Maryse Meijer - Heartbreaker - Stories

Is Frog home?

Mrs. Hoff squints. Frog?

I mean Christopher.

Yeah, why?

I want to talk to him, she says, shrugging.

Chris! Mrs. Hoff yells, and turning away she leaves the door open, so that Natalie can see the light from a television flickering on the hallway wall.

Hi, he says, smiling that crazy smile.

Hi, she says. Did you miss me?

Yeah.

I wanted to give you a present, she says, leaning forward.

A present?

For your birthday.

My birthday’s next month! he almost shouts.

It’s an early present, she says. Because we’re friends.

Thanks, Frog says, spitting a little. He wipes his lips. Sorry, he adds.

Do you want to know what it is?

He nods. Natalie glances behind Frog into the house, then looks back at him, into his big pale eyes.

You have to promise not to tell. It’s a secret.

Promise, he says quickly.

She pulls out a magazine from a plastic bag and hands it to him.

Oh, he says as the magazine falls open. In the centerfold a woman lies on a bed, her hand between her legs. Frog stares.

Natalie smiles. Nice, huh?

He keeps on staring.

You like it? she asks, spitting her gum over the end of the concrete porch.

Yeah, he says. She looks at his crotch.

Are you getting a hard-on, Frog?

He keeps staring at the photo, the way Natalie sometimes does in math class, like if he looks long enough the answer will magically appear.

You can use it, for later, she says. Now hide it before your mom sees.

He just looks at her.

Never mind, she says, taking the magazine from him. When you want to see it you can come to my house, okay?

Yeah, Frog says, staring at the bag as she tucks the magazine away. His face is as smooth as an eggshell, no scars, no acne, not even freckles.

You’re lucky, she says, and he says, Yeah.

* * *

The next day, a Saturday, she gets the magazine out from under her bed. She lies down with her back to the door and examines a spread showing two women in red lingerie kissing. In the back of the magazine there are ads for penis pumps and blow-up dolls and phone sex. She dials one of the 800 numbers and listens to a girl’s voice asking her for her credit card information. She hangs up, then lifts the receiver again and calls 411 to ask for Chris Hoff’s number. She writes it on her hand.

Hello, he answers.

Frog?

I’m Chris, he says.

Duh, she says. Is your mom home?

No, he says.

Good. She turns over on her back, the phone tucked under her chin. What are you doing?

Watching TV.

What are you watching?

SpongeBob, he says.

Sponge what?

It’s my favorite show! he says.

She sighs. I wish I had a favorite show. I’m bored.

Yeah, he says.

Are you thinking about me? she asks, her legs propped up on her windowsill, staring at the blunt ugly concrete of the neighbor’s house an arm’s length away. He doesn’t say anything, just breathes into the phone.

Did you think about me today? she repeats.

Um, he says.

Did you touch yourself?

Huh?

I want you to stop acting so stupid, she says. I asked you a question.

I’m not stu pid. He says it like something his mother taught him to say, like Please or No thank you.

Don’t be mad, she says, I was just kidding.

Okay, he says.

Why do you think I talk to you? she asks. She pushes her foot through the open window and out into the air and waits.

You called me, he says.

You’re right, she says, I did, and she hangs up.

* * *

She goes to the kitchen to make dinner: her mother is standing by the sink, in her robe with her hair in a towel, drinking coffee.

Who was on the phone? her mother asks.

Chris Hoff, Natalie says.

Her mother frowns. Doesn’t he have Down syndrome or something?

Natalie shrugs. I don’t know what he’s got. She puts a bag of popcorn in the microwave and watches it swell with steam.

But he’s got something wrong, her mother says.

I guess, yeah.

She takes the popcorn out of the microwave and dumps it into a bowl. She eats it standing up next to the sink while her mother looks at her.

I got a job, you know, her mother says, lifting her chin.

Great, she replies, licking butter from her fingers.

I don’t know why you want to be making friends with retards.

Even retards need friends, Natalie says.

* * *

She watches an episode of Cops , during which a black girl punches a white girl during Mardi Gras and the white one spits out a tooth. She sucks her own front teeth, which aren’t bad considering she’s never been to the dentist, and then she fumbles around in a pile of dirty clothes for a lip gloss.

Mom, she yells, I’m going out, and the front door slams behind her.

* * *

She walks along his driveway to the back of his house, through the white iron gate stuttering on a broken hinge. She’s not even trying to be quiet, but nobody hears the dry grass cracking under her feet. She looks through his bedroom window; a poster of a cartoon character and some skateboard stickers are stuck to the wall. He’s sleeping in his jeans with the lights on, his sneakers filthy on the blanket. After a while Mrs. Hoff comes in with a microwave dinner. He eats it there on the bed, by himself, sometimes using a plastic fork, sometimes his fingers. When he drinks his milk his Adam’s apple jumps. He wipes his mouth with the neck of his shirt and when he’s finished eating he looks at the wall, his mouth open. His mother doesn’t come back in. At one point he laughs, a single hard sound. She taps on his window but it’s too dark for him to see her and he just stares at the glass, looking at himself.

* * *

The next night she waits for him at dusk, walking the block back and forth and listening for the sound of his skateboard. Soon enough he comes out of his house, arms flung out at his sides.

Hi you, she says. He stops, holding his board by the lip, breathing hard through his mouth.

Hi.

Where are you going?

Nowhere, he says.

You wanna come over to my house? Hang out?

She takes his hand, which is damp but cool, almost rubbery. His fingers are limp. She squeezes.

You can bring your skateboard, she says. Come on.

She leads him down the street and into her dark house. As she opens her bedroom door Frog stops.

It’s okay, she says, just relax, and he follows her inside. They stumble over clothes and shoes as she takes him to her bed and they sit side by side, their knees touching.

I bet you’ve been waiting to see this again, Natalie says, and slides the magazine out from under her pillow.

Yeah, he says.

We can share, she says, opening the magazine over their laps. You tell me which one you like best.

She turns the pages. Frog stares, his head moving slowly as she directs him to each new page.

How about this one? she asks, and he nods and says, Yeah.

What do you like about her?

She has pretty hair, he says.

What about her pussy? Do you like that?

Yeah.

You want to fuck her?

Yeah.

You ever seen a girl without her clothes on? Not in a magazine, but a real girl?

No? he says, like a question. She laughs. He’s like a plant, alive but volitionless; she can’t see any sign that he is actually thinking. This is kind of sad to her, but also kind of funny. He smells like corn chips.

You just sit there, she says, and I’ll show you.

She pushes the magazine to the floor and stands up. She pulls her top over her head, then steps out of her skirt, forgetting the hole in her underwear, the torn lace on her bra. She starts grinding her hips, arching her back, flipping her hair, humming. She does all the things she’s wanted to do with other guys but felt too embarrassed to: dance, pose, put her head back, touch herself.