Five ♀
My dad is an early to bed, early to rise sort of guy so I wait until I'm certain he's asleep before going back to the trailer. The lights are all out but I'm still slightly wary of an ambush in the darkness and we'll pick up the argument right where we left off. But that's always been more my mom's style and I come back to a black home and the faint rumble of Ben's snoring.
Tip-toeing silently, I start my journey in the kitchen, trying to be as quiet as I can as I open up the cabinets. There are more nuts and bolts, screwdrivers and loose wires than there are eating utensils and cooking equipment and to my extreme disappointment there's no alcohol. It just figures that Ben's fallen in with the teetotal set and I can't even find any cooking wine to take the edge off.
I'm about to give up when my fingers find something promising behind a stack of plastic tupperware. It's a sticky glass bottle that looks like it's more than a couple of years old, in the shape of a Palm Tree and filled up with dark rum. Ben hasn't touched it and my guess is that it was a gift from someone, a souvenir from some place abroad that he stashed away and forgot about.
It's perfect.
Taking a few deep glugs, I let the rum burn its way down my throat as I head towards my room and shut the door.
Stripping off the layers of my clothing, t-shirt, sweat pants, hoodie, sports bra, briefs I stand naked in front of the mirror and drink.
My arms are sinewy but strong, I have muscular shoulders from push ups and my stomach is flat and hard. But there are soft parts of me too; no matter what I do, how many miles I run and how many carbs I avoid. Fat collects on my lower half, around my ass and hips, my breasts are puffed up, hanging loosely outside of their usual tight bindings beneath my sport's bras. There are scars outlining them, thin slashes from razor blades that have healed white along with the word carved large into the side of my right thigh,
Slut.
If only I could strip myself away, down to the bones, and start again...
But then, maybe I can...
"Charlie Hogan," I tell the mirror, forcing a low voice, drinking more rum, starting to feel a little lightheaded. I head over to the wardrobe, the contents of my suitcase now filling it.
"Charlie Hogan," I repeat, rifling through baggy jeans on hangers, large sweaters, everything oversized enough to swallow up my body, in dull grays to slip seamlessly into the scenery. "Charlie Hogan has nothing to wear..."
And I'm still none the wiser as to what an Electro actually is. It could be a nightclub, a mini golf course, an S and M dungeon where people attach electric currents to their nipples I have no idea. Not that it matters, I remind myself, it seems unlikely- after earlier, that Ben will let me go anywhere.
***
The rum buzz wears off and leaves behind a carpety taste in my mouth when I wake up the next morning. I stash the bottle inside my suitcase in case I have use for it again and shuffle timidly into the kitchen. My dad is dressed for a day at the repair shop, in a black polo shirt his name in yellow lettering over the breast pocket. At the sight of me, he drops his spoon into his cereal bowl and looks up from the newspaper, lips pressed together.
"Good morning, Charlie," he says coolly.
"Morning," I mumble. I pull my head down as I sit across from him, toying with the bowl he's set out for me. "Sorry, dad."
Ben pulls back and sighs, "that's okay. But it's Pam-Pam you'll have to apologize to as well."
Biting my tongue, I force myself to nod my head.
"And you'll be civil to Chloe Grace when she takes you out?" I nod again, though it's starting to hurt this time. "You never know, you might end the summer good friends."
It seems unlikely but I force a weak smile, because it's as good a segue as any into what I have to ask. Running a hand through my hair I say, "actually, I've been thinking about what you said...making friends and filling my days and all..."
He'll say no and that's fine, I tell myself. It'll be better than fine actually. Because I can't really go. Because what I'm thinking of doing is cuckoo-crazy.
"So I was gonna go out tonight."
Ben tips his head at me, "Who with?"
"I got talking to someone from the trailer park. Some guy about my age. Said something about...hanging out with some of his friends."
My dad frowns a little, perhaps questioning the wisdom of letting his one and only daughter run around with 'some guy from the trailer park' but, come on, he's seen me. Seen me sitting in front of him with short hair and muscular shoulders and a hoodie and he's already decided that I'm just not going to go back to Minnesota with a Florida baby in my stomach. Which is exactly right given that last night ensured that there is not even a millionth of a percent chance of anything ever ever happening.
And that, frankly, is the way I like it.
"Okay," says Ben. "You go ahead, Charlie. Have fun."
***
Fun? I feel like I'm going to throw up. That's how much fun I'm having as I walk to His trailer. My stomach is full of a little more of the rum I have stashed away and I remind myself that I'm going to have to stop just saying Him and His in my head like some kind of deity and call him by his actual name. Harry.
I considered a new look, but in the end I've just played it safe with my outfit choice, like usual. A pair of dark baggy jeans and lots of layers. A T-shirt, a hoodie, the enormous leather jacket I found in a goodwill. No, I'm not wearing a dress or makeup. There will be no 'beautiful lady all along' moments for me, so get that idea out of your head and this whole fucked up ride will be a lot easier to stomach. I'm kinda pleased with my hair though and how gravity defying it is after a little go on the hairdryer and essentially an entire tub of wax.
It was almost okay, looking in the mirror, thinking; showtime Prince Charming.
But that's all dissipated now and tonight feels like a monumentally stupid idea as I stand on the front porch of the trailer. I have to breathe out, summon every single iota of courage I have inside of my body to knock.
Worst case scenarios run over and over inside my head. I see car crashes, fires, blood and hear a multitude of people just laughing and laughing at me.
Harry's mom answers the door. There's a cigarette hanging out of her mouth, unlit, and loose tendrils of dark hair coil down the back of her neck. "Great; more misfit toys," she mumbles when I ask her if Harry is around, my voice a nervous sort of low rasp. I still haven't nailed it. "Come in. He's putting Shiv to bed."
