

  “Oh, yeah? What position did you play?”

  He must sense the sarcasm in my voice. No sooner have I spoken than he launches at me, moving so fast I wonder if he really might have been a football player in a different life. He grabs me by the neck and shoves me up against the door, but does it quietly so that the only sound is his breathing and my small whimper. I make it small on instinct; I don’t want Mom or Travis to have to see this.

  “You’re getting really brave these days, aren’t you? I’m proud of you, girl. I really am.” He licks his lips and looks down at my shirt. My skin crawls with a million maggots. “You really ought to start showing your stepdad some love.”

  “Get your hands off me right now!” I try and wriggle out of his grip.

  He just laughs. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed the looks you’ve been giving me. You always were one for your secret looks, ever since you were little.”

  “You’re disgusting. If my dad was here . . .”

  “The big brave soldier?” He coughs out another laugh. “I’m sorry to have to remind you of this, but Daddy’s dead and he ain’t never coming back.” He’s more stroking my neck now than grabbing it. He breathes way too heavily. His eyes are full of dark thoughts. “Well.” He steps back. “There’s no rush, is there? I’m sure one of these nights you’ll come around.”

  I walk away from him to the bottom of the stairs, rubbing at my neck. Travis appears at the top, adjusting his rucksack straps.

  “Ready to go?” I ask.

  We sit in the car together for a couple of minutes, going nowhere.

  “Aren’t you going to start the car?”

  “Yeah, I just need a second.”

  I squeeze the steering wheel, pretending that it’s Greg’s neck, pretending that I’m squeezing him just like he squeezed me. My knuckles turn bone white. I wonder what it’d feel like to get him back, really get him back, get him back so that he never dared to lay his hands on me again.

  “I’m going to be late,” Travis says.

  “Okay.”

  I start the car, leaving the house in the rear-view. Maybe I ought to just keep driving on and on until we hit the state line and then another state line, take him to California or New York, one of those places where sassy women live on TV, always going to meetings and having one night stands and living as though life isn’t a great weight upon their shoulders. But I know Travis would throw a fit if I tried to take him away. He loves Mom too much.

  “Have a good time at soccer.” I give him a kiss on the forehead. “Score a goal for me.”

  “I play defense,” he says, skulking away. “I never score goals.”

  Chapter Four

  Marilee

  “This job is about more than serving coffee.” My new boss, an older lady called Kim, waves her hands as she talks. She waves her hands so much that the booth, which is already cell-sized, feels even smaller. She wears a business suit, shirt buttoned all the way up, as though to contrast with my bikini. I feel exposed with so much flesh on display, but the pay is almost three times what I was making before. “Are you listening to me?” She raises a waxed eyebrow.

  “Yes.”

  “What was I saying?”

  I search back in my mind. “You said t
hat this job is about making the customers feel good about themselves. They don’t just come here for coffee. They come here so they can pretend they have a girlfriend for a few minutes.”

  “That’s exactly correct.” Kim smiles and struts over to the window, which will soon be flung open to present my bare body to the world. “I started this business up in Washington, and now I have bikini baristas all over the States. You’re lucky to be among my first girls in the Dallas area.”

  “I feel lucky.” I smile to steal the bite from my words. “I really mean that.”

  She watches me carefully, maybe thinking I’m making fun of her, and then nods shortly. “Good,” she says. “I was a stripper once, so I know what you’re going through. But you can’t stand like that.” She nods to my shoulders. Her hair is brown, with a silver streak down one side. She looks capable. She looks like the woman Mom might have been had she mourned Dad properly. “Stand with your shoulders back and your ass out. Advertise your assets. Let your hair down and smile.”

  I do as she says. It feels odd and unnatural. I was never a cheerleader, and they always confused me. I would watch them sometimes from under the rafters, wondering how they could summon those smiles which seemed so believable, so genuine. Sometimes in the hallway I’d overhear one of them talking with a boy, and they were always in control, always ultra-confident. But I need this job, so I push my ass out further, and widen my shoulders, until Kim’s smile is secure.

  “Okay. Let me go over some technical stuff.”

  For the next half hour she shows me how to use the various machines. Since this place is more about the eye-candy than the coffee, mostly everything is automated. When that’s over and done with, she pats me on the shoulder. “Good luck. If you have any problems, my cellphone number is on the noticeboard. I’m sure you’ll be great.”

  She leaves me alone. I look around the tiny two-room trailer, at all the coffee equipment, suddenly so nervous I can hardly draw in breaths. But then I think about what will happen if I stay with Greg. I don’t want to leave Travis, that’s the last thing I want, but if I stick around that house for much longer, I know that something terrible is going to happen. But then, if I leave, won’t he turn on Travis? I try and silence my thoughts, but once they get started they’re difficult to stop. I slide open the booth window and look out on the highway at the cars whizzing past.

  But surely if I leave and Greg turns on Travis, Mom will snap out of this zombie routine she’s been pulling ever since she and Greg got married. Surely she’ll stop pretending everything’s okay. Is that what it’ll take? For Greg to hurt Travis? What if he hurts him so much he never recovers? These are all what-ifs, though. If I stay, I just know something disgusting is heading my way, something that marks a person for life more than a bruise ever could.

  “I have to get out,” I whisper under my breath. “I’m just a silly young girl. That’s all I am, because that’s all they want to see. I’m just a giggly nothing. That’s all.”

