Eric Puchner - Model Home

She knew something, though. She wanted to live. She wanted to jump through a sprinkler. She wanted to try cocaine. She wanted to smell a towel fresh from the dryer, to rewind a cassette tape with her pinkie, to drop snow on unsuspecting skiiers from a chairlift. She wanted to read Ulysses. She wanted to rot her brain with Billboard hits. It didn’t matter that the songs were terrible. She wanted to hear the next one, and the next, and the next.

Her mother came home during “Cruel Summer.” Lyle heard the lock turn in the back door, her legs limp and Jell-Oey. The radio had slid into a perpendicular axis to the tub. For a second, listening to Mr. Leonard scrabble to his feet, she was so relieved she almost dropped her legs by accident. She called her mother’s name. After a long minute, Lyle’s mom appeared in the doorway of the bathroom, wearing her absurd-looking poncho with little fringes on it.

Her eyes shifted from Lyle’s naked body to the radio and then back again. In the first moments, before the gravity of the situation had presented itself, Lyle thought she saw an untamable I told you so cross her face.

“Could you get the radio, please? Before I die?”

Her mother snatched the radio from Lyle’s feet, yanking the plug out along with it. Lyle’s legs collapsed. She was really shivering, an all-out spasm. It was only now, saved from certain death, that she remembered her sunburn. Lyle hobbled from the tub, her fingers white and croneish from the water. How could she describe her mother’s face? It was alarmed and lonesome and wonderfully momlike. It wasn’t until she saw the tenderness of this face — a face that would never wish her dead — that Lyle felt the tears on her cheeks. She stepped into the poncho, her mom’s arms spread like wings. Tightly, Lyle’s mother held her to her body, squeezing her without knowing — not even the slightest clue — how much pain she was in.

“I’m not really a witch,” Taz said.

“What are you?”

“Good question.”

They were sitting outside of the Sea View Condominiums, waiting to go into a party. The name of the place made Dustin laugh. Not only were they in Torrance and nowhere near the sea, the only view to be had was of a lopsided Dumpster overflowing with pizza boxes, a rusted bicycle frame chained to its foot. There was something depressing about it that made Dustin feel unwholesome. Actually, he felt wonderfully despicable. He’d just had sex with his girlfriend’s sister, despicably, in the back of his car. He’d helped her sneak out of the house behind Kira’s back, waiting down the block while Taz climbed out the window and then making a strategic getaway through the streets of Herradura Estates, Taz crouched in the front seat of the Dart like a convict. The whole plan had been his idea. He’d called the Shackneys’ house while Kira was out shopping with her mom, hoping Taz would answer the phone. When she’d told him about the party being thrown by one of Breakfast’s friends, he’d offered to give her a ride. Dustin didn’t know where this ranked in the annals of bad behavior — he was too happy to quantify it — but it was certainly up there.

Now they were parked outside a condo, in a beautifully shabby part of L.A. Taz’s eyeliner was smeared under one eye, like a bruise. They’d done it quickly, fumbling at each other’s pants and then attacking each other so ferociously he almost forgot to get a Trojan out of the glove compartment, so intent was he on getting rid of her smirk. But something had happened afterward. She had clung to him without letting go, so fiercely that it hurt, cinching her arms around him like a boa constrictor. He’d worried at first that she was trying to kill him. He’d done something wrong and she was trying to break his ribs. It was only when she stopped squeezing and let go of him, looking almost surprised to see him on top of her, that he realized she wasn’t angry. Ten minutes later, his ribs were still sore to the touch. He had never felt anything like this from Kira, who hugged him as though he’d be around forever.

Dustin lit a cigarette and rolled down the window so he wouldn’t stink up the Dart. There was an uneasiness in his chest, a thickening haze of guilt, but he was choosing to ignore it. “How did you get sent to boarding school?” he asked.

“You really want to know?”

“Yeah.”

Taz shrugged, blowing the white forelock away from her eyes. “I pulled my fingernails out.”

“What?”

“With pliers.” She shook a cigarette from Dustin’s pack and then plucked the one from his mouth in order to light it. “They had to take me to the ER.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“Kira doesn’t even know that.”

The haze in Dustin’s chest grew thicker. “You pulled out all ten of your nails?”

“Only my left hand. I’m not ambidextrous.” She laughed, as if it were all a big joke. “It took me a week — I didn’t do it all at once.”

“Why the hell did you do it in the first place?”

She shrugged. “Fashion statement. Who the fuck knows.”

“You’re bleeding right now.”

“What?”

“Your ear. Shit. I wish you wouldn’t do that.”

Taz scowled, dabbing her ear with the collar of her shirt. “You sound like Kira. She’s always on my fucking case about it.”

Dustin looked at the used condom, bloated and forlorn, on the metal floor by his feet. He couldn’t imagine wanting to pull out his fingernails. It occurred to him that “wanting” was not an applicable verb. “It’s our anniversary tomorrow,” he said, trying to change the subject.

“You and Kira?”

“A year.”

Taz looked at him, a flash of anger. “Do you want a fucking present ?”

She got out of the car, tugging her shirt down before trekking off to the party. Dustin was amazed. He’d imagined she’d enjoy knowing how she was fucking up her sister’s life. He finished his cigarette and then followed Taz into the party, which smelled like cookies. Taz, Suzie, and some other people were hanging around the living room, drinking Milwaukee’s Best from cans. A girl about Taz’s age sat in front of the couch, her face bent toward the floor as though in prayer. Behind her, a guy with tattooed arms was crouched over her neck with what looked like a pen attached to a melted toothbrush; a sewing needle poked out from the tip of the pen, which he kept dipping in a little saucer of ink. There was something — a little motor — taped to the other end.

“Did you make that yourself?” Dustin asked the tattooed guy, trying to break the ice. No one had spoken to him since he’d walked in.

“No. I found it on the sidewalk.”

Dustin couldn’t figure out if this was meant to be a joke. He laughed, deciding to hedge his bets. A guy with a bloodstained cotton ball in one nostril asked him who he was.

“We’re, um, friends of Breakfast’s.”

“Just don’t steal any records,” the guy said.

“Look,” Suzie said, pointing. “Porn Man’s at it again.”

Dustin peered out the window, which afforded an open view into the darkened condo across the way. A big TV flickered at the back of the room: two women on their knees, giving someone a blow job. Dustin had the weird desire to shield Taz’s eyes. In front of the TV, visible in the murky blue light, was the back of an empty couch.

“I see his hand!” the guy with the cotton ball said. “We have a sighting.”

“There’s someone in there?” Dustin asked.

“He lies there naked on the couch,” Suzie explained, “fast-forwarding to the good parts.”

Dustin walked into the kitchen. Breakfast was hanging out by the sink, sharing a bottle of Old Crow with the beautiful girl. She introduced herself as Yissel, as if she’d never seen him before. In the corner, hunched over an old typewriter, sat a guy who looked to be in his thirties. He was wearing a motorcycle jacket and no shirt. There was a hollow place in the middle of his chest, a bony, cavelike dent below his sternum, large enough to wedge in a tennis ball.