Push

As I empty out the last suitcase, I decide that I am hungry. It’s got to be close to lunchtime by now. I turn to my alarm clock to check the time, and as I do, I see his reflection in the dresser mirror. He is walking down the hallway, toward my bedroom. Good. Now he’ll see that I didn’t close my door. I am standing next to my bed, and I try to come up with something to do with my hands so that he doesn’t think I’m just standing in my bedroom doing nothing. My nightstand is right next to me, and I reach down to grab something in advance of him hitting the doorway. Before I know it, I am flipping open my little plastic compact of birth control pills and looking at their circular pattern. Oh, fuck me. What the hell, Emma?

“Hey,” he says when he gets to the end of the hallway. “Sorry to bother you, but I need to use your head.” I turn to look at him just as he comes into the door frame. He has lost the tool belt, and his thumbs are casually hooked into the back of his waistband. He looks quickly around the bedroom before his eyes settle on my hands. I snap the pack shut quickly, hoping he might not recognize what I am holding—but I’m pretty sure he is the kind of guy who knows precisely what a packet of birth control pills looks like. I am deciding if I would prefer to curl up in a ball and die or evaporate yet again, when my mind registers what he has said.

“Um, for what?” I ask sharply. Should I offer him a calculator or something instead?

“Um, to take a piss,” he says with far too much lilt in his voice.

I stand staring blankly at him, and I have the distinct feeling that I am missing something. What is going on here?

After another moment passes, he says “Well?” And then it hits me. Oh, sweet Jesus, Emma! He is asking to use your head, not your brain.

“Of course. It’s right there,” I say meekly as I point to the bathroom door. I can feel the embarrassment creeping up my neck, across my face and through my scalp. I am sure now that I am blushing, and I look away so that he can’t see my face.

“Thanks,” he says. He turns to go, and once his back is to me, he adds, “Oh, by the way, your grandma’s handiwork is going to take me several days to fix, so you may wanna relax a little.” He keeps walking down the hallway, and I no longer feel like evaporating. Instead I feel like bitch-slapping the conceited jackass.

“Fuck you.”

The words come out of my mouth with a great amount of attitude and far more self-assurance than I am actually feeling. “And your little dog, too,” I add just loud enough for him to hear.

He turns on his heels and faces me again. His eyes look energized. There is a trace of a smile on his lips, and I suspect he wants to laugh at me...but he doesn’t. Instead he just stands there and looks at me as if there is some sort of crazy current running through him. I begin to think he’s trying to rile me up on purpose. Testing me somehow. I see his game now, and I am perfectly prepared to play.

When the moment passes, he turns around again and steps into the bathroom. The door closes, and I walk out to the kitchen to see what he has been doing out there all morning, vowing to myself that I will not lose my composure again. I will play it cool.

When I turn the corner, my view confirms that he is indeed trying to fire me up. He has torn all the cabinets off the wall, ripped up the linoleum flooring, and removed all the countertops. He has destroyed far more than my imaginary baked grandma ever could. Now I’m on the fence regarding the man’s sanity, and I know why he said he was going to be here for several more days. Game on, David. Game on.

Chapter Three

He comes out of the bathroom as I am busily looking in the fridge for something to eat. I am relieved that he hasn’t taken the doors off any of the appliances—at least not yet anyway. I pull out some cheese, an apple and a container of yogurt, and I walk past him to set them on the small table in the living room. Then I go back in for a bottle of water and a knife. As I step across the now-exposed plywood, I can feel him watching me. It is a very small kitchen, and I am silently hoping that he doesn’t come in here until after I walk out. My “fuck you” hangs in the air between us, and I want to somehow take it back but only because he seemed to enjoy my hostility, not because I didn’t mean to say it.

I grab what I need and move quickly out of the kitchen. He is regarding me intently, and it pleases me. It’s because he is surprised that I haven’t said anything about the state of my kitchen. Frankly, I am, too. But I will no longer let my irritation become his diversion.

“I figured while I was cleaning up after your raging grandma, I might as well fix the rest of your kitchen, too,” he says, almost thoughtfully. “Carl is a really shitty landlord. He doesn’t fix anything he doesn’t have to, so I am taking some liberties on your behalf. Don’t worry. When he sees it, he’ll be pissed off at me, not you.”

