Bleed (8 page)

S
ATURDAY
, A
UGUST
12, 2:45
P.M
.

So I’m just starting my shift at Red’s, and in she walks. Just like that. Just after seeing her at the video store, like, twenty minutes ago. She even takes a seat at my station. Like after all this time of bumping into each other but not really saying anything, we’re finally going to meet. And I think, this time I’m definitely going to talk to her.

The first time I saw her was at the beginning of last year. It was at this party I went to with a girl my parents asked me to take out—this girl Kelly from school, the daughter of some friends of theirs. I didn’t talk to her then,
because
I was with Kelly,
and
because she wasn’t the kind of girl I normally went for. Not that she’s butt or anything. She’s cute.
Really
cute. Long black hair tucked behind her ears. Hula-girl hips, and a pretty fine rack. Darkish skin and huge, light brown eyes. She looks like she’s Asian or Hawaiian or something, like a foreign-exchange chick from some tropical island.

She saw me, too. I know she did. We sort of played eye-tag all night, but she saw I was with that Kelly chick. And she was with some guy, too, some short guy with dreads, some guy who obviously didn’t know that dreads went out with raver jeans.

I saw her a few more times after that. Once at the newsstand when I was with Debbie, this skank I was seeing. She walked right by us, smiled at me, picked up a package of bubble gum cigarettes, smiled again, bought it, and left.

About a month later, it was at Starbucks. She was sitting in the corner, reading some book. I was about to go up and talk to her, but then it was my turn in line, and the guy behind the counter had been trying to get my attention, and there were all these people behind me getting pissed off because I had my head up my ass, gawking at some girl. Then she looked up and saw that I was just staring at her, like a pervert or something, getting all these people pissed, and so I tried to act cool, like they were the ones with the problem, and ordered a large Coolatta.
A fucking large Coolatta at a Starbucks.
The guy at the counter told me I was in the wrong place, and so I agreed, like I was lost or something, and left. I just left—my fucking tail caught between my fucking legs.

Today I’m not leaving. And neither is she. Not until we actually speak to each other.

She’s sitting at the counter, her hair up in one of those bunlike things, with these long wooden sticks puncturing the center from both sides. And she’s got this huge pocket-book. It’s made up of all these different colored strings and fabrics, like she put it together herself with stuff she had lying around the house. I wonder what she has in there, why she needs a bag that big. She unzips it, takes out a pair of glasses—black rectangular ones. She puts them on and picks up the menu.

“You’ve got someone at Eight,” my mother yells out to me.

No shit I’ve got someone at Eight. I realize I’m just standing here, resting my ass against the cash register drawer, chain-eating the fries off somebody’s dirty plate, almost forgetting the fact that, since she’s at my station, I actually have to go up and talk to her.

Seeing her today at Movie Mayhem would have been the perfect time to say something to her. I almost did; I had the line I was going to use down and everything. I was gonna say, “What’s the one film you can name that has altered your way of thinking most profoundly?” Total snatch material. But then this old guy intercepted me to try and get in her pants.

I couldn’t believe his routine. He kept asking her all these questions about movies he’d pick up off the rack, if she thought his niece would like them. Like she’d freakin’ know. She tried to ignore him for the most part, but that didn’t seem to shake him, and then I hear her ask, “Well, what kind of movies does your niece like?” And he says, “She really likes Stephen Kings.” So she says, “Why not check out the Horror section?” And then he just sits there and stares at her for, like, half a minute and says, “Because
you’re
checking out the New Releases.” Total freakin’ perv. So then I hear him ask her if she’d like to come join them at
his
place for the King marathon.

She says no—big surprise. But then she whispers in his ear, and his mouth sort of drops open in this you’re-such-a-bitch face. She smiles at him, then at me, grabs some slasher flick off the shelf, pays Pimple Boy behind the cash register, and then leaves. Before I have the chance to talk to her.

I grab a handful of utensils and a paper napkin and go to set them up in front of her, but the fork drops out of my hand, slides across the counter, and almost lands in her lap. Luckily she’s able to catch it just in time. I’m such a total fuck-up.

“Sorry,” I say “I can get you another one.”

