BOUNDARIES: A Louisiana Love Story (Post 21)

Note: To learn more about Penelope Przekop's novel, BOUNDARIES, and to start reading at the beginning, go here!

Chapter 9: Mark (continued)

Give to everyone who asks you, and if anyone takes what belongs to you, do not demand it back.

Luke 6:30

A week passes. Fairies flutter through the night sprinkling dust on the heads and souls of normal people. Whether alone or wrapped in each other's arms, they close their eyes. One by one, their world grows small and dark and quiet while I defy normal. I stand alone in the middle of their street, in the middle of their world. I throw my head back and look to the sky. Only mosquitoes flutter around what's left of me  But I can feel the forward movement of my life. It shoots like a star through the darkness while their world simply waits. It feels good and powerful and wrong.
     I can still hear Becca’s radio. Her white Fiero is almost at the end of the street. The brake lights flash red as the car slows. She only stops briefly, like most people would on a deserted neighborhood street at two-thirty in the morning. Within seconds her car turns and drives out of sight.
     I sit on the curb across from the medical student’s house, wondering if I should knock on his door after all. I’m sure I belong on that curb, at that moment, although being there doesn’t make sense. If I’d had one more set of Tuesday night two-for-one daiquiris, I’d already be in his bedroom, or in Matt’s.
     The medical student’s large, old house sits between two smaller ones. On the left, an insect repelling light shines from the latticework porch. Hundreds of marigolds crowd beneath the front windows. The yellow light enhances their color so much that I wonder if they’re real. A small tricycle lies deserted on the immaculate yard of the house to the right. His house sits on a plain bed of overgrown grass. There are no flowers. No light.
     I join the tips of my thumbs, pointing the rest of my fingers toward the sky like a director or photographer searching for the perfect picture. After several moments of squinting and moving my hands around, I find what I’m looking for. My lens captures the image of loneliness. My hands fall limp as I realize I’m an integral part of that picture. I wish someone else were here and could photograph me along with it. It would be a definition of Peyton that I could hold in my hand. I could hold it up and say, “This is who I am.” But I smile, knowing the picture is about to change. I intend to wake the medical student. Lured from the curb by my optimistic plan, I creep toward the house.
     I push the doorbell but don’t hear a ring. I put my ear against the door and push again. Still nothing. I push it three more times and then step back. Maybe it’s for the best. I should just get out of here.
     The medical school looms from five or six blocks away. If I can find a phone there, I'll call Becca. Maybe she’ll come back. I stare at the doorknob, knowing it’s useless. I begged her to leave me at his house. She’ll be furious if she has to come back. She didn’t realize I’d been driven there by much more than her tiny Fiero.
     The demons are starving and I’ve run out of feed; I need to make a new mistake—a wrong choice. She thought I should go to Peter’s, but I knew that wouldn’t work. The demons aren’t hungry for the taste of Peter, but he is their ticket to Matt. Every time I come close to Peter, Matt stands between us, arms outstretched—his left hand clasped around Peter’s neck, and his right fused into my heart. Matt has seen my demons. We both knew what ate at him each time we were together, each time I chose to bang on his door, and each time he gave in, pulling me through.
     I pound on the door. It must be three inches thick. I can’t hear my fists beating on the wood. It’s hopeless. The longer I stand, pounding away, the more desperate I become. My hands go stiff. They ache. But nobody comes. I twist and pull at the doorknob. I’m such an idiot! I run my hands through my hair and take a deep breath. Mosquitoes hover around me so I shake my head like a dog.
     Determined not to give up, I make my way around the side of the house. Once in the back, I see a faint light coming from a small window on the first floor. It’s four or five feet above the ground and I assume it’s a bathroom. I stoop below the window and poke my head up just enough to peek in. Ruffled white curtains block my view. Without considering the consequences, I reach up and give the window a shove. It moves easily, although I expected it to be locked. I push back the curtains and hoist myself through the window so that my head and torso stick out into the dimly lit room. Sweat dribbles down my neck. I want to wipe it away, but if I move, I’ll fall.
     It looks like a woman’s bedroom.
     I try to focus on the objects near the dim light shining from the far side of the room. My eyes narrow and then, through the shadows, I see a man’s face. The smallest reading light I’ve ever seen is attached to his headboard. “Hello,” he says. I freeze as I realize a woman is lying next to him. When I don’t answer or move, he says, “I said hello.”
