BOUNDARIES: A Louisiana Love Story (Post 24)

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

Chapter 10: Andrew (continued)

But the sun came up, the plants were scorched, and they withered because they had no root.

Mark 4:6

A few weeks later, Matt stands like a ghost on my concrete slab. Rather than recognizing his face, I notice his body as he disappears through the tight boundary between my building and the next. The heavy grocery bag I’m holding slips, falling to the pavement. Its contents spill across the parking lot. The eggs crack and the apple juice jar explodes. I watch a lone jelly jar roll under someone’s car before hopping over the scattered mess to run after him.
     Holding my breath, I slither through the narrow, dirty space that leads to the garden. There’s no time to find the true path. I crash through the thick, green foliage. Branches and leaves slap my face, arms, and legs. Ignoring the sting, I run in a crazy path of my own creation, knowing that if I just keep running I’ll intercept the paved walkway that winds in circles through the small man-made jungle. Outdoor lamps hang every ten or so feet, but numerous tall, bushy plants steal the light away. My feet finally hit the true path. I call Matt’s name over and over again, hoping my voice will somehow lead me to him like a string.
     But something beyond merely finding him keeps me running in circles. He led me to a place I was hesitant to revisit. I consider that maybe he is ordinary after all. Maybe he isn’t as smart as I believe, and just maybe, he doesn’t have all the answers. But he came into my life and shed a new, completely different light over who I am. He somehow gave me a clue about who I can be.
     The joy I feel running into that odd jungle without thought or fear is exquisite. The confidence that something I’ve wanted for so long is waiting for me keeps me in motion. I’m not afraid of the insects or the darkness or the demons. I run, calling his name long after I know he’s gone or that I only imagined him there in the first place.
     When I finally return to the front of my apartment building, prepared to assess the grocery spill, I find him. He’s leaning against his car at the far end of the parking lot, his leg crossed nonchalantly over the other. Bathed in the streetlight he appears like Gatsby, so real that he can never be forgotten—real enough to change lives.
     But not real at all.
     He holds out his arms and I go between them as if it’s the next step in my long, lonely journey. My body melts into his the way I merged into my mother’s long ago. There’s no gaping hole between us. It’s been a long time, too long, since I’ve felt that embrace.
     He says, “I wanna make love to you outside.” His wine-filled breath washes over me. I swoon, realizing that he’s finally given in to much more than just alcohol. He shudders in anticipation. “I know a place,” he says urgently, as if afraid he’ll change his mind. “I wanna be outside.”
     We drive several miles from the city. Field after field of corn and cotton line the two-lane highway, ushering us toward the inevitable. He finally turns onto a small dirt road that’s barely visible and comes to a stop on the side of a large cornfield. The car headlights point through long hallways created by stalks that rise nearly seven feet. They aren’t ready for harvesting, but I know it will soon be time. We leave the car and I follow him down one of the dirt corridors, away from the headlights that guide our way. Soon, we find ourselves standing in darkness, on the edge of another field.
     But it’s barren—like me.
     He leads me over the rolling mounds of dirt toward a gigantic tree. He rushes ahead as if he’s been there before. I can barely keep up with him. “How do you know about this place?” I ask.
     He doesn’t answer and I wonder if he heard me.
     “I wonder why this field’s not planted,” I say as I hurry after him. I stop when I see his outstretched arms. His head eases back until he stares into the night sky. He turns in a slow circle and says, “Maybe the soil’s bad.” Then he hurries toward the tree. He plops down on one of the tree’s giant exposed roots and surveys the surroundings while I struggle to catch up. From a distance, the tree appears to be at the center of the field, but it actually stands on the boundary between two unplanted fields. “Somethin’s definitely wrong with the soil here,” he says as I approach. “This tree’s dead.”
     I sit down beside him, trying to catch my breath. “But all the other fields are fine. Why would this dirt be bad? It doesn’t make any sense.”
     I’m sure there’s an explanation,” he says. “There’s always an explanation.”
     I remember when Dr. Broussard said the same thing. “But don’t you think it’s kind of weird?” I ask.
     “Forget it. It’s not important.”
     We sit, side by side, staring into the distance. “I don’t know what matters anymore,” I say. “What is important?”
     He kisses my cheek and whispers, “This is where we are; that’s all that matters.” He pulls me down into the dirt. “That’s all I care about right now.”

     “Nobody’s watching—except God maybe.”
     “Sometimes I don’t want him watchin’ either,” I say, still trying to look around in the darkness.
     “You cain’t do much about that. He’s either there or he’s not.”
     “It’s irrelevant?” I ask.
     “Exactly.” His breathless body pushes into mine with such force that my toes dig farther into the soil.
     “Why did you come tonight?” I ask.
     “Please don’t talk. Don’t ask me that.” He moans as I wrap my legs around him. “I don’t know the answer. I’m not as smart as you think. Some thangs are just too hard for me.” The flat field turns around me and the tree falls over me. My arms shoot out and cling to the roots that cradle me as a ripping pain tears through my back. Despite the intensity, I continue to thrust against him with curled toes buried in the soil, arms clasped around rough roots, and eyes toward heaven. I hope the ecstasy will erase the pain. I let him assume my screams are cries of passion. It feels right to be torn in half by him, by God, there, beneath invisible stars that will never fall.
     In the end, he lays across my body as if the very thing that caused the field to be barren and the tree to die has killed him, too. When he stirs, he wraps his arms around me, making the searing pain in my back worse. “Do you see what I see up there,” I ask, although I know he isn’t looking.
     “I see it,” he says. “I don’t know what it is, but I see it.” He speaks slow and sad, and I wonder what he’s thinking. I rub his back in an attempt to comfort him. The pain in my own is becoming impossible to ignore. The corn moans as the hot breeze blows through their lonely, dark hallways.
     “You once said that I’d do anything for love,” I say. “But you don’t understand. It’s not just love. I’d do anything for your love … out here in the dark, lying in the dirt, tree roots cuttin’ my back.” I begin to cry. “I cain’t forget about you. I’ve tried to forget. I tried. It hurts.”
     All I can hear are the deep labored gulps of air he’s pulling in.
     I say, “I think I’m bleedin’.”
     He sits up, pulling his arm from beneath my back. He feels my blood between his fingers.
     I pull his hand toward me. “And you came to me tonight. You came to me.”
     He resists until his hand pops free. “Let me see your back.”
     “No—just hold me.” I sit up against him and kiss his face. I don’t care about anythang but you and me. I don’t want anythang to ruin it. I wanna stay here forever.”
     “Peyton, you’re gonna bleed to death.”
     I put my hand in his and feel the slimy blood. It seems to be the only life around us and it’s mine to give. I trace a line of red around his mouth. He shudders and takes my fingers in his mouth. A steady stream of blood runs down my back onto the dead tree and into the weak soil. I feel it now. We’re no longer deaf or mute, but something dumb holds on, a numbness that enables me to deny the pain.
     “Your love should be for me, not for my love,” he says. “There’s a difference.”
     “It is—you just won’t let me love you. I’m not gonna to stop tryin’. You don’t want me to stop, do you?”
     ”No,” he says.
     I’ll never forget that one tiny word and how he said it.
     “Then say you love me,” I insist, back throbbing.
     “I cain’t.”
     My wound gapes open and a rush of stinging air fills the hole. “Say it.”
     “Peyton, you have to get up. Let me look at your back.”
     “No!” I fall back down onto the ground, shaking my head, grinding dirt into my hair. As my body rocks between the roots, the pain grows until I finally stop and lay still.
     “You’re makin’ it worse.”
     “I don’t care.”
     “You have to care. That’s your problem,” he says. “You don’t care about the stuff you’re supposed to care about.” He reaches down, grabs my arms, and jerks me up. Then he crouches down like a dog, his face close to the dirt. I stare at his naked body as he combs the ground, looking for what injured me. “My parents would disown me, cut me off, and stop payin’ for med school if they knew I was here with you.” His voice is barely audible. “My dad doesn’t give second chances. He told me this would happen. I should have listened.” He sits up on his knees and holds a large piece of jagged brown glass toward me. “Broken beer bottle.”
     “It’s not fair. We have some kind of connection. I don’t understand it, but its there. You cain’t deny it. You’ve got to make your own choices.”
     I’m not denyin’ it tonight.” He tosses the sharp weapon far out into the field. “I do want you. I always have,” he says to the piece of glass as it flies away forever. We watch it glisten in the moonlight until it disappears.
     “Then why cain’t you love me?”
     “I cain’t explain it.” He blots my back with his shirt and examines the gash. “This is bad,” he says. “You’re gonna need stitches.”
     “Please don’t hurt me. I don’t want you to hurt me anymore.”
     “It’s gonna be alright, but we have to get dressed. I’ll take you to the emergency room.” He looks around as if afraid someone is there, watching. “I’ll stay with you.”
     As we hurry across the field, I look back at the painful bed we shared. Through the darkness, I’m sure I see some growth in the shallow moonlight.

