Maryse Meijer - Heartbreaker - Stories

We’re not playing games, man. She doesn’t want to say, then she doesn’t want to say.

Laura, the tall one says. She looks like a Laura.

The girl looks at him. What does a Laura look like?

Like you.

Is that good?

The tall one shrugs. It’s not bad, he says.

Are we just going to stand here or what, the dark-haired one says, pushing his fists in his jacket.

The young one pulls a joint out of his pocket and dances it in front of the girl. She reaches for it, but he lifts it away from her hand, whistling.

I thought we weren’t playing games, the girl says.

Maybe we are, maybe we aren’t, the young one says. You don’t have anything better to do, do you?

No, she agrees.

Then relax. Open your mouth, he says, and the girl parts her thin lips. He sets the end of the joint next to her tongue.

The lighter’s in my back pocket, the young one says, looking down at her pale face.

The girl reaches around the young one’s waist. Her eyelid flutters when her hand bumps something cool and hard. She pulls it out.

Try again, the tall one says, taking the Swiss army knife from the girl and, peeling the scissors from the steel grip, starts cutting his nails.

The girl’s smile deepens. She reaches into the young one’s other pocket.

Here? she says.

You got it, he says, then plucks the joint from her mouth. But how about a kiss first?

She tilts her head up, her lips still parted.

You want to fuck? she whispers, before he can kiss her, and for a moment the boys are frozen.

Hey now, the young one says, giving the girl his smooth laugh. He grinds the lighter, flipping on its weak fire: smell of burning, of a good time. The young one takes a deep breath. The girl licks her lips.

* * *

The dark-haired one sees it happen first: the emergence of the girl’s real face. Her eyes seem to blacken; her mouth discards the dull smile. She is no Laura, it occurs to him; she is not an Allison or a Sarah or a Tiffany. There is no way this girl has a name like any name they know.

Hey — the dark-haired one says, trying to get the attention of the others, but they are still playing with the joint and their own anticipation; the dark-haired one might as well be a tree or a block of night sky.

The young one exhales into the girl’s open mouth. That what you want? he says.

Ooh, she croons, running her finger down the young one’s chest. You’re gonna do it to me, I know it.

Their smiles flicker, fade. The girl turns to snatch the knife out of the tall one’s half-clipped hands.

You wanna screw me with this?

What the fuck, the young one breathes, dropping the joint. He takes a step back.

You, she says. You can choke me. That will feel good, won’t it? If you do that?

We’re not into that shit, he says, wincing, hands up.

It’s okay, she continues, pulling each tool from the red case, one by one. You can do it. I like it.

The tall one reaches for his knife but she whips it high above their heads, its splayed tools twinkling.

Maybe you should calm down, the dark-haired one says.

The girl sharpens her gaze on him.

You can watch, she says. And then you can have your turn.

What the fuck is wrong with you? the young one says.

Nothing, she says, blinking, eyes wider and wider. What’s wrong with you ? Why isn’t your cock hard?

She nudges her knee against the inside of the young one’s thigh; he jerks away.

This better be a joke, he says.

Why? she says. You feel like laughing?

Seriously, what the fuck is your deal ?

Don’t you like me? I thought you liked me, the girl says, pouting. She moves her head from side to side, like a leaking balloon, lips pushed out, making the high-pitched whimper of a dog. The knife lands in the dirt; no one moves to touch it. Her shoulders start to shake and her frown melts down and she pretends to cry, boo-hoo , cartoon sobs slashing out between her teeth. Every hair on every piece of the boys’ skin stands up.

Let’s just go, the tall one says, but nobody moves.

You can’t go, you haven’t done it yet, the girl says.

Fuck man let’s just get—

The girl slaps herself, hard, so that her lip smashes against her teeth; blood darts down her chin. She staggers to the side.

No, she whispers.

The boys are stuck. The night is something that congeals around them, in them, between them. They don’t know how to move. She starts to undress: shoes, socks, polo, pants. The boys stare. The clothes lie like shed snakeskin at her feet. A jagged line runs from her navel down into the lip of her underwear, and from what they can see of her breasts those, too, are shiny with scars.

Fuck, the young one whispers.

You want to touch me? the girl asks.

We don’t want to do anything, the tall one says.

Oh no? Then who did this? Do you know who did this? she says, jabbing at the scar on her belly.

No, the boys say.

You did it, the girl hisses. Don’t you remember?

We should call someone, get someone, the cops — the dark-haired one says.

Who? she says, eyes narrowing. Call who? Then she laughs, a high bright sound punching the air.

Oh you bad boys, she says, her teeth pink. Such bad boys. Do you need your knife back? Is that why you haven’t done it yet?

She kicks the ground, making the knife jump.

Done what?

Killed me! the girl shrieks.

You’re crazy, the young one breathes.

The girl cocks her head, smiling hard. The dark-haired one puts his hands up to his head.

I don’t know what’s going on, he says. I don’t know why we don’t go.

Oh, you can do whatever you want, she says. There are three of you and one of me. Isn’t that fair?

The boys open their mouths but the words that fall out lie in the dirt and never seem to reach the girl. In time they grow silent; they grow still as trees.

Do you know how many times there isn’t anyone? she says at last. No one at all? Once, I counted just six cars. Six. In eight hours. And none of them stopped, even though I was screaming as loud as I could.

For stealing two beers and giving a clerk the bird at a Super Stop I spend one night in jail. They put me in a cell with eight other guys waiting for their rides. I ask someone lying on the only bench if I can sit down. The guy stretches out his legs and tells me to fuck off.

I get my one phone call and talk to Bea at a pay-phone-type situation chained to the wall. It’s five in the morning and neither of us has slept; I’m smiling into the receiver and I can tell she’s smiling, too.

I came right then, she tells me, her voice so warm and close I know she’s got her mouth right up against the phone. Just, God, the back of your head, she says. When they put the cuffs on you and made you get in the car. It was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen in my life.

* * *

Within a week Bea’s asking me if I’ll do it again. I do, same store, same beer. The clerk is making the call before I can get the cans in my jacket pockets. The cops ask me what the hell I’m doing. I say I’m thirsty. I think about Bea, in the parking lot, watching me. I get a hard-on and I hope she can see it, though maybe it’s too dark. In the backseat I ask the cops if they can turn on the siren and they say, Shut up, wiseass.

This time, when they book me, I’m in a holding cell by myself, but only for a few hours before the cops tell me to stop wasting their time.

Bea comes to get me, hyper, eyes jumping like she’s coked up. Just being near the jail gets her this way. She tries to look past the lobby to where the cells are, but a set of green double doors blocks her view.