She turns around to indicate I should follow her inside. On the back of her shoulder blade is the tattoo of a wilted flower, shaded gray, hanging limp with petals dropping from it. I picture that it was in bloom once, flowering against her skin in bright red shades when she was younger. But that's impossible.
The layout of the trailer is the same as Ben's, small kitchen separated from the living room by a plastic topped counter, but the sofa's more beaten up, covered by a velvet throw. There are canvases on the wall; unframed, frenetic splashes of paint that have been left to drip down like classic art that's melted in the Florida heat. Everything is slightly grimy; I feel like the surfaces would all be sticky if I touched them.
I'm anxious about stepping into the light. Yesterday, in the dark, with my hood up was one thing- but I'm standing in the, admittedly quite low light of the lamp on the end table. Harry's mom gives nothing away- I don't know if this is how she is with boys, with girls, with the undecided or with everyone in general.
"I've seen you around," she says suddenly, looking at me and leaning forward against the kitchen counter. I squirm a little; pretty sure that my dad probably doesn't have much cause to talk this woman but still worried. "You're Shiv's little crush. The runner, right?"
"Umm...yes...yes ma'am."
I'd decided I was going to be cool, that this new me was going to be outgoing and confident and unflappable. Looks like all of that's gone out the window,
"Yes ma'am," she says, imitating me with a snort. "Call me Colleen."
"Charlie Hogan," I say, just like I've practised.
"Well don't hang around like a bad smell, Charlie Hogan, sit down."
I take a seat on the lumpy sofa and don't look at the stack of letters marked Overdue, piling up on the coffee table with rings around it. Colleen has these heavily lidded eyes that seem not to be able to hold the weight of her own eyelashes- I think she might be slightly drunk, at the sound of a door opening she moves from the kitchen to sit next to me.
It's not exactly breaking news that Harry looks fantastic. I've seen him look amazing in ripped up skinny jeans, loose tank tops, plaid shirts with the sleeves rolled up. So now, dressed in dark clothing with his hair treading that fine line between artfully dishevelled and just plain dishevelled, I get taken aback by him all over again.
"Oh hey...Charlie,right? You decided to come."
He seems taken aback by me too and I realise, with this horrible sinking feeling, that he didn't expect me to actually show up. That the invitation was more of a neighbourly token, 'thanks for saving my sister' gesture and I just latched onto it like a limpet because I'm a moron.
"I thought I would....if-if that's okay. I mean I-" I stammer out.
"No it's not okay. It's terrible, the worst thing in the world," he deadpans, walking past us to hunt around a pile of shoes next to the front door,
"Seriously, though; the more the merrier. And it'll stop you skulking round this place after dark," he adds, coming back to rest on the arm of the sofa next to Colleen, rolling up a pair of socks.
"I don't skulk!" I squeak nervously. "I-I-.." Jesus, does that mean he's seen me? I find it slightly hard to breathe, but his expression isn't horrified or creeped out. He means yesterday by the pool and that's it, I realise and quickly manufacture a recovery, "I don't skulk...I prowl. Like a panther."
Christ, I'm a dork. No matter who I try to be, I spill dork out of my pores.
"I think that might actually sound a thousand times worse than you think," says Harry, but his smile is kind when it could have easily been cruel. He gets a text alert and reaches into his pocket. I draw myself away from him for just a second because I haven't actually done it yet, only to find Colleen shifting a little closer to me.
"Your friend's a cutie," she tells her son, but she's looking at me. Looking at me like I'm a pork chop and she's starving. "I bet you're real fit too, I bet there's a six pack hidden under that big old sweater."
And a pair of 32 B tits. My shoulders tense up and I flinch away from her hand, reaching out to poke me in the stomach.
"We should get going, Charlie," says Harry coolly.
I shoot him an apologetic look, though it's not my fault his drunk mom is pawing at me. But he doesn't seem mad or anything, just weary. Weary as he goes to stand up from the arm of the chair, weary as Colleen pushes her hand on his thigh to stop him.
"No, no rush. I was just gonna make us all a drink. Charlie wants a drink, don't you?"
I panic a bit at being put on the spot and say nothing.
"Niall's almost outside," he tells her before explaining to me, "My buddy's picking us up out front. It's a bit of a drive."
"And I suppose you'll just go out, leave me all alone, have fun and then waltz back in whenever you feel like it?" Colleen asks petulantly.
"That's pretty much it, yeah," he says flatly. But then he sighs and looks down at his mom, giving her the kind of smile that gets a person away with anything "Don't start," he says softly, one long finger stroking her nose tenderly. "I'll see you later."
It's a fluid motion that gets him up off the side of the chair and towards the door. I struggle up off the sofa, one brief nod to Colleen who sinks into the sofa looking most put-out.
"Colleen maintenance," is all he murmurs to me with a shake of his head. I give thanks for my own mom who- despite her flaws and ability to get off my case has never once talked about the abs of my friends.
Harry tucks a thirty pack of beer under his arm and then hands me a full bottle of vodka before we leave.
"This is a lot of booze," I find myself saying stupidly as we head through the trailers, towards the front of the park.
So it's no secret that I can get drunk. I like getting drunk a little more than is healthy but never around large groups of people. That only ever leads to my very worst mistakes.
"It's Electro, Prince Charming," Harry explains and nods at me, slapping his hand on my shoulder and letting it rest there, "You're going to love it."
Electricity pulses through my spine, bouncing on bones up towards my neck like the keys on a xylophone, and I already do.