I’m not sure what to say, but inside I am hoping that neither Carl nor David expects me to pay for the impromptu remodeling. The cabinet repair was part of the rental agreement, yes, but everything else wasn’t.

“Oh,” I say. “That’s cool. Thanks. But, just so you know, I’m not paying for all this.” I probably put too much emphasis on the word “not” because he raises his eyebrows and looks almost hurt.

“I wouldn’t expect you to,” he says. “Don’t worry. Carl will be the one paying. Trust me.” The way he says it makes me wonder exactly how he is going to make Carl pay for it, but frankly, I don’t really care. Just as long as I’m not the one opening my wallet.

“You want some lunch?” I ask.

Shit. It appears that my mouth is now speaking of its own accord. But at this moment I am stuck. I tell myself the intention of my offer was to take some of the sting away from my “fuck you” comment a few moments ago, but frankly, he doesn’t appear the least bit stung. He was clearly thrilled by the whole thing.

“I’m sure you’ve noticed that my kitchen is a bit of a chaotic mess at the moment. Some ass decided to take a few liberties on my behalf, and so I can’t really cook anything, but I am happy to share what I’ve got,” I say calmly. “I guess I’ll have to thank the ass for leaving my refrigerator intact.”

His face does not change. “I’m sure the ass has good intentions,” he says, looking directly into my eyes, which I am trying to keep from rolling. “And, yes, lunch would be great.”

Excellent. Now I have to give the ass lunch. I get up from the table and head back into the kitchen. As I am getting out more food, he washes his hands at the sink. While he lathers the soap, I can’t help but look at his tattoos. His arms are covered in birds. Dozens of them are delicately woven together in flight. Their wings overlapping, their tails trailing and swirling together. I am astounded by their elegance. Each bird is a different size and shape, and every feather is exquisitely detailed. They are strikingly beautiful. I want to touch them. To see the colors up close. To ask him about the person who put them there. But I don’t, because I am speechless.

As I look at his arms, I almost feel guilty. As if I have seen something that was supposed to be private. Intimate even. I only see them for a few brief moments, but they tell me more about David than I suspect he wants me to know. Anyone can see his arms, of course, but I feel as if I have exposed him somehow. As if my looking at them might make him embarrassed. Vulnerable even. But I know thousands of people have probably seen his tattoos and didn’t think twice about it.

Maybe it’s me who feels embarrassed.

The two of us together in my very small, and very demolished, kitchen is suddenly awkward, and I want to get out. I have to pass him sideways to fit between his body and the wall, and I take care not to touch him as I go by. I put the rest of the food on the table and divvy it all up. He comes around the corner drying his hands with a paper towel.

“How long ago did you move in?” he asks. “I haven’t really seen you around, so it must have been pretty recently.” I want to make a smart-aleck comment about all the moving boxes sitting around, but I decide that I’d better not.

“I’ve only been here a few days,” I answer as we both sit down. “I start my new job on Monday.”

“Oh, yeah?” he asks with what might be a hint of pride in his voice. “Good for you. What’s the job?”

“It’s for the FBI,” I say. “I’m going to be investigating a con man who swindles women into paying for remodeling projects they didn’t ask for.”

And there it is. His smile. It’s not big, and he doesn’t show his teeth, but still, it’s a smile. And I smile back.

“Wow. Now that sounds like an interesting case, Emma,” he says. “I bet he’s a good-looking bastard.”

“They say he’s a conceited son of a bitch, too,” I add.

“Don’t worry. You won’t be paying for a single penny of your new kitchen.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because I play poker with Carl every Tuesday night, and I have already won you your new kitchen. You want a new bathroom, too? I can have that for you by Wednesday morning.”

“Ahhh. It appears that the con man is indeed a conceited son of a bitch,” I say. “But I’m glad he’s spending his winnings so smartly. I didn’t know philanthropic con men even existed. How unexpected.”

“Con men are notorious for the unexpected,” he says, and I feel a lump in my throat. The whole time we have been talking I have been watching the birds on his arms in my peripheral vision. I suddenly feel remorseful for taking what could have been a normal conversation and turning it into a series of jokes. He is still smiling, though, which tells me he likes it.

“Unexpected is nice,” I say. Nice? That’s the best I can do? The word seems wrong.

