A. Homes - The End of Alice

She picks up the racket, the fresh balls, and breezes past the mother on her way outside.

“That’s the girl,” her mother says.

“Little do you know,” the daughter mumbles.

“Are you getting your period?” the mother asks. “You must have a little PMS, you’re so unpleasant.”

Stop.

She holds up a hand. “Stop.” She puts her hand on my shoulder and tries to push me away, but my fist is still inside her and I’m doing something wrong. It takes me a minute, more than a minute. I’ve gone deaf. I don’t hear her right away.

“Stop,” she says again loudly. The echo off the tile makes it sound like a shot. “Stop,” she whispers in my ear. “It’s enough.” She reaches between her legs, plucks my hand out, and lets it drop like some discarded thing.

She gives me a kiss on the cheek, one on the lips, climbs out of the tub, and lies back on the cot, hand over her eyes, breathing heavily, deeply. “Don’t ogle,” she says without even looking at me.

The sheets are peeled back and in the middle of the bed there is a bright blush of red, a thick streak of blood. My lipstick.

Hey, sorry about the outburst, the rant and rave, forget I ever mentioned it, okay? I don’t know what I was thinking.

You know exactly what you were thinking.

She continues. If I had the strength, I’d run away, pack a bag and be gone. I’d go somewhere where nothing is familiar, where everything is unrecognizable, somewhere where I don’t even understand the language, where I can’t overhear anything. All I want to do is sleep. Even before I’m really up, I’m ready to lie down again. Nap.

The streets are empty, a stage set deserted, a diorama. Nothing proves this is real. All of it could be a dream. Everything is so thoroughly familiar that were we — that is, all of us; me, you-reader, and the girl — were we to go blind, we would be able to continue anyway, we’d know how to get there and back, the route is etched in our memory. Maybe we are already blind, maybe this is only a figment of the imagination. A memory.

She passes houses, recalling who used to live where; the set of identical twins, the girl whose father was a spy. All long gone; years ago, they moved away.

Human cuckoo clocks. A front door opens, an elderly woman steps out, dumps the contents of a watering can onto a pot of geraniums, and goes back inside. Farther down the block, it happens again, a minute later, as though they are all set a certain way, the synchronicity is terrifying.

The elementary school, the playground. She slips through a hole in the fence, pops open her can of balls, and starts to play.

I play tennis trying not to think, to keep my mind free from thought. When I do think, it is too awful to even mention. I think the worst things. I think there is no way out. This is permanent. I am permanently like this — does that make sense f She slams the ball against a brick wall. She went to this school. This was her first school, her home away from home. She slams the ball against the wall.

Do you blame yourself for things that happen in the world, war, crime, starvation?

Yes.

When you were caught, was it a relief? It is his conscience that puts a man in position to be caught and found guilty.

She hits the ball against the wall and daydreams. She asks herself, What do you want? What do you want? over and over again as though the question itself will bring an answer, revelation, deliverance. She dreams. Nothing. Nothing comes to her. She wants nothing.

The playground. She hits the ball hard, fast, right to the point. Every time the ball hits the wall, there’s a sharp echo, a sound that makes it seem as if she’s playing harder than she really is.

Aaron, the beaky one from before, the echo of Matt’s ego, appears. His hands are jammed deep into his pockets.

“Hi,” he says.

She continues to play.

“That was really fun on the Fourth of July. You, me, Matt, Charlie, on the golf course,” he reiterates the narrative, names anti dates, as though the evening’s events might have escaped her memory, as though it might not have meant anything to her — he’s right. “I finger-fucked you,” he says. “I’ve never done that before.”

She doesn’t say anything.

“So, what are you doing?” he asks.

“Practicing,” she says.

“I could use some practice.” He laughs and overtly adjusts himself.

“I’m trying to concentrate,” she says, slamming the ball.

He watches her for a moment, getting her timing down, and when she brings her racket back to swing, he catches her by the wrist. The racket falls to the ground.

He kisses her face, her neck, like a bird pecking. She twists away.

“I’ve never had it sucked,” he says, pulling at her. He’s stronger than you’d imagine. He hooks his leg behind her and knocks her to the ground. With his free hand, he struggles to undo his fly. She looks up at him. His face is covered with large red swellings, more like boils than pimples. His upper lip is coated with thick, dark hair. His legs are coated with the same late lanugo. She is on her knees, the pebbly blacktop has already scraped off a layer of skin.

“Suck it,” he says.

“No.”

“If you won’t suck it, then at least touch it.” He swipes the head of his dick against her cheek.

“I’ll bite it.”

“I’ll knock your teeth out.” He pauses. “I could have fucked you. Matt would have let me.”

“I doubt it.”

“Bitch,” he says, rubbing his dick back and forth over her face, beating her with it.

“Why don’t you call him and ask?”

“Cunt.”

“Fucking asshole,” she says, trying to get up.

He tightens his grip. “I’m bigger than you and I’m stronger than you.” He is holding both of her arms behind her back.

“I’ll get you arrested.”

“I’ll kill you,” he says, pulling her across the playground toward a patch of grass beneath a tree.

A station wagon comes around the corner, the window rolled down. “Aaron,” a woman’s voice calls. “Aaron, it’s not even funny. You’re in such trouble, you don’t even know.” He lets go of her arms. “Get over here right now,” his mother screams. “For thirty minutes I’ve been driving around looking for you. Did you forget you have an orthodontist appointment?”

He sneers at the girl, then walks across the parking lot, squeezes through a hole in the fence, and gets into his mother’s car.

The girl sits on the blacktop. She doesn’t want to go home. There’s no reason to go home. There’s nothing at home. She goes to Matt’s house. She sneaks in. It’s not difficult, the kitchen door is always unlocked. She opens the door, tiptoes down the hallway, goes stealthily up the steps and into his room. The shades are down. It is cool, dark. Having just come in from outside, she can’t really see. A figure is in the bed, under the sheets; she reaches for the sheet, pulls it back, and starts to crawl in. The figure turns toward her and speaks. “Help me.” It is Matt’s father. Matt’s father is in Matt’s bed, masturbating between Matt’s Batman sheets. Her eyes are adjusting. He is covered in sweat. He’s purple all over, his entire being is engorged, as if he’s been at it for hours. “Help me,” he says. Her jaw drops, her mouth hangs open in a slack O. He reaches for her, puts his hand on the back of her neck, and pulls her to him.

“They’ve gone to the pool to join the swim team,” the father says.

Her mouth still hangs open. He pulls her toward him, positions her over him, her head at his crotch.

Warm, sweaty, hard but without conviction, his penis is flavored with dirt from the palm of his hand. In her mouth it becomes firm, full of promise. Her nose is in his underbrush, he smells like an old sneaker. Her concentration isn’t what it should be, this isn’t what she was expecting. She’s been caught off guard. His fingers dig into her hair, scratching her scalp. He holds her head close to him and fucks her deeply. She gags. Her tonsils knock against the head of his cock. His thrusts are in counterpoint to her choking. She feels as if she can’t breathe, as if she’s suffocating, she tries to back up a bit, to get some distance. He holds on tight.