     “I knocked on the door but nobody answered,” I whisper. It’s all the voice I can muster, my drunken eyes darting about. “Does anybody else live here?” I can’t believe how stupid I sound. The windowsill is slicing me in half. I struggle to shift my weight but can’t relieve the pain.
     “Yeah, which one are you lookin’ for?” he says as if he isn’t the least bit surprised to see me.
     “I’m not sure.” I want to torpedo out and run away as fast as I can, but I continue to hang half in, half out of the small window.
     “You don’t even know his name? This really takes the cake.” The woman lying next to him stirs and he sits perfectly still as if to avoid waking her. I expect him to at least set his book down, but his fingers seem fused to the cover. “You know, it’s none of my business, besides the fact that you’re climbin’ through my bedroom window, but I don’t think you’re doin’ a wise thing here. Especially since you don’t even know who it is you’re lookin’ for.” His face grows distinct while the rest of the room fades away.
     Silence.
     Finally, he shakes his head, and says, “You’re lookin’ for Mark or Andrew. Mark is blond, fair skin, kind of tall. Andrew has dark hair.” He looks down at his book as if he can just pick up where he left off.
     I wish I could do that.
     “He’s not here,” he finally said.
     “Which one’s not here?”
     “Andrew.”
     “Mark,” I say. “I’m lookin’ for Mark.”
     “You’re sure now?” His words hit me like spit. “Most girls are lookin’ for Andrew.”
     “I’m sure.”
     Continuing to stare at his book, he says, “Go around to the door and I’ll let you in. Just be quiet.”
     I back myself out of the window, toppling into the tall grass. It cushions my fall; I don’t feel any thing. I scramble to my feet and run to the front of the house as if I won a prize. I also know there’s a chance the strange reading man might change his mind.     
     Once in Mark’s room, I know I’ve made a mistake. He rips off his shirt and throws it on the floor. “You’re either the bravest person I’ve ever met—or the stupidest.” His thin, but nicely muscled chest has pink, fat nipples. I don’t like his hairless skin.
     “Probably the stupidest.”
     “Why did you come here anyway?”
     I allowed him to share my speaker dance. I slept with him that night. I’d even talked to him, but he’s still a stranger. He’s worse than a stranger. “Well, I thought we had a good time the other night and …” My voice fades. I’m not sure what to say. My plan isn’t working.
     He puts his arm around my shoulders, pulling me toward him. “To be honest, it was the best sex I’ve ever had, but I still don’t think it’s right for you to crawl through a window into my house in the middle of the night.” There’s no fire in his eyes, only truth. I hoped he would at least be angry. I crave reactions.
     “Then why don’t you want to see me again?”
     His arm falls away and his face begins to twitch. “I don’t usually act like that. I was drunk.”
     “How can you feel bad about somethin’ that felt so good?”
     “It might have felt good but it didn’t feel right,” he says, looking uncomfortable. “Surely you know that.”
     “Can you take me home then?” I ask as nicely as I can.
     “You didn’t lose your car again?”
     “My friend dropped me off.”
     “Jesus! No, I’m sorry but I’m not takin’ you anywhere. I have to work tomorrow. You can sleep on that couch over there and get a cab tomorrow. What kind of friend would do that?”
     “It wasn’t her fault. I forced her. I told her you knew I was comin’. She knows I brought you home last weekend. She knows what happened.” I didn’t tell him Becca is also doing whatever she can to help me avoid Matt.
     He doesn’t respond, but instead walks around the room as if carrying out a bedtime ritual. He checks his alarm clock and the locks on his windows.
     “Cain’t you just take me home tomorrow?” I ask.
     “Don’t you have to work or go to school or somethin’?”
     “I’m off tomorrow.”
     “That figures,” he says as he walks past me to get in the bed. I slap my hands onto his hairless chest and try to kiss him, but he jerks away. “Listen, I don’t wanna upset you, but you don’t seem like the kind of person I should get involved with.” He stares at my shoulders and chest. ”I’ll be your friend.” I see the recognition in his face as he stares at my brand, the blistering sore my clothes can’t hide. I fight the urge to tell him that I don’t really like him anyway and that I only came because I was desperate to get away from someone else—someone who wouldn’t turn me away.
     “I don’t see why you have to be so mean," I say.  "It was basically a compliment for me to come here.”
     He sits on the bed and looks me in the eye. “You didn’t even remember my name.” I know he doesn’t care enough about me to be cruel. He’s merely stating a fact. He checks his alarm again and pulls the blankets over his hairless legs. “You and I both know that last weekend was just … a thang.”
     I sit on the couch, staring at him. “But I thought you liked me.” He turns off the lamp beside his bed and darkness swallows me. “You said I was a nice girl.”
     “I did like you, but that was before I knew you as well as I do now.”
     “What’s wrong with me?”
     “You tried to break into my house. Don’t you think that’s enough?”
   