We sit there eating without saying another word. I am looking at my food and not at him. When I glance up a few minutes later, he is looking right at me, and he’s still smiling, even as he eats.

“What?” I ask.

“Are you going to tell me what your new job really is?”

“I’m going to work for a company that designs telecommunication systems for office buildings. I’m an electrical engineer.” He actually looks pleased, and it surprises the hell out of me. “Welcome to Geek-ville,” I add as I shrug my shoulders. Oh, God.

“Geek-ville?” he asks, half laughing. “I think that shit is awesome.” I must look shocked at his reply because he shrugs his shoulders, too.

“And how long have you worked for Carl?”

“Almost two years. He owns a couple of apartment buildings, and I do all the maintenance for them in exchange for my rent.” Oh. David lives here? In this building? “It’s a pretty good deal. I just do some odd side jobs to pay for food and stuff, and I usually end up kicking ass on poker night, so I’m good. I’m really a carpenter, but I’ll do whatever the hell he needs just so I don’t have to get some nine-to-five shit union job.”

“I’m not looking forward to nine to five myself, but I think it will treat me pretty well.”

“I’m sure it will,” he says as he gets up from the table. “I’m going to get a few more things done in here, and then I’ll get going.”

He goes back into the kitchen, and I follow behind him carrying our plates. As I drop them into the sink, he hooks his tool belt around his waist and nestles it down on to his hips. I glance at the birds again, knowing that his eyes are on the belt clip and not me. They are breathtaking.

“Do you live in this building?” Really, Emma? Do you really want to go there? I curse my curiosity and tell it to go fuck itself.

“Yes,” he says. “Right above you, but two floors up.” That explains how he knew which apartment was mine and exactly where the kitchen was. It doesn’t explain why he used the door buzzer.

“Oh. Then why did you use the door buzzer this morning?” I ask.

“Because intercom introductions are my thing.” He holds his arms out in front of him and adds, “If you saw me through the peephole in your door, would you open it?”

“Yes...but only because of the tool belt.” I mean it as a joke, but I’m not sure he’s going to take it that way.

He chuckles and says, “Works every time.”

I spend two more hours in my bedroom unpacking and hooking up my computer and television gear. I hear David’s cell phone ring. He walks out of the apartment and closes the door behind him, and I wonder if he’s coming back. A few minutes later I hear the door open again. He is talking with someone, but I can’t hear what they are saying.

I walk out into the living room, and he and an older man are carrying boxes into my apartment.

“Your new kitchen tiles just arrived,” he says. “Once we get them unloaded, I’m heading out.”

“Okay,” I say, watching the other man walk back out of my apartment, presumably to fetch another box. They each make another trip outside, and then David shakes the man’s hand and sends him off. I am trying to find something to do in the living room—I want to be out here when he leaves and not in my bedroom.

I decide to open a box of books and begin stacking them one by one on to my bookshelf. As I do, David goes back into the kitchen, and I hear him taking off his tool belt and putting it on the floor. He comes back out, walks to the door, and turns to look at me.

“Thanks for lunch, Emma. I’ll be back tomorrow. And I won’t use the door buzzer this time.” He is out the door before I can say goodbye.

* * *

What the hell has happened today? I am used to people getting me fired up. I am used to being angry. I am used to my temper. But I am not used to squelching it...and I am exhausted. Was all that crap flirting or mocking? I can’t figure out if I should be pissed off or flattered. Goddamn me. Goddamn him. He’s probably going to some bar tonight where he’ll brag to his friends about the smart-ass redhead he is working for and how much he enjoys watching her squirm. I decide to be pissed off instead of flattered...which doesn’t surprise me one damn bit.

I walk back to my room to check my email, and while I am there, I check my cell phone. There is no message from Carl.

Chapter Four

Emma—Age 13

That prick Michael has taken my mom away yet again. This time for three weeks. And I am left in this house alone. Carol doesn’t come watch me anymore because Michael says he is not paying for a nanny when my brothers can keep an eye on me. I’m thirteen now and both my brothers are in college—I don’t understand exactly how that translates to “keeping an eye on me,” but it’s definitely better than having that chimney Carol here for three weeks.