“No, thank you,” she says. “I prefer this one.” She kisses the prongs and sets the fork down on the napkin.

I look at her place setting and notice I’ve given her three extra spoons. I’m tempted to take them back, but maybe she won’t notice. Maybe she’ll even need three extra. I review all the spoonable items on the menu—soup, pudding, coffee, tea, grapefruit …

“Well?” she says.

“Well
what?”

“Do you have a menu? I might like to order some food items.”

“Right.” I try to laugh it off and hand her one of the clean, laminated ones from under the counter. I don’t know why I’m so nervous; usually I’m able to keep it cool around girls. I mean, I’ve been with
a lot
of girls before.

“How are you feeling today?” she asks.

Do I look sick? “Fine, and you?”

“So
good.” She swivels her seat back and forth, like the stool’s a carnival ride or something, then makes one full spin around.

“We have some specials today.” I flip to a fresh page in my order pad, trying my best to get my fingers to work right. I press the pencil point into the paper to stop the shaking, and look at her, and now
she’s
the one staring at
me.
“What can I get you?” I ask.

“What were those specials again?”

Oh, yeah, the specials.

She lets out this girl-giggle, like it’s no secret I’m completely sweatin’ her. I can feel my face get all hot and red, and I’m trying my best not to laugh at myself.

“BLT with french fries and cole slaw for five fifty,” I say, conscious that my eyes are welded to the goddamned ceiling. “Meat loaf with gravy, corn, and mashed for five ninety-nine. And spaghetti with meat sauce and meatballs for five twenty-five.”

“Hmm …” She makes a face, like nothing I’ve told her sounds appetizing. “I might need a short interval to decide.”

“Okay … sure.” I turn around and face the cash register, pretend to type something in, feel stupid doing it, but end up ringing up a fried fish sandwich and a chocolate milk shake for the hell of it, then voiding it all out. My mother yells over to me, asks me what I’m doing, and suddenly I wish
I
was the one getting fried.

Calm down, I tell myself. Just talk to her. Just be cool.

I take a deep breath, tell my mom I’m all set, turn back around, and the girl is standing up, slinging that huge-ass purse over her shoulder, readying herself to leave. She smiles at me as she slides the menu between the salt and sugar shakers. But then this guy walks in, this Sean-guy from school, who, coincidentally, is now the boyfriend of that Kelly-girl I went to the party with. He comes up to the counter, and her eyes are all over him.

“Your aura has a murky haze,” she says, grabbing at the crystal thing that hangs around her neck—this sticklike piece with points at both ends.

Sean gives her a weird look like he has no clue what she’s talking about, grabs a bunch of napkins from the dispenser, and blots them into the gash in his hand. Heinous.

“You’re bleeding,” she says, like it isn’t completely obvious. She opens that big-mother purse of hers and takes out a long scarf.

“I’m all set,” he says.

But she wraps the scarf around his palm anyway, changing the bloody napkins first, even getting some blood on her fingers.

What the hell was he thinking by coming in here? This isn’t some drop-in clinic.

“Hey, Sean,” I say. “I got a first-aid kit in the back. You wanna take it into the bathroom?”

But he ignores me, no surprise. The guy totally despises me. There was some stuff that went around after that party. Stuff about me and Kelly. Basically, I tagged her that night and she ended up wanting more. Like, relationship-more. I didn’t want one then, but I wouldn’t mind it now. Especially with this chick.

She finishes dressing the wound like she’s Clara-fuckin’-Barton or something, and then cleans off her hand with a napkin and some ice water. “You’ll have lunch with me, won’t you?” she asks him. “I want to hear how you wounded yourself. How your aura got so murky.” She holds on to the scarf-covered hand like she doesn’t want to let him go, plops down on a stool, and signals for me to come and wait on her. “I’ll have the garden salad with pocket bread,” she says. “And an iced tea with lemon and honey.”

“What can I get you, Sean?” I ask.

He ignores me again and turns to her. “Thanks for the scarf,” he says, “but I gotta go. I gotta flat tire waiting for me outside.”

“So, you don’t want anything?” I say.

“You’re a quick one,” he says to me.

