Weird Girl, page 12
While Ms. Adams was screaming at Mae and chasing her, still nude, from the building, Jackson glanced around the office until he spotted Mae’s clothes. He quickly searched the pockets until he found a familiar folded piece of paper. As he had begun to suspect, it did not have anything resembling an apology for Mae. Instead, it was an invitation from Jackson to Mae. The handwriting wasn’t his, but it did look distinctly male—not that it mattered, because he had personally delivered it. He was simultaneously furious and impressed with the little devil known as Cleo St. James.
Her sad act at the dance had distracted him from her hands, or he would have noticed her pull a different paper from the edge of her sleeve, palming the apology and giving Jackson the wrong message to deliver. During the next three hours of his life, as he was begging, pleading, apologizing, and arguing his defense with his lover, Jackson was mentally calculating the magnitude of the debt that Cleo now owed him.
In the end, Mae was cast out, Jackson was in the doghouse, but not out of the picture, and Cleo was the happiest she had been since arriving at the school. Even better, without Mae’s leadership, everyone left Cleo alone. She existed in a blissful world of her own creation, where she went to class, chopped her vegetables, and retired to her private room each evening. It was two weeks before her universe once again tilted slightly askew.
13
Cleo was on top of the world. She had just aced her French I exam, it was one of her days off from the dining hall job, and she had successfully stolen three reference books from the library to study in private. There was a stash of cookies waiting for her in her room (one of the privileges of working in food prep was the ability to stick food in one’s pockets). She rushed up the stairs and into her room, slamming the door behind her just because it felt good. And then she saw Jackson and screamed (just a little one).
He was sitting on her bed with his back up against the wall, one knee up and the other leg hanging down to the floor, shuffling a deck of cards and sucking on a piece of Cleo’s peppermint candy. He smiled at Cleo’s reaction, and then he began to deal a game of solitaire on top of her coverlet. After a solid minute of watching him lay out the cards, Cleo relaxed, taking great satisfaction in the way that Jackson flinched when a book fell from her person and thudded to the floor. Another one followed a few seconds later (Cleo had discovered that, as long as you walked very carefully, you could hide books up the legs of your shorts, hold your thighs together tightly, and walk right out of the library). He looked at the books on the floor and raised an eyebrow at her. She mimicked his expression and reached behind her back, extracting the third illegal book from the waistband of her shorts and tossing it on the floor with the others. He chuckled and said “Well, aren’t we the little klepto,” before returning to his card game.
He made her wait until he finished his game. She watched. She cleared her throat often. She tapped her foot on the floor. Finally, she started “accidentally” dropping things. “Whoops! I’m so clumsy,” she would say with a glance in his direction. Jackson didn’t acknowledge her until the last card was played. It was really annoying.
First, he restacked the cards in a neat pile. Then, he stood up from the bed and stretched, cracking his back and rolling his head until the muffled popping sounds in his neck subsided. He removed his trademark fedora, this one maroon with a black band, and ran a hand over dark hair, lightly scratching his head and yawning. Finally, he bent over and picked up the three books, investigating each one before tossing it on the bed. Noting the subject matter, he shook his head and then looked at her incredulously. “Explain,” he said, pointing at the haphazard pile of books.
Lifting her chin, Cleo crossed her arms and stared off into the corner. Without warning, Jackson made three quick strides, grabbed her face, and turned it toward himself. Cleo’s eyes widened in surprise, and finally, she started to recognize something dangerous in Jackson. Her pulse pounded. “Explain,” he said again, very softly this time, his fingers hot on her face.
Cleo swallowed hard before replying, “I just wanted to read them in peace and quiet. I’m going to put them back when I’m done. It’s just that hag librarian—“
Jackson cut her off. “I don’t care what you do with them,” he said. “I’m just curious as to the subject matter.”
Cleo looked over at the books. “Oh!” she exclaimed. “Well, I was reading The Three Musketeers for my lit class, and that got me thinking about duels and swords and stuff, so I thought it might be interesting to see if I could teach myself how to fence.”
Very patiently, Jackson let go of her face and straightened. He put his hands in his pockets and tried very hard not to grin (but she saw the corner of his mouth twitch anyway). “Cleo,” he said condescendingly. “Why do you need to know how to fence?”
She didn’t have a good answer for that, so she kept quiet. Jackson nodded as though he could hear what she was thinking. “What are you going to do? Hide in the bushes and jump out with a sword? Challenge somebody to a duel? Stab somebody?”
“Only in self defense!” she retorted. Then she muttered, “Or if they deserve it,” looking so superior that Jackson finally laughed out loud.
“Where are you even planning to get a sword?” he asked. Her eyes slid to the left and she cryptically replied, “I have some ideas.” Jackson looked suspiciously at the closet and then walked to it and yanked open the door. There was a metal meat skewer hanging neatly on a nail, right beside a long-handled meat fork. Jackson decided that it would be prudent to confiscate both of them, much to Cleo’s dismay. They argued, but he was bigger and stronger, and so he won. The skewer and fork went into the trash chute at the end of her hallway.