Mom left a check for me on the kitchen counter. It is signed but otherwise blank. It’s what she does every time he takes her on one of his trips. He calls them “buying trips,” but I have no idea what they actually buy because they never come home with anything more than they left with. I am supposed to fill out the check for however much I want, make it out to cash, and then walk it down to the bank. How the hell do I know how much money I am going to need to live off of for three weeks? I decide to screw them both and make the check out for two thousand dollars. That should do it, right? Michael will probably kick my ass when he sees the amount, but he is a thousand miles away right now, and I don’t give a damn. He’s going to be pissed no matter how much money I take out, so I might as well make it worth it.

I spend my time going to school, which I actually like, hanging out with my friends, and playing volleyball. I’m on the girls’ team at school, and I’m actually half-decent at it.

When Saturday comes, my brother Ricky calls. I think he is drunk, and it’s only three o’clock in the afternoon.

“I’m coming to get you at eight o’clock,” he says. “Michael told me to keep an eye on you while they’re gone. You can hang with me and Evan.” I feel disgusted. My brothers are practically grown men, and I have to go and hang out with them on a Saturday night. They’ll probably take me to some R-rated movie just to watch me squirm. Do they not realize that if I wanted to get into trouble, I could do it whenever I damn well please? I don’t have to wait until a Saturday night. I am thirteen and pretty much living by myself for weeks on end. The potential for trouble is slapping me in the face.

I gotta say, though, for being alone so much, I really don’t get into that much trouble. I don’t steal or drink or smoke or have sex. Not yet anyway—but I’m working on the sex part with Jack Darris. He’s a smokin’ hot tenth-grader. We’ve come close but haven’t gone all the way yet. The only trouble I actually get into is for fighting—and that’s only when I get caught, which I usually don’t. A good scrap makes me feel better. It makes me feel better about Michael, about my brothers, about life in general.

My mom says I have a hot temper, which is definitely true. What can I say? People piss me off. And when I get pissed off, I go all postal. I want to beat the crap out of them. I know that my mom has been trying to talk Michael into sending me to some shrink for my—what was the word she used? Oh, yes—rage, because I heard them talking about it one night. He said that God would fix it and that I just needed to keep going to Sunday school. Fuck him. What he doesn’t know is that every time I look at my Sunday-school teacher, it makes me want to go postal. Seeing her definitely does not fix my “rage issue.” It aggravates the hell out of it.

I hang around the house for a few more hours, make myself some dinner, and watch a couple of Law and Order reruns. A little before eight o’clock, I run upstairs and change into a better pair of jeans and a clean shirt. I decide on the one that Jack says makes me look older. I put on a little eyeliner and mascara and brush out my hair. I’m skinny, yes, but I think Jack is right. This shirt does make me look older. Sixteen, at least.

Ricky is pretty well trashed when he picks me up, but I don’t say anything because I don’t want to start a fight right now. Chances are, he’ll pass out halfway through the movie anyway, and then I’ll only have to put up with Evan, and he isn’t half as bad as Ricky. In fact, Evan’s a half-decent guy when Ricky isn’t around. It’s as if Ricky’s presence instantaneously turns Evan into some kind of stupid minion. I hate it.

As I open the car door, thinking about Ricky’s flair for brotherly manipulation, a memory comes crashing into me, one that almost keeps me from going with them. It was the summer after my mother married Michael, and my brothers and I were still pretty close. Michael had just begun to weave his way in between us. My brothers and I were playing in the creek behind the house, throwing stones and swimming. It was my turn to swing out on a rope and drop down into the water, but I was afraid and I didn’t let go in time. Instead of falling into the water, I dropped on to the ground. My leg scraped against a stump, and I knocked my head hard enough to give myself a ringing concussion. I was crying when my mother came rushing from the back porch. She knelt down beside me and brushed my hair out of my eyes, asking me if I was all right. My brothers were looking down at me, their faces streaked with worry, their fingers fidgeting.

