Character vignette: Merritt King, the Pick-Me Girl

Merritt had lost something and didn’t notice until it was too late.

She had lost herself.

Somewhere in her transition from being Merri, giggle-monster middle schooler who wanted to be an archaeologist who designed fashion based on what she discovered during her digs, to Mer, hard-ass tomboy with little respect for the world and even less for herself, the real Merritt King had ducked out through an emergency exit and left her feeling empty.

“You’re the worst kind of girl,” Cardeja had yelled at her as she stormed away across the lunchroom. “A Pick-Me girl. The kind who pushes other girls down because she thinks it’ll make a boy like her more.”

What made Mer so mad that day at her best friend — no, former best friend — was that Deja was right. Matt Charles had walked into their fourth period algebra class one day, and that night she had gone home and stripped the walls bare of the computer printouts of One Direction with highlighter hearts around Harry’s face; pushed all her dresses to the back of the closet; stolen the oldest issues from her brothers’ Car and Driver and Sports Illustrated archives; and watched an hour of YouTube videos describing how to apply liberal amounts makeup in a way that looks like you’re not wearing any at all.

If every other girl in class was going to hyperfeminize to attract the new boy, she was going to stand out by doing the exact opposite.

The next day she walked into school with her skinny jeans cuffed unevenly, Chuck Taylors rubbed dirty with mulch from the front lawn, and brother’s raggedy flannel shirt hanging over a low-cut camisole. She passed Matt’s locker, jeans cutting into her sides, Chucks giving her the mother of all blisters, and flannel itching her armpits. But she felt like she looked good, and that was what confidence was, right?

She sat on her hands so she wouldn’t bite her nails during study hall as she tried every opening line out in her head. The Car and Driver sat on her desk, untouched. And then he was walking in, with his hair perfectly pushed back from his emerald eyes, and his Rolling Stones T-shirt so authentically him. At least, it felt that way.

Mer opened her mouth to cooly say “Hey,” but was rudely interrupted by Mrs. Tarvinski dropping dead at her desk in what would become a mass extinction of anyone over the age of 17.

Vignette: Smoking in the running lane

He tried to shake the image of her standing in the kitchen, her tiny frame draped in the XXL Absolut Vodka T-shirt she had been handed the night before by an overzealous liquor promoter. She had taken the shirt, laughing as she sipped her gin and tonic, and loudly disclosing that she didn’t even drink vodka but was always up for free swag.

One oversized shirt, pair of plastic sunglasses, set of Mardi Gras beads and beer kookie later, and they had rolled out of the club and to her place until the sun rose three hours later. They hissed against its glare through the curtains, which she hadn’t remembers (or bothered?) to shut.

She asked if he wanted breakfast — a fried egg, a Clif bar, a cup of coffee, anything — and he had refused, his stomach churning at the thought of anything but a beer joining the alcohol still sloshing inside of it. Snatching the plastic Absolut sunglasses from the side table in the hall, he waved goodbye with the promise of calling her, even though he wasn’t sure he had her number.

Wind blew down the lakeside block, but not the kind that had torn the window out and thrown its sash javelin-style into his leg. It was the pleasant kind that he used to use as either a challenge or a support system on his long runs. He had a hard enough time walking these days, let alone jogging mile after mile.

When the physical therapist released him from his daily sessions, she had warned that running was going to come harder, if it came back at all. A few failed starts and embarrassing crashes, and he had decided that if he couldn’t enjoy what he once loved, he might as well take pleasure in the exact opposite. Weekly cheeseburgers, ten-hour TV binges, club-induced one-night-stands like this one. She was a nice woman, really, even if she relied on the word “actually” too much. And sex had to count for some kind of cardio.

He had even picked up smoking, and as he approached the lakefront path, he pulled a pack of Benson Hedges from his jacket pocket and tapped one out, lighting it with the Bic that was on its last clicks. This had become his favorite past time: If he couldn’t run in the fast-paced pedestrian lanes, he would saunter along them, filling his lungs with tar and nicotine, and exhaling the smoke as runners passed him, almost taunting him.

Today the path was busier than usual. The marathon runners were out training on the last weekend before the big race, and he resented each one as they swerved around him, shaking their heads at his ignorance — or was it arrogance? Depending on the person, he was labeled as either.

Eventually the running path leveled off with the beach, and he took pleasure in cutting across in front of a man going at a particularly heavy sprint and forced to splash through a puddle to avoid him. He tossed the spent cigarette into the sand and walked straight into the waves, letting the water crash into the jeans covering the scar from the window sash. Not this year, the therapist had said, but maybe next year. Maybe next year he’d run the marathon, if he didn’t smoke his lungs out first.

He lit another cigarette and belched. It tasted like vodka.

Vignette: Moxie’s mood makeup

Even lost at sea, she lined her eyes to coordinate with how she felt that day.

At the start of the adventure, she painted her lids with dazzling purple glitter, adding a dot or a star that reflected how shiny and new this wave-riding world felt to her. By the end of the day, the glitter would have flaked and fallen onto her cheeks so that in certain lights, it looked like sea spray, sometimes tears.

They called her Moxie, even though she had never asked them to. Her real name was Sue, but there was a mute man on the crew with a parrot he spelled out as “S-O-O” using a fist and two O-shaped hand gestures. At least, that’s what everyone preferred to think that sequence of sign language letters meant. He could have just been telling them to jack him off. And anyway, Moxie was fine with her new moniker. She’d always wanted an “X” in her name.