_________________________________________________   

Chapter 11 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.

BOUNDARIES: A Louisiana Love Story (Post 23)

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

Chapter 10: Andrew (continued)
 
If a blind man leads a blind man, they will both fall into a pit.

Matthew 15:14

When I get to my mother's apartment, she pulls me into a hug that once again promises what it never seems to deliver. “What’s wrong?” she asks. Her soft skin brushes against my nearly naked body. She strokes my short hair. As a child, my body seemed to melt into hers when necessary. Now, my back curls at an unnatural angle, creating a hole between us. I stand, hunched against her for as long as I can. I close my eyes and take deep breaths filled with Chanel No. 5 until my back aches.
     “I just wish you could understand me,” I say, trying to move away from her clinging arms.
     She holds my hand and leads me to her sofa. We sink into its luxurious softness and she tries to cuddle me under her arm but it’s awkward. I’m too big. “Why on Earth are you runnin’ around in your bathin’ suit?” she asks.
     “I was at a pool party.”
     “Did somethin’ happen to upset you?” Her concerned face is blind, as if from birth. There’s no possible way to explain.
     “No, I just didn’t know anybody and I got lonely,” I say, both lying and telling the truth.
     “Where’s Becca? Why didn’t she go?”
     “I didn’t call her. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I wanna be alone but, at the same time, I feel so lonely.” I crack my knuckles, my brand of hand wringing.
     She smiles, determined to cheer me up. “Why don’t I fix some nice bacon, lettuce and tomato sandwiches? We can sit out on the balcony and talk. I just got the cutest new iron table. This is perfect timing.” Her smile grows as my heart shrinks, beaten down by Matt’s failure and my possible hand in it. She says, “We can sit out there and have our own little luncheon.”
     Without waiting for an answer, she goes to the kitchen.  From where I sit, I watch her pull food out of the refrigerator; it's more than I've eaten in the last week. “Do you remember that dream you had about bein’ born?” she yells from the kitchen. “Have you thought about that lately?”
     I don't think yelling is necessary.
     “I don’t wanna think about it," I say. "It wasn’t a good dream.” I move to the small glass-top table next to the kitchen so that we can hear each other a little better. “And I wasn’t born. I was trapped in some horrible place; it was a nightmare.” I look down through the table, staring at my thighs. They're spread over the chair like one big leg; there’s no space between them. “It was just one dream. I have a lot of dreams. That’s just the last one I remember.”
     “I just thought it was interestin’, that’s all.” She pulls the wilted outer layers from the head of lettuce and throws them into the sink. “You really should think about it.”
     I push my chair back so I can lay my cheek flat on the table. The glass cools my face and the lingering scent of Windex burns my eyes. I realize that her new handful of colorful medications must be helping; it makes me happy despite my bad day.
     She says, “You know, Peyton, I know you’re lonely now but your life can change at any moment. You never know who you’ll meet, or what can happen in your life.”
     “It’s never gonna change. I meet people all the time. Nothin’ ever changes.”
     “Maybe you’re creatin’ some kind of a pattern.”
     I reposition my cheek so it can feel cool again. “Why would I want to be lonely?”
     “One day it’ll be easier. There are a lot of thangs I’m just startin’ to figure out and I’m forty-four years old. I never dreamed I’d get away from your dad.”
     “Comments like that aren’t gonna cheer me up, if that’s what you’re aimin’ for.” I don’t like it when she says negative things about my father; I’ve heard them my entire life.
     “Everythang turned out pretty good.” She smiles and looks around as if the past no longer exists. “I love this apartment, and I have two fine children. I’m so proud of you both. God has blessed you and me both, Peyton. You’ll see. You’re doin’ so good in school and you’re just beautiful! You can do anythang with your life. You can be a doctor if that’s what you want, but if it’s not … well … you can do just about anythang.” She gazes at me and sees a ten-year-old who wears an adult shoe size and still has choices.
     My back begins to ache again and I sit up. “Everything should be great, but it’s not and I don’t understand why. I honestly don’t remember a time when my life was calm.”
     She stops what she’s doing and sits beside me at the table. “Life is turbulent and meaningless. God brings meaning—and the calm—if you trust him.”
     “But why should there be chaos just so God can calm it down and put it back in order? That doesn’t sound like a lovin’ God. That sounds like a jerk.”
     “Peyton!”
     I push my scraggly uneven bangs away from my face. My eyes suddenly feel open and cool like my cheek felt against the glass table. “It’s just that, in my heart, I believe in God. I believe all the thangs you’ve told me and I believe everythang I learned in Sunday school but my mind cain’t make sense of it.”
     “Nobody understands it all,” she says.
     “But at some level, life has got to make sense.”
     “It makes sense to me.”
     I stare at her, still a tiny bit drunk. “But I’m not you. I have a different heart and a different mind. You’d be happy to stand out in the cold if you knew God was inside, but I just cain’t do that. I’m the kind of person who has to build a fire or somehow find my own way inside. I just wanna be warm. Don’t you understand?” My bangs splatter into my eyes as my hands fall to the table. The tiny hairs hit my eyelids like mosquitoes and I try to blow them away. I curse my hair for slow growth although I know it’s just in a bad stage. “I just want some warmth. Standin’ in the cold doesn’t make sense to me. Does that make me weak? Is that what’s wrong with me?”
     “I don’t know. But I believe, with every fiber of my bein’, that God warms us from the inside. He’s in your heart, Peyton.”
     “Do you feel warm?” I ask. I search her face, trying to see past my mother, past her pain, past our history into who is truly there for me.
     “At times I do,” she finally says.
      “Do I have to wait until I’m old or dead before I feel it?”
     She makes a face, gets up, and marches back to the kitchen. “You have to be still and know that He is God.”
     “I’m tryin’ to tell you. I know He’s God. That’s never been my problem.” I take a deep breath. “Please just make the sandwiches.” I long to be surrounded by the smell of bacon; I want to hear it crackle in the frying pan, like Rice Krispies when I was a child and believed there was life in my food.
     I want her to give that back to me.
     “I’m just gonna cook it in the microwave. I don’t wanna get grease on the back splash.”
     "No crackling for me," I whisper.
      We go to her room then to find something for me to wear. My red bikini isn’t proper, especially if one is going to sit out on a balcony in the middle of the afternoon. It doesn’t matter to her that the balcony is less than twenty feet from a swimming pool. I fall backwards across her white iron bed, my arms and legs spreading over her dark bedspread like the points of a star. Her ceiling fan slowly turns above my head, each blade capturing my reflection as it passes. The breeze is nonexistent. Buried deep in her walk-in closet, she searches for something to cover my nakedness—something appropriate for our luncheon.
