Don't Kiss Me: Stories(13)

A small boy wrung his hands in front of the station. The detective thought how much the station looked like a yellow lightbox. The boy said, Somebody tarred Daddy to the floor. His eyes were small green almonds.

The detective said, Yeah, yeah, what floor? His head made bright exclamations. He could’ve breathed lava. He took the boy by the shoulder and pushed him into the light. He thought about the cuffs.

The fat officer at the desk eyed the boy through dark slits. The detective told the boy to have a seat. Walked back to his desk and wrote Cheekbones on the report. He wrote it sloppy enough so that it could be anything.

In the bathroom he ran the panties under the tap. Scrubbed his face pink. He wondered if the boy had any chalk. In the mirror he glared at himself hatefully.

THE NIGHT ENDS:

The chief said, At the end of the day, Tin Ears, the ransom note was the thing.

No body no death.

’Sright. Punch out.

Who wrote it?

Somebody else. Punch out.

THE DETECTIVE:

The detective wondered about death bloody with absence. How enough blood makes a dead man.

He took the back door. Drove a horrible length, parked at a grocery store. The day’s sky was slowly spreading itself. The sun was a dazzling orange in a pool of mucus and it hurt his eyes. He had a few minutes to go before it opened. Jelly rolls. Lunch meat.

The detective thought of the boy waiting on the bench. How he might like to pick a mother out of a lineup.

He found a fresh Ziploc and some coins in the console. Anything brown would do.

THE END:

So that’s it?





PLANS


I kissed a teacher once. It ain’t as bad as you think. It was in Shop. He was showing me how to use the band saw and I was in the crook of his arm and we were pushing a two-by-four together and he had the windows open and there was a breeze and I just turned around and passed my tongue through his lips, easy as pie, his mouth tasted like menthol and something else, something like vinegar, something that wasn’t from food or nothing, something like maybe want. Want is bitter like that is what I mean. Right after I thought of the Cheetos I had in my bag, while he looked at me from behind his dinged-up glasses, while his mouth worked like we was still at it, I just leaned back against the table and thought how I’d eat the Cheetos on the bus home, how I’d suck the orange from my fingers.

Well, he said, when his mouth finally quit.

Yep, I said. He pushed up his glasses and I could see the grit under his nails, his knuckles knobbed and leathery.

I had been planning this for a while. This man, this teacher, he was like something whittled in reverse, moving slowly back to the block. All his edges was dull, if he had any edges left. I thought about putting my hands on his belt and so I reached out and pulled at his buckle. It’s easy as that if you want to know the truth. Just think something up and then do it. That’s all.

He pushed at his glasses again, both hands this time, and I felt his pants get tight. All right, I told him, but he backed away and turned from me and went into his little office and closed the door.

That was that. I ain’t one for pushing it. I got my stuff and wandered the halls till the bell rang and it was time to get on the bus. I ate all the Cheetos, even the little bitty ones, and I saved my fingers for last.

I thought it was funny that here I was finally with my Cheetos but all I could think about was the man’s eyes behind his busted-up glasses, the nicks and scratches making his eyes look smeared and splintered, like something he would have given a low grade to: needs sanding, needs varnish, needs attention.

Anyway. There was a rough bit on my chin from where his face met mine. If you’d seen it and asked me about it, I’d have told you I fell, told you it just needed a cool cloth and some Noxzema, told you I let a football player. Cause it’d have been none of your business.

*



I stole a coral lipstick from the grocery store while my momma was two aisles over with the frozen dinners, her hand to the glass like that’s how she could read the labels. The lipstick was on a can of refried beans, still in its package, I pictured some desperate woman realizing she needed the beans more than she needed the color and placing it there when she saw no one was looking. I picked it up and worked it out of its package, a thin boy in an apron watching me from the end of the aisle, and me watching him back, me taking that lipstick out and sliding it into my jeans pocket and the boy worrying his pimpled chin with his thumb and forefinger, the boy shrugging like I had asked him and me turning to walk the other way, running my finger along the cans and boxes and bags of food cause I figured he’d be watching, but when I looked he was helping an old man reach the powdered milk and I had to touch the lipstick in my pocket to make sure I had ever been seen at all.

I wore that lipstick one night when we all met up to swim and it was so dark I let a boy take off my bottoms, the lipstick smeared and greasy all around my mouth and its crayon smell all over the boy, and then I put a ribbon on that lipstick and gave it to my momma for Christmas.

*



I went over to a boy’s house one night when my momma had the TV on so loud it rung in my teeth, so loud she didn’t look up from her program when I shut the door behind me. I watched her from the window, holding her glass in the palm of her hand, flexing her toes, and if she heard me she didn’t feel like doing nothing about it.

After all that loud, after all that laughter and applause and ding ding ding and welcome and good night, the quiet of the evening rushed in after it and filled me up with a fizzing, that’s all I can tell you, I was all fizz and crackle and burst.