  I have to get out of that house before Greg rapes me. That’s the hard truth I need to face if I’m ever going to have the courage to do something. Greg’s looks have become more and more seedy. Greg’s grabbing is heading toward more secret places. The bruises will travel up my arm and onto my chest, and then what? Once he’s started playing those sick games, will he ever stop?

  I take a deep breath, trying to calm myself. All I want is to be able to go to sleep and feel safe, feel like nothing evil is going to happen when I wake up. All I want is for Travis to be a normal little kid, not a kid with a sword hanging over his head all the damn time. I swallow my nerves, trying to swallow my thoughts at the same time. I have a customer.

  The man pulls up in a red pick-up truck. The morning sunlight glares from his window so I can’t see him right away. His brakes squeak when he comes to a stop. The man who steps out is chubby, with a mullet which rests on his shoulders like a snoozing pet. He wears a white cap with a car logo on it, and a huge gold-colored belt buckle. He walks over to me with a toothy smile, his eyes fixated on my breasts.

  “Hello there.” He hooks his thumbs through his belt loops, just like Dusty did. On Dusty, it fit; on this man, it doesn’t. He stares at me.

  Say something! “Hello, sailor.” I smile as steadily as I can. Sailor? I have no idea where that came from. “How’re you doing this fine morning?” I need the tips just as badly—if not more—as I need the wages.

  “I’m much better now.”

  He leaves a pause, staring expectantly. That’s when I realize I’m supposed to fill it with a giggle. I force out the laugh, fluttering my eyelashes, all in all behaving in the precise opposite way to how I feel.

  That seems to placate him. He nods to the board. “I’ll have a black coffee, doll.”

  “Coming right up, handsome.”

  My heart is beating so fast, I feel as if it’ll burst from my back, but the way he’s looking at me, I must seem like a self-possessed, confident woman who’s in control of her sexuality, not a girl who’s so nervous the paper coffee mug won’t stop shaking in my hand. In the reflection of the coffee machine, I see him: peering over the counter, eyes locked on my ass. I know this is part of the job, but I still feel far too exposed, like this man has just waltzed into my hospital room or something. I force down the urge to cringe away, instead making myself sexier, sticking my ass out, winning that tip.

  I hand him his coffee and give him a wide smile. “Here you go, big man.”

  “You really are somethin’.” He peers at the name tag pinned to my bikini. “See you around, Tiffany.” He hands me fifteen dollars, which is eleven dollars more than the coffee cost, and then struts away without asking for the change.

  I place the tip in my purse under the counter and nod to myself. Okay, I can do this. I just made eleven dollars in a couple of minutes.

  Dusty’s Zippo presses against my breast, the metal cold against my skin. I don’t know why I put it in the bikini top instead of just leaving it in my bag. But I also don’t have the urge to put it back. I like it being there, a reminder that only yesterday I was flirting with a handsome, dead-serious biker man. That was the real me: nervous and shy on the porch, not almost naked and confident in here. But that doesn’t matter now. I’ll most likely never see him again. This is my world. I’m eye-candy, nothing more. Each time I make a man smile, he’ll tip me, and each time he tips me, I’m that much closer to fleeing from hell.

  The next man who comes by is one of those old men who’s so wrinkled his skin folds in upon itself. He wears a brown suit, with his hair plastered to his head. “Howdy, miss.” He tips an imaginary hat. “I would like a cappuccino, and the laugh of a pretty lady.”

  “Oh, aren’t you charming!” I squeal, wondering if that high-pitched eighteen year old really is me. She sounds like one of those cheerleaders. “One cappuccino, coming right up!”

  “That’s right, turn that ass around.” He grins, all gums. “I’m not so charming now, am I, hot stuff?” He winks at me. “Look at that skin; not a wrinkle on it. Smooth as marble.” He dabs at his eye with a purple handkerchief. “Everything leaks as you get older.”

  I suppress the urge to shiver and turn to the coffee machine, hoping that it’ll get grimy soon so that I’m spared the reflection.

  “Bend forward,” the man whispers. “Show me what’s in between those . . .”

  I tune him out, pretending not to hear him, and I don’t bend forward. There has to be some line between this and stripping, although I’m beginning to wonder where exactly that line is. I turn on him with a smile and hand him his drink, although he only tips me fifty cents.

  “Next time,” he says, “show me what you’re made of.”

  I’m not sure what that means, so I stay silent. As soon as he leaves the stand, he’s a nice old man again. If I saw him on the street, I’d guess that he likes to play backgammon and go to the bingo. The next few customers pass with a blur. They’re mostly older men, upwards of forty, with a lonely loo
k about them. They just want a kind word, it seems to me, and to live in the fiction that a pretty girl wants them now just as girls wanted them when they were young. I smile and giggle and play my part. By one o’clock I’ve made ninety-eight dollars in tips.

  At two o’clock, after a quick lunch, my feet aching from the high heels, a married man approaches the booth. I know he’s married because of his car, which is one of those seven-seater Mom-mobiles, but also because of the way he walks, the way he’s dressed, everything about him. My suspicion is confirmed when he strokes at his ring finger, as though expecting to find a ring there. Years of living with Greg have attuned me to gestures, I guess.

  “Hello,” he says. He’s a normal-looking man, with a normal-looking face. “Is your name really Tiffany?”