    I make faces at the fan blades as they pass. “Mom, why do ordinary thangs—just livin’—seem so easy for everybody else?” I flash my breasts at the ceiling fan because I think it’s funny and I know she wouldn’t like it.
     “Nobody has it easy,” she yells from the closet as a pair of linen shorts fly toward me from the door. “You just don’t know how those other people feel.” She emerges from the closet holding a blue blouse. “You look fabulous in this color; it makes your eyes look less gray. Brightens the blue.” I don’t move as she shrouds me with the silky material.
     “Don’t you have somethin’ more casual? My bathin’ suit will show through this.”
     “It’ll be fine.” She waves her hand through the air. “You cain’t go without a bra if you want. We’ll ignore it. It’s just us.”
     As she turns to leave the room, I smile up at the fan and flash my breasts one last time. “If it’s just us, why do I have to put this stuff on anyway?”
     “Well, I’m here. You shouldn’t take your family for granted. We count, too.”
     Although the shorts are two sizes too large, they hang nicely on my hips. I pull the blouse over my shoulders and fasten the delicate pearl buttons. As predicted, the red bikini top shows through the pale blue material, like blood gushing beneath the surface of a crystal lake. It looks sexy—like something Madonna would wear. I shrug my shoulders and hurry to the kitchen, anxious to continue our conversation.
     “Today I found out that Matt failed and has to repeat his freshman year of med school. He didn’t tell me. Do you think that’s why he resents me? Do you think it’s my fault?”
     While she thinks it over, I wonder how his father took the news.
     “He may have been distracted by you, but I don’t see how it could be your fault.”
     “I thought he cared about me. He reeled me in so many times. It was like he examined me, threw me back in the river, and then fished me out again, over and over. Why do people act like that? Why do men keep fishin’ for the same fish if they never really plan on eatin’ it or hangin’ it on their wall or whatever?”
     “Sometimes we see a part of ourselves in another person and we’re drawn to them, but when we start to get close, the boundary between us and them gets blurry. It gets kind of scary. Most people like thangs to be clear and safe.” She peels the greasy bacon strips apart and lays them on a thick stack of paper towels. “Sometimes people panic. They say and do thangs they don’t mean.” She puts the bacon into the microwave, but then pauses, staring past me. I turn to see what has captured her attention, but as she speaks, I realize she isn’t looking at anything. But still, she sees something.  She’s finally speaking my language and I love it. “The whole world can become surreal," she says.  "The floor can shift under your feet.”
     I stare with her at the spot of nothing on the wall. “I was never afraid,” I say.
     “The key is: they never take the fish off the hook. They aren’t willin’ to go that far because as long as the line’s there, the connection’s there—and that’s what we all crave: a connection.”
     “I think they just wanna torture the pathetic fish.”
     Her graceful neck stretches like a smooth, rippling desert as she laughs. There are no wrinkles, just the gentle ebb and flow of bones and vessels. Her manicured hand, dotted with gold and diamonds, rests on the sand. She’s beautiful and deep and soft. As she speaks, I watch her throat move. “Peyton, you have to swim away. Trust me. It’s hard, but you have to find the right direction and keep swimmin’ until that line around your neck snaps.”
     The gentle desert disintegrates as her hand jerks away, slamming the microwave door. She turns the knob with undue force. “That’s what Simon did to me. Oh, brother! I was his fish, all right.” I can barely hear her above the humming microwave. “I thought I found a soul mate.” Her voice grows louder and louder until she’s nearly shouting again, as if she’s afraid I can’t hear. “Peyton, the intensity is not worth the pain. There’s somethin’ better.”
     “I guess when that line’s so fuzzy; it’s like they’re rejectin’ themselves. But since they’re trapped with themselves, I guess they just wanna hang on forever.” I yell louder than her sensing that volume gives my words power. I deliver a proclamation. “We all just wanna love ourselves. We cain’t stop tryin’.”
     We stare into each other’s eyes until we both smell the sizzling bacon. We suck it in together. “You are so smart,” she says, turning to put the mayonnaise and lettuce back in the refrigerator. “I’m not sure if I should tell you this yet, but I started datin’. He lives downstairs.”
     The microwave screams, the shrill beep digging into my ears, almost hurting.
     “The bacon smells like it’s been fried. I hope it’s crispy,” she says, ignoring my expression. “I met him a couple of weeks ago,” she says without looking at me. She carefully organizes the food on plates that coordinate with her new kitchen. She prides herself on preparing not only balanced, but colorful meals, and this one screams of it. Color bleeds from the bacon, lettuce and tomato sandwiches, the yellow chips, and the red apples.
     I stare at the plates. “You’ve only been separated a couple of months. You’re not even divorced yet.”
     “Your dad and I were separate for a long time.”
     “He loved you.”
     She motions me to open the French doors leading to the narrow balcony overlooking the pool. Her arms are filled with plates, place mats, and linen napkins surrounded by coordinating napkin holders. “He’s taller than your dad. He’s divorced and his hobby is restorin’ antiques.” She giggles like a young girl. “We’ve been seein’ a lot of each other. This could be it for me.”
     “You just met the guy.” The silky, blue blouse sticks to the wood siding as I squeeze past the small iron table to get to my chair. I sit down and examine the limp bacon in my sandwich. “I don’t think I’m gonna like this,” I say.
     Even with the new medication, something about my mother is not quite right. I desperately want it to be but it’s not. Something is off kilter and out of whack—maybe like me.
     She rubs her head. “There’s nothin’ wrong with it. Just eat it.” She takes a bite and smiles as if I’m a baby and she can convince me that it’s good. “Peyton, have you ever had oral sex?” Her mutilated food flashes at me through her lips. “Have you had it done to you?”
     “Oh my God,” I say, knowing that I knew something like this was coming—that inescapable, inappropriate moment that ruins everything.
     “Peyton, don’t say God’s name in vain.”
     Embarrassed, I find it tough to look at her. I say, “I really don’t think I’m the right person to talk to about that.”
     “But I just never had ... it ...,” she interrupts, blushing, “done to me.”
     I press the balls of my bare feet into the concrete. My toes spread out as if contorted by a scream. “What about Dad? I cain’t believe this. What about the sacred Simon Taylor?”
     “Your dad and I didn’t always have a very good sex life.”
     “That’s not what I’m talkin’ about. And besides, that may not have been his fault, you know.”
     She eats several bites of her sandwich before responding. “Peyton, this has nothin’ to do with Simon. That was a lifetime ago. You’ve got to stop thinkin’ about all that.”
     “It seems like yesterday to me.”
     “You’re an adult now. You understand that even men and women of God can feel attractions; they can find themselves lonely.” My heels dig into the concrete. I twist my feet but the calluses keep me from feeling anything. “Listen, I don’t have anyone else to ask about the oral sex. It just happened last night.”