But a philosophical discussion about weaponry was not the reason for Jackson’s visit to Cleo’s quarters. When he had disposed of them, he came back in and closed the door quietly. “We need to talk,” he said.
“I’m kind of tired right now,” said Cleo. “Maybe some other time.”
“Well, that’s too damn bad,” he said, his expression now dangerous. As he came toward her, she instinctively backed up until her shoulder blades met solid wall. Jackson reached over for a wooden desk chair and dragged it to where Cleo was currently attempting to become one with the wallpaper. She cringed at the sound of the chair legs resisting their journey across the floor. He swung the chair around and pointed to it. “Sit!” he commanded. She sat.
Jackson considered his words carefully before speaking. “I seem to recall an incident with a keychain,” he began, holding up a finger in warning when Cleo opened her mouth to speak. She stayed quiet.
“I could lecture you about stealing, since you clearly are making a habit of it.” He gestured at the books on her bed. “But I really don’t care what you do, as long as it doesn’t screw up my life. Unfortunately, you seem to be very good at screwing up my life.” He looked at her to see if she was paying attention.
She was trying to figure out how to escape. Her eyes darted around the room, and he was pretty sure that she was evaluating her makeshift weapon options. With a sigh, he reached down and unbuckled his belt. The sound brought her attention back to him, as he had intended. Her eyes widened as he drew the leather through his belt loops with a soft hiss. He squatted in front of her, maintaining eye contact as he reached around her, binding her arms with the belt and buckling it tightly enough that she winced in pain. They both knew that it wasn’t a foolproof system, but it would certainly slow her down enough for him to catch her if she bolted.
“Do you remember what I said to you after I saved your ass with the keychain incident?” he asked.
“You said I owe you one,” replied the sullen girl in the chair.
“Exactly! I’m so glad you were paying attention,” said Jackson. “Now, I know you’re pretty smart, so I’m going to give you exactly five seconds to compare a fucking keychain to A STAGED LIASON!” He was leaning so close to her that she could smell the peppermint on his breath.
“Ummm…I owe you two?” she said.
He was angry now. “It means you owe me BIG. It means I OWN YOU until I decide otherwise. It means that you will do exactly what I tell you to do, or I will make your life even more of a hell than it already is. Do you understand me?” Cleo could only flinch and blink in response. For some reason, her brain wasn’t successfully communicating with her vocal cords in this moment.
Jackson stood and composed himself. “You know, it was a pretty genius plan, I will give you that. And you got exactly what you wanted, didn’t you? Mae is gone. But why did you have to bring me into it? Do you have any idea what they’re all saying about me?” He pointed at the door as he said this. “Do you have any clue what kind of hoops that woman is making me jump through for this, even though I had nothing to do with it? Have you ever been raked over the coals because somebody else decided to screw up your life?”
“Yes,” said Cleo without hesitation. “That’s how I ended up here.”
They considered one another in silence. Finally, Jackson smiled. As he bent over her shoulder to remove the belt that bound her to the chair, he said, “I like you, Cleopatra. And I sincerely hope you’re as smart as you think you are.” He picked up his hat, flipped it in midair, and plopped it on his head with a wink. “Because I’ve got plans for you.”
And then he strolled out the door like he owned the place, leaving Cleo gaping at his back. “My name’s not Cleopatra, asshole!” she yelled. She could have sworn she heard him chuckle as he entered the stairwell.
14
Surprisingly, Jackson kept his distance after that day. Cleo expected him to be around every corner, behind every shadow, in every footstep on the gravel path. He wasn’t, and it made her jumpy. The anticipation of Jackson’s plans kept Cleo on edge, which in a roundabout sort of way kept her on her best behavior (which is relative—we are talking about Cleo here). She was an excellent student, a stellar employee, and actually started being polite to people. (This made them all suspicious and on edge, but life is a vicious circle). The rest of spring term passed without incident, and finally, it was time for Cleo to go home.
There was a mandatory one month break after the spring semester ended, to give faculty and staff a much-needed relaxation period. Then, students could return to campus to fit in a condensed course before fall classes began, or they could remain with their parents until the first of August. Cleo was hoping to convince her parents that she had reformed enough to stay home altogether.
As exam week ended, and graduation preparations began, Cleo decided that it was time to ask for her property back. So, she strolled into Ms. Adams’ office at two in the afternoon, plopped down in a leather and oak chair, and said, “I’ll take my shrunken head now, please.”
Ms. Adams was on the phone, so it wasn’t the best moment for Cleo’s announcement. The woman ended her call, clasped her hands on top of her blotter, and said, “No.”
“What do you mean, “No?”” asked Cleo indignantly. “He’s mine, and I want to take him home!”
Ms. Adams pulled a slender nail file from a drawer and leaned back in her chair. “I mean that you can’t have it,” she said. “I mean that you don’t get to barge into my office, interrupt me on a very important call, and demand that I do anything. In fact, I’m reconsidering having that thing incinerated.”
Cleo gasped. “You can’t! He’s my father’s, and I have to take him home with me!” She nearly started to hyperventilate. It was the first time that Ms. Adams had seen Cleo lose her cool, and she found it very interesting.