The longer they floated aimlessly — except, notably, when they were plowing through the waves to get away from a giant sea monster or enemy ship — the less color she used. Sometimes it would be brown or muted green that brought out the flecks in her hazel irises: A sign that she was being particularly introspective that day. Other times it was a faint gold that reflected the red-sky-at-morning and a particularly playful attitude. And then there were the dark days, like the ones after Porfry and Greela were snatched overboard by a giant squid, or when Yaru was shot through the heart by rival pirates, when she smudged black kohl across her lids and cried it off by supper.

One night a crew-mate called Kraken snuck into Moxie’s quarters and found the tiny box containing her eye paints. It was ebonied wood with a tarnished clasp of cheap metal that had somehow not rusted shut in the sea air that cocooned everything in moist warmth. Moxie knew that Kraken was in her room the minute she heard the screams, the guttural gurgling, and seen the blood creep from under the door and into the main galley as the boat pitched. She calmly opened the door, stepped over the puddle of Kraken’s blood, and closed the box.

By the morning, the blood was cleaned up. The only sign that Kraken had once been on the ship was the stain on the wood planks outside the door. It was the same reddish brown as the dramatically winged eyeliner painted across Moxie’s lids.

Vignette: Patrick Bateman is my neighbor

I’ve got a confession to make. “In The Air Tonight” by Phil Collins is not on my phone.

That is why, when I woke up to the iconic bah-dum-bah-dum-bah-dum-bah-dum-dum drum riff at the 3-minute-and-16-second mark at 5:15 a.m. on a Saturday, I knew it wasn’t my alarm waking me up. That would have been the bink-beng-bum-bink-beng-bum-bink-beng-bum-bink-bink-beng-bum guitar of “Come and Get Your Love” by Redbone.

A quick scan of my apartment confirmed that the poltergeist who had knocked one of my framed pictures off the wall two nights before hadn’t continued its mischief by turning my stereo on, either.

“You don’t know who this is?” slurred a voice as loud as the music. “How do you not know who this fucking is?”

Of course I knew who this was, but apparently my neighbor’s guest, a girl cackling with liquored-up laughter, didn’t, and was now enduring his wrath as he continued yelling over Phil’s echoing, ethereal eloquence.

And then — silence.

Maybe he’s murdering her with an ax, I thought during the absence of sound. Seems a high price to pay for not knowing a song, but Patrick Bateman killed over business card stock after explaining Huey Lewis and the News to Paul Allen in American Psycho, so anything’s possible.

The next morning I ran into her as she left his apartment, heels in hand and mascara dust powdering her cheeks. She had the flush of someone who had had a good night. Thank god I wasn’t awake to hear that part.

We stood waiting for the elevator, with her flipping through social media on her phone so she doesn’t have to acknowledge me. And I wasn’t going to say anything until she almost ran me over in an attempt to get into the empty elevator that had just arrived.

As we descended 20 floors, I began to whistle “In the Air Tonight.”

Vignette: At the Symphony

By the way…

I’ve never fallen so hard for someone as I did for you as I watched you fall hard for the symphony. How your hand squeezed mine as the conductor walked on stage. How I could feel your heartbeat drumming along with the tympani. How you drew breath as the first-chair violinist drew her bow.  

You said you couldn’t imagine ever feeling this way over music. I thought I couldn’t imagine ever feeling this way over a person. 

Vignette: A promise

I promised you that the minute you needed to jet, I’d meet you outside in Coraline’s truck and we’d bolt down to Mexico — after all, I can speak Italian with a Spanish accent, so we would be just fine. The first time I said this, you laughed and replied, “God, you’re great.”

We were about two months into sleeping with each other at that point, five months into just knowing each other. 

The second time I reminded you I was willing to commit grand theft auto — though I’m not sure it’s truly GTA when it’s my own divorced sister-in-law’s truck I’m stealing, especially when she swindled my brother out of seeing the kids for 50 weeks out of the year — you kissed me on the forehead with a smile and said “But they don’t pay that much in Mexico.”

Canada, then, I said. They have Mounties and great healthcare. Or cheap pills, at least.

“And mountains!” you added. “I like mountains.” 

So it was settled, that we’d drive up to Canada in my ex-sister-in-law’s truck after I had swung by to pick up your dog and camping gear on my way to collect you from what I was sure would be a very bloody murder scene. You could hide in the back alley while the cops assessed the body count. Just one, as planned. Maybe more if there were annoying witnesses. Be sure to bash his head in with a block of ice so it would melt and none of your fingerprints would be found. 

“Feels….cold,” you said when I recommended this.

“Yeah, but the son-of-a-bitch deserves it.”

“No, the ice,” you said. “I lose feeling in my fingers really quickly when the temperature drops, so I’m not sure how long I can hold an ice block.”

“And you want to go to Canada?”

So now we’re back to Mexico as our escape destination, and I’m still waiting for the call telling me to hotwire that bitch Coraline’s truck, swing by to get Rufus the mutt and some camping gear, pick up you and your numb fingers, and high tail it to a beach south of the border. Just so happens I look great in a bikini.

Oh, you think I’m joking? Check out these abs. And this ass. I’m fucking Raquel Welch. Bette Page. Halle Berry walking up on the beach in Die Another Day.

Oh, you mean about driving to Mexico. Baby, just hand me the map and you can doze shotgun the whole way down.

#NaNoWriMo2018 Day 26: The city’s ribcage

For being called “The Oculus,” it looks more like a ribcage than something that can see — especially in this February fog. Its bones splay out, opening its spine up to the sky and exposing the invisible heart that floats within. It’s the heart that holds all of the memories of what used to be in this spot before that Tuesday in September, so no wonder the ribcage is open: It’s trying to let out some of that agony.

The Oculus building stands in New York at the World Trade Center

The Oculus in New York overshadowed by a February fog.