     It’s more than I can bear. “Why do you have to ask anybody?” I whine. “Why cain’t you just keep it to yourself?”
     “When do you think we were gonna start relatin’ to each other as adults?” she asks.
      “I don’t know but you’ve been tryin’ to do that since the day I was born.”
     “That’s just not true,” she says, shaking her head in denial.
     “Then why did you, an adult, come to me, a child, for comfort when you were depressed and miserable and ... suicidal? Why was I the only one who could make you stop cryin’?”
     “I wasn’t just depressed, Peyton. I was mentally ill—and so young.” Her head continues to shake and her eyes dart in all directions as if she’s searching, as if she’s in a hurry to get somewhere.
     Watching her eyes wobble makes me wonder what happened to the retarded girl and the baby she never had.
     “You were not my caretaker,” she says. “You weren’t the only one.”
     “You were at least thirty years old. And why did you have to tell me every gory detail about what was happening in that stupid church?”
     She takes another bite of her sandwich and says, “I thought I should be honest about what was goin’ on.”
     “Cain’t you understand how that made me feel? You gave me all that crap to worry about, besides the fact that I was constantly scared you’d kill yourself.” I pause and then say, “Then when I tried it, you acted like it was absolutely nothin’.”
     Her head keeps shaking.
     “It doesn’t matter what I’m capable of understanding now,” I say. “If that’s what you wanted—my understanding—you should have waited until I was actually an adult. And if that’s what bein’ an adult is about, I’m not so sure I wanna grow up.”
     “I just wanted us to be close.”
     I hold on to the edges of my chair as if they can somehow steady me. “You should have lied,” I say. “Don’t you think there are times when it’s okay to lie?”
     “Thou shalt not lie, Peyton. I don’t know. How am I supposed to know?”
     “I didn’t need to know that stuff then, and I don’t want to know what you’re doin’ now.”
     Her head falls toward her plate until it’s almost a coordinating part of the color. She slowly eats her chips, crunching each one as if relishing their destruction. Finally, she glances up. “Please eat. You’re not eatin’.” I refuse to obey and her head falls again. “I did my best; everything worked out,” she says. “We turned so much heartbreak into good. God does that for us if we trust him.” She smiles.
     “How can you say that?” I ask. “That shit never should have happened.”
     “Peyton, without Simon I would have died. He was the tool God used to heal me, to bring me back to life! He saved me and showed me a spiritual world few people even begin to comprehend. Through Simon, God gave me the gift of discernment. I couldn’t just take my salvation and walk away. You’re dad never understood that and you may not either. But that was a long time ago. I realize that I could have handled thangs differently.” She reaches for my arm but I pull it away. “I’ve moved to the center of the pendulum since all those issues with the church and the years after. I have better medication. I live a normal life. And you’re doin’ better than you think.”
      "No, I’m doin’ a lot worse than you think and it’s your fault. You did this to me.”
     “Peyton, I’m your mother and I have to be honest with you. I’m afraid for your soul. You have a spirit of anger and destruction and fear.”
     I begin to shake. Her eyes grow wide as she recognizes the trembling demon she believes in. I know there are no real monsters—only me. I shove my chair back as far as it will go, as far away from her as I can get on the small balcony. My arms wrap around the railing. “I hate that,” I hiss. “Don’t you know how much I hate that? You didn’t love me enough to be happy, or at least pretend. And then it turned out to be a bunch of demons!” People below stop swimming and look up. “I’m not sayin’ I don’t believe. I don’t know what I believe. I’m afraid to believe, but I did believe. I believed you were gonna take care of me, but you loved that Godforsaken church and that stupid preacher and callin’ demons out of people more than you ever loved me. You tried to save everybody else. You forgot about me. You loved so many people but you forgot to love me.”
     “I prayed with you in deliverance. Don’t you remember?”
     “You scared me. You made demons real.”
     “Peyton, they are real!”
      “I actually believed that I kept you alive. That’s why I always went with you. I went to save your life. I was only six or seven. I was a baby. Now I cain’t believe you slept with some stranger,” I lean toward her, snapping my fingers in her face, “just like that.”
     She bolts out of her chair and begins gathering dishes from the table. Plates clank against plates. I cringe, fearing they’ll break and I’ll be blamed. Gathering what I can from the table, I follow her into the apartment thinking this is more than I can handle in one day of my nineteen-year-old life.
      She drops the heap of dirty dishes onto the counter in a shocking crash. “Don’t you dare judge me. My life has been hell for the most part. Don’t you think I know how many guys you’ve slept with? You know how hard it is to stop. I’m in my sexual prime. You’re just a young girl.”
      “You’re my mom. You should be better than that.”
      She looks into the empty sink and turns on the water. “I’m only human.”
     “Then I’m subhuman because I need you to be better than that,” I say. “You should be better than me.”
     “You shouldn’t hold me to such high standards.”
     “Standards? You nailed me to the cross with your standards and now you want me to help you down?”
      She flips on the disposal and the gurgling sound hits me in the gut, where it hurts the most. “We’re supposed to try to live up to the standards God’s given us, but we’re all human,” she says. “We’re gonna fail. And it’s not too late.” She turns to face me and I back away. “You told me that yourself,” she says. “You said you didn’t wanna be a spiritual battleground.” She swing back around and begins to feed the vibrating sink with the wilted layers of lettuce and the remains of our food. Several utensils fall into the sink, sliding across the silver chrome. She grabs each one just before it falls into the dark hole. “I knew you were a child, I didn’t tell you everythang. I have secrets, too.”
     “Did you sleep with Simon Taylor?”
     “I did not.” The disposal is finally empty and the only sound is the high pitch of grinding metal.
     “Do you swear to God?”
     “I’m not gonna swear to God. You just have to believe me.”
     I can’t bear the incessant grinding. It goes on and on, although there’s nothing left to grind. I imagine jamming it with my hand. Blood will spurt from the center of the shining sink. My pain will splatter across her face. Her eyes will close in defense, but it will be too late; she’ll feel the slime on her skin. She’ll finally understand my emptiness.
     She turns off the disposal, ending my fantasy.
     “You slept with some man you barely know,” I say as I begin to strip out of the clothes she gave me. “That’s breakin’ one of God’s commandments. Why cain’t you swear to God for me?”
     “Peyton, what are you doin’?”
     “I don’t need your clothes. I’d rather be naked than wear your clothes.” I throw the shorts and blouse at her feet. “I want my own clothes.”
     She stares down at the crumpled garments. When she looks up again her hard, cold cheekbones seem to point at me. “Well, why don’t you go home then and get your own?”