The next day my rear end sinks down to the frame of their old plaid couch. The cushions are too soft; they envelope me, forcing my legs to cross. The wife of the man whose window I climbed through clips coupons at her cheap kitchen table. She’s at least twenty-five—a real adult. I watch her through the narrow door between the living room and the kitchen. She reads each coupon for several moments, then clips along the dotted lines as if she’s ten and they are paper dolls. She then places the coupons into piles. “Are you sure you don’t want me to call you a cab?” she asks without looking up.
     “It’s okay, I’ll wait for Mark.”
     “I really don’t mind, if you wanna use the phone.”
     “I don’t mind waitin’. He said he’ll take me home when he gets off work.” I don’t have any money, but there’s no way I’m going to tell her. I feel dumb enough as it is. Besides not having money, I don’t want to take a cab. I’m not sure why, but I’ve always thought they were scary. I’ve never ridden in one nor has anyone I know. Cabs aren’t big Shreveport.
     “It’s gonna be a while. He doesn’t get off work until four. It would be a lot easier (for you, I mean), if I could just call a cab.”
     Silence.
     I slept as long as I could, forcing myself to go back to sleep at least six times. It was nearly one o’clock when I finally gave up, admitting that I couldn’t sleep anymore. Even then, I tried to stay in his room, but began to feel claustrophobic. When I came downstairs and saw her, I assumed she’d understand—that she’d be my friend.
     As the afternoon dawdled on, she continues to sit at the kitchen table clipping and sorting. I’ve never seen so many coupons in my life. She gets up every now and then, but for no clear reason. She aimlessly walks around, picking things up, moving them to new places. The few times she speaks, she makes every effort to avoid looking directly at me. Every twenty minutes she asks if I want to call a cab.
     I begin to hate her. She branded me all by herself before I even came down the stairs and as I descended into their communal living room, she smelled the extent of my disease. She finds no personal value in knowing me; her hands have no chance of touching me, nor do they want to. She only fears the fumes will infiltrate her clothes and hair and life. All afternoon she tries to keep her distance. If it were up to her, she would throw me to the lepers.
     My hatred simmers, my wounded soul oozes, and finally, because I'm bored, my mind begins to plan her demise. First, I’ll strip off my dirty clothes and run my unwashed body over her meager belongings. I’ll writhe on the floor that her bare feet walk upon. Then I’ll clutch her pretty head with my diseased hands. Her deafening screams will not be heard. There will be no savior. No one will stop me from infecting her perfect life. I will pry open her perfumed pores and the most powerful fiend within me will squeeze through my blistering life and claim dominion over hers. It scratches at the backside of my skin. It’s hungry and she’s ripe.
     “Are you sure you don’t want me to call a cab? Do you need money? I can lend you some money.”
     She has something I want, but at the same time, I don’t want to be like her. “No, I don’t need a thang. I’m fine.”
     She sighs and picks up a box of tissues.
     Just when I can’t bear to be in their house for another second, Mark bursts through the front door. I jump out of the deep hole I’ve sunk into on the couch. Two guys I don’t know, but have seen around, follow him through the door. His mouth drops open. He says, “Why didn’t you call her a cab?”
     The coupon lady stares at him, stomps into her bedroom, and slams the door.
     “I wanted to wait for you,” I say.
     He stares at his friends in disbelief as they both look at me. Introductions aren’t necessary. It’s obvious they know all about me. They stare at my wrinkled clothes and disheveled hair as if I’m inhuman, as if I’m a naked plastic Barbie doll.
     I’m trash.
     Mark rolls his eyes. “You’re gonna have to wait a few minutes. I have to change,” he says, running up the stairs.
     “So, do you think you’ll go? He finally got his Jacuzzi in.” The sexy, dark-haired guy stares at me although he’s obviously talking to his friend. “Said he feels like pissing in it after all the shit he went through.” He doesn’t have a southern accent.
     “I should.” The other guy strolls into the kitchen. I wonder how many people live in the house. “Hey, Andrew, you got a beer in here?”
     “In the fridge—bring me one, too.”
     What about me?
     “We should live it up now. It’s gonna be hell when school starts.”
     “Just relax,” Andrew says as he plopped down on the couch next to me. “It’s not worth it.”
     I sink lower into the soft cushions and listen as their voices echo between the hardwood floor and the high ceiling of the old house. By the time Mark jogs down the stairs wearing shorts and sandals, I’ve memorized the details of the pool party they’re all going to on the following weekend.

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Chapter 10 coming this week. 

To find out what BOUNDARIES is about and start reading at the beginning. go here.

BOUNDARIES is Penelope Przekop's first novel. It's a work of fiction based on true events. Since writing BOUNDARIES, she has completed two other novels. ABERRATIONS was published by Greenleaf Book Group in 2008. CENTERPIECES is currently being considered by several publishers. Penelope is working on her fourth novel, DUST.