Lisa Brackman - Year of the Tiger

Not ever thinking about those times again.

You’ll always think about those times, I tell myself. Always. But maybe, maybe you can think about those times and, from now on, they won’t hurt you so much. Those times, they’ll just be things that happened in the past, and that’s all.

‘Yili?’

I open my eyes. Here’s John standing in front of me, holding two bottles of beer. He’s actually pretty handsome, not really baby-faced; he has a strong jaw, bright eyes, light stubble on his chin. And he’s taller than I am. Solid, with some muscle. I think I can see the outline of his chest beneath the T-shirt.

One World, One Dream.

‘Do you feel okay?’

‘Sure. I’m just a little tired.’

John hands me a beer, already opened, like the last one. ‘We could go sit down somewhere,’ he says, ‘if you are tired.’

‘Okay,’ I say. I’m tired of all the noise, anyway.

We make our way outside. ‘I know a good place,’ John says. I stifle a giggle. Does he want to make out or something? I might be up for that. It might be fun, messing around a little. He’s cute, I’ve decided. I take another swallow of beer.

It’s a nice night. I’m warm enough with just my light jacket. John leads me down a bricked path that leads to a garden of sorts. I’ve been here before. There’s a fountain and a marble wall inscribed with calligraphy, the grooves highlighted by gold paint. Some fucking proverb about wisdom and self-cultivation, probably.

We sit on the stone bench by the fountain. I can hear the music from the party, but it’s so faint that I feel like I could almost be imagining it, making up music from the gurgle and flow of the fountain’s water.

‘This where you used to take girls?’

John grins slyly. ‘Sometimes.’ He takes a pull of his beer and leans toward me a little. ‘Do you have a boyfriend, Yili?’

‘Maybe. Sort of. I don’t know.’

‘What does that mean?’ John sounds curious. Like he honestly wants to understand.

I have to really think about it for a minute. I look up, through the haze of dust and city lights. Haloes surround the streetlights, the stars. It’s all so beautiful, in an ugly kind of way.

‘He’s a good guy,’ I finally say. ‘A really good guy. I like him. And I know he likes me. He’s nice.’

Then I can’t help it: I start laughing. ‘That sounds really lame.’

‘No, Yili, it doesn’t sound … lame.’ John has to work a little to get that last word out, like it sticks somewhere on the middle of his tongue. ‘But you say you don’t know about him.’

‘I mean, I don’t know …’

My head feels funny. The sound of the fountain thrums in my ears, or maybe it’s the music. I swallow some more beer. It goes down like it’s something alien, cold and coppery. ‘What he wants from me. I mean … we spend a lot of time together. But I’m not sure why.’

‘You think he wants you to do something for him?’

‘No. No, I …’ I squeeze my eyes shut. Everything feels funny. My eyes are too big; they’re sticking out, and I need to cover them up. ‘He’s nice,’ I repeat. ‘Maybe he just feels sorry for me.’

‘Yili?’ John says. ‘Yili?’

It’s too loud. I put my hands over my ears. ‘I feel kind of weird,’ I manage.

‘Are you ill?’ John asks anxiously. ‘Should we go to the doctor?’

‘No. No … I just …’ There’s a beer bottle in my hand. I’m holding it. It’s solid and cold, and I can feel the damp from the condensation. Like, the beer that’s inside the bottle wants to get out, and it’s squeezing through tiny holes in the glass. I take another sip. Free the beer!

‘Feel weird.’

‘I think maybe you should go home, Yili.’ He holds out his hand. ‘Come. I’ll take you.’

I stare at him. His eyes are bright, sparkling almost, even in the dark. I stare at his hand. It looks too big.

‘I don’t want to go home,’ I say.

‘Here.’ His hand reaches down. Finds mine. Closes over it, dry and hot, like some trespasser from the desert.

‘Stand up,’ he says.

I do what he tells me to. I don’t even think to argue about it. I stand up, and my bad leg buckles, and I pitch forward.

John catches me. I see his face as I fall; he looks surprised and almost embarrassed.

‘Sorry,’ I mumble. ‘My leg’s messed up.’

‘I’ll help you,’ John says. ‘Here, I take your arm.’

He has me drape my arm around his shoulders, and he threads his arm across my back and under my armpit. He won’t quite look at me, I notice. That’s funny, I think. Why should he be embarrassed? I’m the one who’s somehow gotten so fucked up that I can’t walk.

How’d that happen, I wonder?

It finally occurs to me, as we mutually stagger down the path that leads out of the garden and into the campus proper, that I’ve been dosed with something.

‘Wait,’ I say. ‘Wait. I don’t wanna go with you.’

‘What, Yili?’

‘Let me go,’ I say. ‘Let me go. I just wanna … Let go of me.’

‘Yili, I think maybe you are a little sick,’ John says, sounding very sympathetic. ‘I help you to get home. That is all. You don’t need to worry about me.’

I don’t believe him. I try to pull away. The arm encircling me holds me tighter against him. We stumble down the walkway, through the quad of dormitories, past the take-out window of the Xinjiang restaurant where students line up for lamb skewers and sesame bread.

I should yell. I should scream. I should kick him in the nuts and run. But I don’t. I can’t. We keep walking, his fingers pressing hard against my ribs, until we’ve reached the campus gate, where teenage security guards in stiff gray polyester jackets stand nominal sentry.

‘Come on, Yili,’ John says. ‘This way.’

A shiny silver car waits for us on the other side.

I picture the finger-shaped bruises John’s hand is making on my ribcage as he guides me toward the silver car. There’s a guy leaning against it, smoking a cigarette. John gestures angrily at him. ‘Off my car!’ he snaps.

‘Fuck your mother,’ the guy mutters. But he lifts himself off the car, takes one last drag on his cigarette, and flicks it into the gutter before ambling away.

‘Hey,’ I say. ‘Wait.’

‘Now, Ellie, you don’t want to talk to that guy,’ John chides me. ‘He is just some rascal.’

‘It’s all a show,’ I say, ‘isn’t it? That guy drove the car here.’

John does his best puzzled squint, but I’m not buying it any more. ‘Of course not. He is just some local rascal.’

‘But there’s no parking here,’ I say, and I’m feeling like this is maybe the most brilliant thing I’ve ever said.

John laughs as he opens the passenger door. ‘Oh, Yili! You are very funny. Now, get into the car.’

I don’t want to get in. I plant my feet, but I’m really messed up, and my leg isn’t that stable anyway, and John somehow knocks me off balance, and I fall across the seats, hitting my cheek against the gear-shift, and John swings my legs into the car and slams the door.

The car has an open moonroof. I stare up, trying to see through the haze to the stars.

The driver’s door opens, and John gets in, putting the keys in the ignition before his butt hits the seat. My head’s touching his thigh as the car pulls away from the curb.

‘Where’re we going?’ I mumble. My mouth feels like it’s full of stones.

‘I told you, Yili. To your home.’

I can’t even sit up. I just lie there, head pressed against John’s thigh, feeling his muscles bunch and relax as he brakes and accelerates. Streetlights pass over us.

I don’t know how long we drive.