When the walls of my parents’ home crumbled, I experienced the clearing of land, the evacuation of something beyond repair. I had the sensation that something new and better would appear like magic—something monumental. It was a moment of freedom. Even Becca told me I was free, on my own, and in control. She told me I should keep smiling. I should laugh. Enjoy. But as that summer crept forward, my apartment became a new prison. My parents’ home didn’t compare to the solitude I threw myself into.
     It’s that place, that confinement, I run toward. I rush from my mother’s apartment toward white walls that bear no pictures, windows without coverings, and a refrigerator that cools nothing.
     The brick apartment buildings form a square. Front doors sandwiched between sliding glass doors run along the façade, and useless concrete slabs, intended to be patios, lay on the ground in front of each unit. What makes the complex unique is the garden growing at its center. Like a heart, it gives the place life and character. From the inside, it appears much larger than it really is. I’d gone in once. It was beautiful but too hot, a breeding ground for insects. I had planned to return in the fall. It would be nice then, before the plants grew limp and wilted with the coming of winter.
     I sit, naked in my bedroom, rubbing lotion into every pore of my skin. It’s still red from the exposure I suffered at the pool party and from a long, scalding shower. I groom myself attending to every detail. Finally, I put on my clothes, and at exactly ten o’clock, I walk out the door.
     Two hours later, I return surrounded by warmth. I’d managed to convince a drunken Andrew to give me another chance. He is generous beyond reason. He even brings a friend along to witness the forgiveness. Arms, legs and muscles envelope me. My dress rises above my head and I’m not cold. I snatch at their bodies as they scurry across the floor of my prison. They delight in my desperation. They respond as if they’ve spent their lives waiting to feed me, as if they’ve been waiting in the filthy, dark corners of my room all along. I devour them, my disease strengthening with each slimy bite. I don’t care who they were. I only care that they are medical students. Matt lingers on them. They share his dream. They walk where he walks. They know what he knows. I suck them dry and cold, and then they leave.
_________________________________________________________