Then I heard Michael’s voice. He was walking toward us, asking what I did this time, sighing as if my falling was the biggest hassle he’d ever faced. As soon as my brothers heard his voice, their faces changed. They stepped back away from me and tightened their expressions, replacing their worry with casual indifference. Toughening themselves up. Michael walked up to us and put a hand on each of their shoulders, telling my mother how clumsy I was, berating me for being dumb enough to forget to let go of the rope. I was scared, I told him, not dumb. When he asked my brothers if they thought that their little sister was being dumb, Ricky looked up at Michael and enthusiastically nodded his head. Then he elbowed Evan in the ribs until the pair of them were nodding and smiling at Michael like a pair of twin cronies begging for his approval. As they walked away from me and my mother, I saw Evan peek back, and for a split second, a small, sympathetic grin flashed at me. It was the first time I felt betrayed.

In the years since then, betrayal and duplicity have become second nature to my brothers, and I’ve been stung by them more times than I can count. I’ve learned to distance myself from them, to shut them out whenever possible. Tonight, however, shutting them out is not an option. Unless I want to get into a huge fight. Which I do not.

I get in the backseat and buckle up.

We stop by Evan’s apartment to pick him up, and he fist-bumps Ricky as soon as he gets into the car, then turns around and gives me a nod. I think for a few moments that maybe it will be a decent night after all. But then Ricky pulls out of the parking lot and turns left, away from the theater and toward the university. Ricky and Evan start talking, and their conversation makes it clear that we aren’t going to see a movie. We’re going to a party. A fraternity party.

Ricky looks at my reflection in the rearview mirror and starts talking to me. He says all sorts of shit about where we are going and how I am supposed to behave while we are there. I wonder what my Sunday-school teacher would think about my going to a college party. I’m silently laughing at the thought of it all when we pull up to the house.

I am going to my first fraternity party at thirteen years old. I am both nervous and excited. Ricky’s behavior lecture was pretty clear. I can drink, I can smoke, I can dance...but I cannot tease his friends. I believe his exact words were: “If you are going to flirt with my friends, then you damn well better be prepared to put out. Nobody likes a dick-tease, Emma.” Uh, I am thirteen years old, you asshole. Putting out is not on the evening’s agenda.

There are about a million people in the house. The floor is sticky, and I can barely hear myself think over the pulsating music. Evan introduces me to their friend Lainey who decides to take me under her wing. She grabs my hand and hauls me to the basement for a beer. My brothers disappear to God-knows-where. At least in the basement the music is quieter. People are playing Ping-Pong with cups of beer lined up on the table. They are shooting pool. They are bouncing quarters off the table and into full cups of beer. It is a brand-new wonderland, and I can’t stop watching them. They are all laughing and talking, and there is no awkwardness. There are no social bystanders. Only people having fun. I have been to a few high school parties with Jack, and I can tell you that they are nothing like this. High school parties are freak shows of self-consciousness. Everyone is too busy caring about what everyone else is thinking. This, though...this is different. Suddenly I cannot wait to get to college. Screw Jack Darris. I want a boy like these boys. One who doesn’t have to prove anything to anyone. One who doesn’t give a rat’s ass about anything but being himself.

Lainey comes back with a couple of beers and starts chattering with a bunch of other girls. I am left to my own devices in the basement of my brothers’ fraternity house, and before I know it, I am playing quarters and drunk off my ass. Nobody asks me who I am or how old I am or why I am here. They just feed me their beer and their laughter and treat me like I am their very best friend.

At three in the morning everyone starts to filter out of the house. The music has stopped, and the kegs are kicked. Through my beer-bleary eyes, I watch couples leave together. I watch groups of girls walk arm-in-arm out the door. I watch boys stagger down the front walk and out on to the street. I feel euphoric, and I don’t quite think it’s entirely due to the beer. I want to skip over the next five years of my life and get right to the good part. I want Ricky and Evan to bring me back here again.

As I stumble around trying to find them, two boys come up behind me and hook their arms into mine, one on each side. I think for a second that they might be my brothers, but then I realize they are far too cute to be Ricky and Evan. They are laughing at me, and I think it is because I am not at all walking straight. I feel sloppy and small between them. The boys take me up the stairs to where the bedrooms are. I am leaning on them hard, and my head is wagging from side to side. I try to look up, but my neck feels like jelly. When we get to the top of the steps, I see Ricky. He is standing with his arm around Lainey’s shoulder, and there is a big smile on his face. I can hear him laughing at me. Laughing at his drunk-off-her-ass thirteen-year-old sister. I want to punch him in the fucking face, but I can’t because my two escorts have turned left and are walking me down the hallway.