Filing away a nonexistent rough spot on the edge of her index finger, Ms. Adams smiled. “Well, I think it would be in my best interests to hold on to that disgusting little item until you leave my school permanently.”
“Which is next week,” retorted Cleo. “I’m gonna make sure they don’t send me back to this place.”
“Oh, really?” asked Ms. Adams as she carefully placed the file back in her drawer. “I beg to differ. In fact, I think I can make sure that you remain a student here for years to come. After all, I am required to apprise your parents of your behavior while here. I don’t believe they’ll find you fully reformed.”
“But I haven’t been in trouble at all!” exclaimed Cleo. “Well, except a little bit there at the beginning, but I’ve been really good since then! You know you’d rather be rid of me anyway.”
Ms. Adams leaned forward. “No, dear, I’d rather have your tuition for the next three to four years. You’ll be back. You can count on that. Now, leave my office before I set that stupid head on fire.”
And so it came to pass as Ms. Adams had predicted. Jackson drove Cleo home, neither of them speaking for the entire journey. Helen and Darwin were in their separate studies when she arrived. Cleo didn’t even see her parents until dinner that evening, where Darwin asked a thousand questions about the school, and Helen pushed her peas around on her plate in silence. As Vera brought out dessert (devil’s food cake—Cleo’s favorite), the topic of re-enrollment came up. Cleo pled her case dramatically, but Helen would not be swayed. Ms. Adams recommended that Cleo return to the school, so Cleo would be going back at the end of the 4-week hiatus. For the first time in her life, Cleo threw a bona fide tantrum. As it was a first for everyone, the results weren’t quite what Cleo had anticipated. Darwin merely jotted down notes while Cleo cried, thrashed, stomped, and threw herself to the floor. Helen just left the room.
Finally, Cleo wiped the snot and drool from her face (and the floor) and ran upstairs to collapse on her bed. The next morning, she called a taxi and went to see Santo.
***
A lot had changed about the place. Weeds were taking over the driveway, the grass was knee-high, and the atmosphere stank of rotting garbage. This, combined with a heavy silence, made Santo’s mobile home look concave, like a malnourished child. Cleo knocked, but nobody came to the door. She stood on a plastic bucket and cupped her hands around her eyes to see into the front windows, but the panes were too dirty. She had started to regret sending the taxi away when her nostrils detected another odor on the breeze.
Dropping to her knees, she peered into the darkness underneath the trailer. “You can come out now,” she called. A scraping sound to her left was the only sound. She crawled a few feet and squinted at the crawlspace. “I know you’re under there, Santo.” Still, no response. “I can smell your perfume,” she said. Cleo sniffed the air again to confirm this, and yes, right there—mingling with the fetid odors of rotten meat, spoiled dairy, and who knew what else, was a distinctive note of White Diamonds perfume.
“Don’t make me break your windows again,” she warned as she stood up and brushed off her knees. Instead of searching for cinderblock chunks, however, she prowled the yard until she found a long, sharp stick. She walked along the edge of the trailer, hunched over and sniffing the air every few seconds until, suddenly, she dropped to the ground and jabbed the stick at the darkness under the trailer. A squeak, followed by an outraged, “Ow!” were her reward.
“See, I told you you were under there,” she said, quite pleased with herself.
“Go away,” was the response. She poked him with the stick again. Finally, a combination of rustling sounds and grunts heralded Santo’s emergence from his pit.
The months of Cleo’s absence had certainly taken a toll on Santo’s home, but the changes in the man himself were even more shocking. His greasy hair was shoulder-length and hadn’t been combed (or washed) in quite a while. He had a coarse, dirty, bushy beard down to his collarbone. He smelled terrible, a combination of severe B.O. and perfume, and there were bare remnants of red polish on his scuffed, chewed fingernails. She remembered him being skinny before, but now his ribs showed. His cutoff shorts barely hung on his hips. He also, inexplicably, clutched a homemade spear with rabbits’ feet dangling from leather strands all down its length.
If Cleo had taken any other route on Santo’s property, she would have discovered (in an unfortunate way) a variety of metal animal traps hidden in the tall grass. The back yard contained a mountain of garbage bags, covered in buzzing, disgusting flies. While Cleo had been at boarding school, Santo had become a lonely savage.
The day that Cleo had been taken away by Jackson, Santo had been expecting her for the fifth and final lesson. He waited. And waited. And waited. And then the little voice in his head started telling him terrible things. She had turned him in, handed over his driver’s license, spilled about his criminal history. The police were on the way to charge him with kidnapping. He would go to jail.
He lived in fear for a week, expecting every sound to herald the beginning of a police raid. The S.W.A.T. team was hiding in the trees, waiting to shoot him if he went outside. The D.E.A. was hiding in the bushes waiting for him to pick a bud or two from his small, but well-tended pot garden. The FBI would put him away for kidnapping. Santo didn’t eat, sleep, bathe, or even move for seven whole days.
When the invasion didn’t come, he started to relax. He finally went to the store for milk and cheese, got pulled for a faulty brake light on the way home…and didn’t have his driver’s license. The officer gave him a three day window to bring it to the station. But, Santo didn’t have it. He panicked again.