Chapter 11 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.

BOUNDARIES: A Louisiana Love Story (Post 22)

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

Chapter 10: Andrew

Wherever there’s a carcass, there the vultures will gather.

Matthew 24:28

“Stop. Please ... the door.” My eyes close but can’t close out the crowd gathering on the other side of the bedroom door. They’ve been drinking in the sun for nearly six hours and are ripe for a diversion. When they realized that Andrew and I were no longer in the Jacuzzi, they remembered how they watched him pour round after round of peach schnapps into my shot glass. They remembered how I laughed too much. They remembered how Andrew kissed me, and how I seemed to explode all over him.
     They decided to track us down; it would be fun.
     Their voices come through the crack beneath the door, spiraling toward me like a twisting rope. I can’t move. “Please, they’re tryin’ to come in.” My voice squeaks.
     Andrew moves up and down between my legs. His rhythm matches one particularly loud fist as it hits the door over and over again. The moment is his and I’m the black blaring speaker he dances on.
     “Stop!” I yell.
     “They’re just screwing around.” He gasps for breath. “They’re not coming in. The door’s locked.” I try to twist away but it’s impossible. “I’m almost through.” His eyes roll up in his head. “Just a minute ... oh ... God.”
     His dead weight lands on me, pushing out air that carries my shriveling self esteem through the small bedroom. The noise and the pounding stop as the scavengers sense a change. I wish the sheets and blankets could bury my naked body like quicksand. It doesn’t matter that I will be in a dark place with no air. Everything above me, all things real, will be as if I was never there. Buried only beneath Andrew’s sweaty body, I keep quiet and pray that his friends have given up.
     A distinct click breaks the silence and Andrew’s magical moment dissipates. “They’re picking the lock,” he says.
     “Get off me!” I yell like the trapped girl that I am.
     He chuckles, scrambling from the bed. “Lighten up,” he says as he snatches his swimming trunks from the floor. He pulls them on within seconds. Seeing how easy it is for him makes me feel sorry for myself. As I sink low, I have to force myself out of the hole I’ve been lying in. Once exposed, I jerk the blankets from either side of the bed in search of my bathing suit. My hands tremble as I fasten the front hook of my bikini top.
     The noise in the hall begins to escalate. “Where are my bottoms?” I ask, scampering like a fallen dog to the edge of the bed. “Where are they?” He watches as I strain to see between the bed and the wall. The red bottoms are lying on the floor beneath the headboard. I smash the side of my face into the bed, stretch my arm to its snapping point, and hook the red material on the tip of my longest finger.
     Just as I cover myself, the door flies opens, hitting the wall.
     Young men, most of whom are drunk med students, scurry into the room like roaches. Arms and legs, burnt red, flap around their hard bodies. I pull the bone colored sheet from the edge of the bed and drape it over my legs and waist as if I’m still naked. I can imagine the thick white juice churning beneath the armored plates they hide behind, muscled bodies cultivated in the sweaty med school gym.
     I sit on the edge of the bed with my knees pressed painfully together as multiple eyes rake over me. They laugh as a group, one communal thought pervading. Their open mouths chew at my self-worth. It splashes onto the floor around them and settles between their toes. I stare at them with a strong face. Their hard bodies shift and soon their mouths begin to close. They have taken all the self-worth they can stomach for one day. Their laughter gradually changes to silence. Andrew whistles softly to himself and I smile with closed lips because there’s nothing else to do.
     The feast is over. They’re trapped in a roach motel.
     I hold my head steady. There’s nothing of value left for them to take except the realization that they are creepy little insects. As they get older, these are the memories that will eventually penetrate exteriors that weren’t really hard at all. One day, they’ll become successful doctors with trophy wives and sweet children. They’ll lay in bed on some dark night remembering how they allowed themselves to be led into roach motels. I imagine each guy staring at the ceiling, his arms clinging to a woman he knows has no respect for such things. His wife will brush the thinning hair from his middle-aged face while he silently longs to be a better man.
     He’ll wonder what happened to the girl who sat on the edge of that bed pulling jumbled-up blankets apart, spreading them around her body like a moat. He’ll think of his daughter. He’ll want to save her from the very thing he perpetuated.
     One-by-one, they leave the room. Then Andrew leaves too, mumbling that he’ll get me another drink. He returns several minutes later with a fresh bottle of Schnapps and two shot glasses. We each have two or three shots before he finally thinks of something to say. “I thought you were dating Peter Vassily.”
     “I was—sort of. We’re just good friends.” The peach alcohol coats my throat, but fails to smooth over the pits created by my recent succession of self-inflicted wounds. “Peter’s nice, kind of too nice. I mean, I like nice guys but ... I dated Matt Adler.”
     Andrew, with dark curls and spacious shoulders, was a roller coaster that, from the ground, promised abandon. Once I handed in my ticket, it was too late to turn back. A thick metal bar slammed over my shoulders. The machine tossed me until my head hurt. Now, I feel the nausea. “I mean, Matt’s real nice, too. I thought they’d be here.” I clutch the blankets in my fists. “Do you know Matt?”
     “They don't really hang out with this crowd.” He lies back on the bed, his feet still flat on the floor. “They’re a little young.”
     “They’re older than me,” I say and start to laugh. I can’t stop. I don’t know if it's because of the new alcohol or just the fact that I’m so uncomfortable.
     “Well, they’re a little young.” His precise northeastern pronunciation twists slightly as he gets up from the bed and motions me to follow.
     I don’t move. “I dated Matt last summer, before he started school.”
     “That six-year program seems to cause a lot of controversy. A lot of those guys end up repeating their freshman or sophomore year.” He inches his way toward the door. “There was one girl who had to repeat both. How would you like to have her cut open your heart or yank your appendix or whatever-the-hell you have wrong with you?”
     I say, “Peter and Matt are the smartest people I know.”
     “That’s the thing. The kids who get into the program are super smart.” He steps outside the door and looks down the hallway. “Look, I’ve got to get going.”
     “But we’re talking.” I shrug my shoulders. “Don’t you want to talk?”
     He looks irritated but comes back. He seems to think my power of observation is so weak that I can’t see that he wants to get away; he wants to be part of another carnival. “Those freaking kids are smarter than most of us, but they go through their undergrad courses too fast.” His voice grows louder. “They’re only nineteen or twenty when they start med school. There’s no way they can handle the pressure.”
     “Apparently they do.”
     He shakes his head. “Apparently not—look at your boyfriend, Matt. He’s supposed to be some kind of mathematical genius but he flunked.”
     My heart slows to an unnatural rate as I watch Andrew turn in drunken circles, as if celebrating a touchdown. Drunk and satisfied, he says, “His ass is grass.”
     ”I don’t believe it.” I float off the bed in a daze. “Nobody told me.”
     “Well, I’m telling you. I guess he couldn’t handle it. Like I said—too immature.”
     “But he’s so smart.” My voice trails off as things began to make sense. No wonder he hates me.
     A couple of Andrew’s friends cower by the door, signaling him to rejoin the party. He ignores them, wanting to get his point across while he has the chance. “He must be lacking something. The little shit! Those guys come in thinking they’re so god damn smart. They excelled in some shitty Louisiana high school. This is the armpit of America.”
     His friends look at each other as if to affirm the quality of their southern education. Their decision to keep him as a friend is a mutual afterthought.
     One says, “Relax, man.”
     “What’s the big deal?” says another.
     “Well it’s true,” Andrew says. “That’s how they got into med school. I busted my ass in college.” His intense stare begins to scare me. “And I don’t feel like swimming.”
     “It’s not my fault,” I say. “Why are you yellin’ at me? You just said they're smarter than you.”
     He throws his head back and sucks the thick Schnapps he’s holding straight from the bottle. One of his friends tries to ease it away from him but fails.
     “I had to come down to this hot hell hole because I couldn’t get into school in New Jersey or New York or Connecticut where I should be. My GPA was nearly perfect. It doesn’t even matter what those little shits get on the MCAT. I heard they just fill in the dots to make some fucking designs. Can you believe that shit?”
     I look to his friends for help but they’re gone. “You’re drunk and you’re just jealous,” I say.
     “No—I’m an adult. I worked my ass off to get here. That’s why I didn’t flunk.”
     All the alcohol has raised my bravery level. Normally I would have kept quiet, wishing I knew what to say. But this time, I say, “Oh, you’re so mature.” As the words come out, I know I sound like a little girl. “You and your grown-up friends should take a good look at each other. Do you think mature adults go to parties and bust down bedroom doors?”
     “Don’t kid yourself. You’re part of this, too, Missy.”
     I shove my feet into my flip-flops and grab my keys. “I’m nineteen and you’re what ... twenty-two, twenty-three?”
     “You little bitch. Being the star of a show is what you get for spreading your legs at the drop of a hat.” I bolt past him and run down the long hallway. “I heard you were a psycho!” he yells, his voice echoes pushing me forward. “Why don’t you just get the hell out of here! Who invited you anyway?”
     The few people inside the house snicker as I hurry toward the sliding glass doors that lead to the back yard. I pretend that they didn’t hear him yelling but I know they did.
     People crowd the brick patio and overflow into the yard and swimming pool. Marvin Gay’s voice blares from huge speakers on either side of the yard. Andrew’s roommates, the coupon lady and her husband, stand near the edge of the pool, drinking and laughing. I wish I had the guts to push the happy couple into the water.
     I run from the house. The pits in my throat clog with hot dust. By the time I reach my car, I’m nearly hyperventilating. The vinyl seat burns my legs. As I reach down to fasten my seatbelt, I see the white nylon crotch of my bikini bottoms. I cry as I peel them off, turn them right side out, and put them back on. All the way to my mother’s apartment, I tell myself I don’t care.

_______________________________________________________

More of Chapter 10 coming tomorrow.

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. 

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.

_______________________________________________________


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. 

BOUNDARIES: A Louisiana Love Story (Post 20)

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

Chapter 9: Mark

The good man brings good things out of the good stored up in him, and the evil man brings evil things out of the evil stored in him.