Fuck you, I smile, since the girl is here. I slap her order up on the turnstile, send it for a spin, and then go to make her drink. I slice a nice thick wedge of lemon, just the way I like it, stab it to the rim of her glass, and place her drink down in front of her.

It’s been weird between me and Sean ever since he and Kelly started going out. We were never great friends, but at least we could talk every once and a while. I’ve wanted to say stuff to him about it, even tell him that I feel sort of bad about what happened.

Sean pitches a wad of napkins and then leaves. And the girl looks like she could cry.

“Thanks for helping him out,” I say.

“He needs more help than a scarf.”

No shit.

“Order up,” my father calls from behind the grill. He pokes one of those plastic sword toothpicks into her pocket salad to make it look pretty, and then adds a sprig of parsley to the coleslaw. My dad knows me so well.

I decide to follow his lead. Decide I’m going to cheer this girl up, give her the complete LaPointe charm. This is my family’s diner, for God’s sake. I’ve got the home-court advantage. I can surprise her with dessert and fresh coffee, and even throw away the bill at the end. I take the plate and set it in front of her. “Anything else I can get for you?” I ask.

“No thanks, this looks delectable.”

“So, do you go to school around here?” I ask.

“Yeah,” she says. “The School of Mearl, ever hear of it?”

I shake my head.

“It’s the one where you can sleep all day, slam poetry all night, howl at the moon, dance under the stars, feast on sweet conversation and a spicy ocean breeze—and bathing and clothing are optional.” She takes the lemon wedge and sucks it like a tequila lime. “Wanna join?”

“Sign me up.”

“Hi,” she says, sticking her hand out. “I’m Mearl. That’s pearl with an M.” Then she laughs, withdraws her hand before I can shake it.

“Derik,” I say.

“It’s superb to meet you, Derik.”

Superb.
This girl is cool.

Aside from the few people that sit at my station, it’s a pretty slow afternoon, and me and Mearl end up talking all through her lunch and through the Grape-Nuts custard I make her try.

“So you wanna set time together?” she asks me.

“Set time?”

“Yeah, you know … hang out for a while.”

“Definitely.” I give my dad the heads-up about what’s going on. He doesn’t care that I take off for a while. I think he’s actually glad to let me go for the cause. He knows it’s been kind of dry for me lately.

I ask her where she wants to go, and she tells me Danvers State. As in the hospital. As in the asylum.

“Why would you want to go there?”

“Because I want to see what it’s like,” she says. “Experience that space and all the old souls.”

“You know it’s closed.”

“I know. I’ve researched.”

“So no one’s there anymore.”

“Of course they’re there. Just because there aren’t actual physical people there doesn’t mean the souls don’t linger.”

I know that I should run the other way. That in normal circumstances I would label her a freak and move on to the next, but these are no normal circumstances and this is no ordinary girl.

“Have you ever visited?” she asks.

“Yeah,” I say. “I’ve been there once or twice. My friends and I broke in a couple times last year—to drink and hang out. Stupid stuff.”

“Will you take me there?” she asks. And she’s looking at me, into my eyes, like she really cares what I have to say. So how can I say no?

We hop into my truck, and we’re talking and laughing about favorite superheroes and Cheez Whiz versus string cheese. And she’s asking me questions and laughing at my jokes, like she really means it. Like she’s really into me.

“Have you lived in Salem all your life?” she asks.

“Yeah. Pretty lame, huh?”

“Why is it lame?”

“I don’t know. You’ve probably traveled around to some really great places.”

“Yeah, but it isn’t the same. I mean, growing up here, living in a city where the people have known you since forever … I think it’s pretty luminous.”

“Luminous?”

She nods like I get what she’s saying.

“I don’t know.” I shrug. “I guess it’s different if you’ve always been stuck here, you know, kind of boring.”

“You’re interesting, Derik.” She licks the seal of a bubble gum cigarette and taps along the length to make sure it’s closed.

“You’re the one who’s interesting.” I position the rearview mirror to watch her. She pops the end of the cigarette into her mouth and blows, sending a puff of sugar smoke out the tip. The cigarette looks so good between her teeth, between those pale pink lips.