Matthew 12:36

Luke from the Bible meanders through Cowboys, the club Becca and I are perched in like sitting ducks. His fingers rest in his pockets but his bony wrists stick out from the sides of his crotch. The stitches in his pants stretch to the snapping point. It’s perverse. Poison swishes inside him unbeknownst to the small groups of people he slithers around before reaching a clear path that leads to me. I fiddle with my hair, hoping my long arms will shield me from him. I feel sick.
     I haven’t been out since my suicide attempt and seeing Luke makes me wonder if I've made a mistake; maybe I shouldn't be here. But Becca is finally home for the summer. And I moved into my own apartment the weekend before. I successfully gave Peter the cold shoulder, and I haven’t seen or spoken to Matt for nearly two months. I decide that I’m as ready as I’ll ever be.
     Luke stops several feet away to speak with two greasy-haired guys. My stomach tightens. Becca tugs at my sleeve, forcing my right arm to drop. I lean toward her, but continue to hold my left arm up until it becomes awkward; I’m forced to let it fall. “You want another beer? We’re celebratin’, aren’t we?” She yells in my ear because the music is so loud. Instead of waiting for my answer, she waves her arms through the air in a dramatic attempt to attract the waitress.
     Oh, great! I twist toward her hoping Luke will only see my back.
     “Just think,” she says, “Nobody’s gonna tell you what to do or when to come home anymore.” She smiles but I don’t. I know Luke is behind me—just like that night. I can almost feel him slithering against me, up my arm, into my hair.
     “Wanna dance?” His voice makes me shutter.
     “No,” I say spinning my chair around to face him. My knees knock into his wrist, forcing his hand deeper into his pocket. He yanks it out and slaps both his hands down on my knees. I shove them away. He looks past me and slowly surveys our surroundings. When his eyes finally settle on me again, he smiles. It isn’t a normal smile. It’s an I’ve-seen-you-naked-and-don’t-you-forget-it smile. A look of sick pleasure washes over his face. Without another word, he meanders away, but stops briefly to turn and smile at me again.
     “That was mean,” Becca says, watching him disappear through the smoke. “He was cute.”
     “He’s a jerk.”
     “You know him?”
     “Not really.”
     She sighs impatiently. “Try to cheer up. You shouldn’t take your feelin’s out on strangers.” She touches my arm. “You know, I’m sorry about your parents divorcing.” She’s a true friend but she’s been gone for a long time. She doesn’t know about my stay in the hospital. “You should try to have fun.”
     “I’m tryin’,” I say, taking another drink.
     Her blond hair swings over the back of the chair as she turns to take the beer from the waitress. I tug at my own hair with the tips of my fingers.
     There was a girl in junior high who swore that if we pulled our hair every night it would grow twice as fast. Although we all suspected that it wasn’t true, we still tried. For several weeks, I lay in bed each night grabbing bulky sections of my thick hair, pulling as I said my prayers. On some mornings, I found long dark hairs lying across my pillow; those were the nights I prayed the hardest. My hair didn’t grow any faster, but I kept trying because I knew that simply waiting was excruciating. I’d tried that already.
     Becca and I sit quietly, drinking beer. We peel the labels, tiny piece by tiny piece, although it’s supposed to say something perverse about us. We scratch at the stickiest, most stubborn pieces—Becca with her long, red nails and me with my nubs. We sit next to the second story balcony that circles the dance floor. Below us, offset by several feet, a similar railing surrounds the dance floor. Deer heads dot the high walls above, their blank eyes staring into the huge mirrored ball that dangles from the ceiling.
     People who love to sit, drink, and watch other people dance covet our seats. We’ve been watching for what seems hours. It almost makes me change my mind about dancing. The longer I stare, the more everyone seems awkward and silly. Becca tells me they’re having fun; the rest doesn’t matter. I know she’s right, but it still feels weird, as if I’m spying. I watch their awkward gestures, their private expressions—their guts.
     Becca leans over, her lips brushing against my ear. “You know they’re talkin’ about raisin’ the legal drinkin’ age to twenty-one soon.”
     “Are you sure?” I ask.
     “We should be grandfathered. I don’t think they’re allowed to take away rights we already have.”
     “I guess we’ll be the youngest ones in bars for a few years,” I say, shrugging my shoulders.
     “Less competition for guys,” she says as she throws her head back. I watch
     “I never do,” I say, scanning the crowd. There’s no one around that I care to see. Half the people surrounding us are preppy college kids who wouldn’t be caught dead wearing a cowboy hat although they’re in a bar named Cowboys. The other half, most of whom are playing pool, are real cowboys and girls complete with wrangler jeans, boots, and huge silver buckles. A few wear hats.
     The cowboys stand strategically around the pool tables lining the place. Liquor is served at several long wooden bars separating the pool tables from the rest of the bar, and from the rest of us. The dance floor is at the center of the building. Dancing doesn’t seem to interest the cowboys. It’s, at the same time, too sophisticated and too silly for them. They’re rednecks. They drive trucks with gun racks, chew tobacco, and curse a lot. But they make the rest of us feel better. They form an outer circle that we naturally fill. We crave boundaries, and the lines that separate us from them are solid. The DJ plays country music ten minutes out of every hour and during that time the preppies strategically take their break. We have an amazing ability to know when a song is country after only having heard the first few notes. The dance floor clears within seconds.
     “They all disappeared. Probably got married,” says Becca.
     “What?”
     “Our friends from high school.”
     “Oh yeah, well, they’ll be divorced before we even think of buyin’ one of those wedding magazines much less sayin’ ‘I do.’” We shake our heads in unison. It’s true. We’re two of the few people from our graduating class who have gone to college. Several of our high school friends already have babies. I can’t fathom why they would want to repeat their parents’ lives. There has to be more to life than that, at least for me. “Or they might decide to put the divorce off for twenty-five years,” I say, thinking of my parents. “And I still may not be married.” She doesn’t think I see her frown, but I do. She’s clearly frowning. “What?” I ask.
     “I bought one last month,” she blurts out. “True Bride Magazine ... or Big Bride. Big Bird or somethin’.” We look at each other and burst into the kind of laughter beer induces. “I’ll get us another drink,” she says and hops down from her chair. She effortlessly maneuvers her way into the churning crowd. While she’s gone, two guys ask me to dance, but I turn them down since I haven’t hung out with Becca in a long time. It’s supposed to be our night.
     Our night wears on and on, and four or five beers later, the heavy wooden entrance doors flanked by two giant bouncers open and Peter rushes through. His head darts about as if to ensure all is safely in place for the arrival of the king.
     I had watched those big doors open and close all night. Each time they opened, I strained to see. I watched who came and who went; I watched for Matt.
     When he finally strolls in, I think it would be quite natural for the crowd to separate as he walks among them, perhaps even bow in adoration. They might kiss his feet. That’s what I would do if I could.
     Becca’s on the dance floor with the guy she’s been dancing with for at least an hour so I decide to relinquish my seat. Hoards of familiar strangers stand in my way. I rudely push through several conversations. One girl drops her drink. I begin to feel desperate; nothing is going to stop me. I finally spot the nice-looking guy who asked me to dance moments earlier. When he tells me he’s a med student, I can’t believe my luck. That means Matt may know him.
     I’m ready to dance but the preppies are leaving the dance floor. Their sweaty heads hang low as if they’re walking toward their graves. For a moment I feel sad too, but then realize they’ve no real reason to be sad. It isn’t their fault. The music they’re used to has simply disappeared; they didn’t kill it. What’s wrong with them? I watched them for hours. I know who they were. They’re awkward and mediocre. They are quitters.
     “Come on. You wanna dance with me, don’t you?” I say, pulling his hands toward me. They wrap easily around my waist. My hips sway to the beat of the country music.
     “I cain’t dance to this,” he says as his preppy face twitches.
     “Who says we have to do the two-step? Do I look like I know how to dance like that?”
     “Not really.” He looks around nervously and I think he may try to run.
     “We can dance however we want. I’m a good dancer.” I smile sweetly as my hips wiggle beneath his sweaty palms. “I’ll help you.”
     Once on the barren dance floor, I have him help me onto the giant speaker at its center. It stands like a throne beneath the churning mirrored ball that reflects the dead deer stares. Bathed in the light of those sparkling mirrors, I burn like a star while my partner fades into the shadows. The crowd begins to cheer. I’m the life they thought they lost. I’ve emerged, their resurrected champion at center ring. Even the cowboys walk a few steps from their pool games to catch a glimpse. I dance uninhibited in my conservative, cotton dress, and shiny penny loafers. The dress has a wide circular collar and a dropped waist. It isn’t particularly sexy except that the light from all four sides filters through the cotton. I knew exactly what is showing above my peach bobby socks and the sparkling copper pennies I’d squeezed into the slits on top of my shoes.
     Peter and Matt stand several feet away. I stare into Matt’s eyes. We both know I’m his champion. The others are just the crowd, the audience, people who merely fill the gaping space between us. He coaches me with his eyes. The longer he stares, the wilder and stronger and braver I become. The dancing medical student thinks I’m wild and strong and brave. He gasps for breath. His shirt sticks to his smooth, sweaty chest. I don’t want to look so I pretend to dance alone and, instead, focus on the dead animals, their stuffed heads looming. But then the medical student smashes into my personal space and kisses me awkwardly. I kiss back, figuring he deserves to share my victory. He beams and I knew he’s never had such an experience. I feel nauseous. He thinks I like him. Peter knows I don’t.
     The crowd suddenly loses control. Grabbing one another, they run toward me. Even Peter pushes his way into the mass of charging bodies. He fights to make his way to the center ring with a chubby, bouncing girl in tow. Someone grabs my leg. I continue to dance as the hands snatch at my ankles. “Peyton!” Becca yells, squeezing until it hurts. “The guy I’ve been dancin’ with is takin’ me home.”
      I squat as low as I can without falling. “But Becca, I need you.”
     “What for? You’ve got him,” she says, grabbing the student’s leg. Then she vanishes as the last of the preppy dancers fill the dance floor. They swarm beneath me like ants, making me dizzy. I struggle to focus and soon realize that everything is as it had been. The cowboys have returned to their pool playing and the preppies bounce joyfully in tight interlocking vines around me.
     Screw her.
     Peter dances beneath my feet. Matt continues to stare from outside the ring. I want to jump down and run to him. I want to put my arms around him and have something normal—something real. My heart aches. I know that if I go to his door, he’ll let me in.
     His eyes beg me to come.
     I glance down and notice Peter shaking his head like a disapproving parent. He takes his partner’s hand and leaves the dance floor. He is not my keeper. I swear that if he comes back I’ll kick one of my legs out over the edge of the speaker, right into his head. But he never comes back. He and Matt leave before the song is over. It’s all over. The same awkward people flail about. Nothing has changed.
    
The heat in Louisiana floods the senses. It has a taste, a smell, a feel, and especially after a few drinks, you can see it. It clings to the flat land and common places long after the sun is gone. Sometimes it’s shocking, as is stepping from the dark, pulsating world of Cowboys into the real world. The cars and light poles, streets, stars, life, move out before me like an expanding balloon. I stand, watching as it all grows large and distorted. I hear and smell it; I feel it. I’m drunk. As I move, it all whirls around me in sections, like giant playing cards. Peter and Matt stand next to the old El Camino at the far end of the parking lot. They’re about to get in the car, but something causes them to hesitate.
     Me.
     “Where’d you park?” The medical student looks around as if he can find my car, although he doesn’t have a clue what it looks like.
     It strikes me as funny and I giggle. “I don't know. We came early so I could get a good spot.” I can’t stop giggling.
     Peter begins the long walk toward us.
     “What kind of car do you have?”
     “I don’t remember,” I continue to laugh, but slowly lose my sense of humor as I became aware of two converging smells. The smell of McDonald’s mingles with the smell of gasoline from a nearby Texaco station. It’s odd, the way I can smell both, together but separate, as if their boundaries have merged, creating an odd but interesting new reality.
     Peter’s pace quickens as I try to decide if I like the new smell.
     The medical student crosses his arms and stares at me. I take several deep breaths. “You seem like a nice guy,” I say suddenly, feeling sad.
     “I’m a nice guy and you’re a nice girl.” His breaths are so shallow that I wonder if he’s really alive. I smile weakly, knowing that I’ll end up lying in his bed like an old, abandoned dog. It will be horrible, like being put to sleep—terrified that death is near while enjoying the warm, flooding sensation of final rest. There will be no point in struggling. It will be painful and lonely no matter how nice he is.
     Peter begins to jog as the smell of McDonald’s overpowers me. It’s warm and crusty; I can almost taste it. God, I’m hungry. My deep breaths seem to suck Peter closer and closer until we’re nearly touching.
     Matt stands far in the distance.
     The medical student grabs my arm. He moves me in circles, bombarding me with questions. “What color is your car? Is it big or little? Old or new? How can you forget your own car?”
     I barely hear him, only aware of moving in circles and the smell of McDonald’s and the smell of gas, and the odd blend. Playing cards flip wildly through the air. I desperately want to catch them and stack them, nice and neat, into something controllable.
     “We’re never gonna get out of here if we don’t find your car.”
     I yelp as Peter grabs my other arm, jerking me in his direction. The circling motion stops and the playing cards blur. I struggle to keep my balance, but Peter holds me steady. “What are you doin’?” he asks.
     “What do you think I’m doin’?” I try to step toward the medical student.
     Peter says, “Don’t do it.”
     I struggle to posture myself, fully facing Matt. From where I stand, he appears to be standing in the McDonald’s parking lot, surrounded by its crusty smell. “I can do whatever I want.”
     The student steps toward Peter, and says, “Hey, man, let her go.” But Peter’s grip tighten.
     “But it’s me,” he says as gently as he can while maintaining his uncharacteristic burst of aggression, “your best friend.”
     “You’re his,” I say, waving my free arm toward Matt, “best friend tonight.”
     “Why are you doin’ this?” he asks, staring at the medical student. “He doesn’t care about you.”
     “She can make up her own mind.” The student jerks me back toward him. Peter’s grip loosens and my arm pops free. The medical student struggles to hold on as I shoot away from Peter and even farther away from Matt.
     I can only smell gas.
     My eyes burn. “I’m doin’ it because I feel like it,” I yell, hoping Matt can hear. Several people have stopped on their way through the parking lot. They stare at me, shaking their awkward, silly heads. The demon in my head laughs. I run for my car, suddenly remembering where it was. The medical student follows although I wish he would disappear. As the hot night air rushes past me, it seems to burn. It brands me. I know then that I’d said yes to Luke after all. He’s running after me in a nice guy’s clothing.
     He’s a fuckin’ liar. Eventually, he’ll find a pleasant, attractive girl, date her for a couple of years and then marry. It won’t be me. I’m the kind of girl nice guys meet just before they decide to settle down with someone else. They find girls like me on mountains they dare to climb when they’ve had a little too much to drink. We’re the ones flailing about on giant speakers and in parking lots; it’s there that we find our power. We can seduce the most gentle and most vicious of animals and then lie like one, begging to be put out of our half-dead, half-alive misery. We’re shocking.
 _______________________________________________________

More of Chapter 9 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.