Youth: A Short Story

Young Sexual Dynamics and Early Class Consciousness

Photo by Chris Nguyen on Unsplash

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Youth

I met Derrick Reed in Kenpo Karate class when I was eleven. This would have been around 1994. We were opposites in every way imaginable. He was tall, thin, muscular, with wavy brown hair. I was short, stout, and had tangled, rioting blond strands. Where Derrick was tough and callous I was sensitive and soft. I was an only child. He had a younger sister. The biggest difference was class: My parents had money; his had little. He came from the working class. My dad was a computer engineer.

Derrick’s parents had a 1,000-square foot home with three bedrooms leaning against each other; we had a 3,000-square-foot house with a spacious backyard, a pool, and a Jacuzzi. More importantly, I lived in Ojai, the safe, quiet, small town nestled in the Topa Topa Mountains an hour north of Los Angeles. Ojai was made up mostly of white suburban wealth; many had fled the glamour of LA to be nestled in the solitude of nature. Derrick lived in the blue-collar town sandwiched between Ojai and coastal Ventura called Oak View. Oak View was filled with working class white people: Cops; firemen; Hell’s Angels; plumbers; electricians; carpenters.

Those first visits to Derrick’s house were fascinating. His father owned a plumbing and heating business in Santa Barbara and drove the thirty-five minutes north on Highway 101 each day. His wife ran the financial side of the business. His parents seemed younger than mine. His dad looked like he was in his early thirties. He had somber, challenging hazel eyes and appeared like a mean-spirited brute. His dad never spoke to me. But he seemed to leer sometimes, as if to suggest that, due to my unearned wealth, I was disgusting to him. I was too young to understand class resentment.

It was odd to me because, in a way, I envied Derrick. I envied his working-class reality. He did chores. He made his own money working part time at Lake Casitas in Ojai as a dock boy. He smoked pot. He was wizened in a way that made him seem far older. There was a toughness, an edge, which seemed to glow off him nonverbally. It came, I somehow knew, from his father.

Derrick’s mom was somewhat attractive: Thin; big-breasted; blond. She had thin, fine lips and often wore jean coveralls with one strap unclipped. Even then, at my tender age, I felt those primordial, primal urges. His mom had a high-pitched, kind of irritating, grating voice, but this, too, made me think in primal terms. I had not yet kissed a girl. But I liked girls. Cooties were long gone.

Oftentimes his parents fought loudly and bitterly.

“And who’s gonna pay the goddamn mortgage?” His mother screamed at his father one night.

Derrick and I peeked out from his slightly open door. 

His dad smiled at his mother, lifted his Newcastle bottle of beer, glugged, wiped his chin, and said, “I will. I am, you fucking bitch. Who the hell do you think always does? Huh? You think the mortgage pays for its fucking self?”

His mom pointed a finger at him. “Don’t you call me a bitch. You goddamn bastard. You fucking prick. We’re in debt, John. Debt!”

It made me afraid, but I also rejoiced secretly in these scenes: My parents almost never fought, and when they did it was not like this. There was something romantic about this. But Derrick always seemed sad and bored when his parents fought. He started wanting to spend more time at my house.

Derrick’s sister—Greta—was two years younger. Already you could tell she’d be trouble: You could see it in her eyes, her movements, they way she glared at their father and was annoyed by their mother. Greta was the spitting-image of her mother: Blond; thin; you could see she’d be a favorite among the boys.

Another time I remember well. We’d been hanging out at Derrick’s on a Saturday in the fall. We wanted to go to my house. It was a fifteen minute drive. His dad said he’d drive us. He’d never done this before. I felt nervous knowing he’d see my home. That anxious class awareness: Rich kid. I loathed that label; very few people had ever actually arrowed it at me but I felt it nonetheless. We got into his father’s white three-seat Honda pickup truck. It smelled of the cloth seats and a lemon air freshener. I sat in the passenger seat, gazing out the window. Derrick sat in the middle.

After he got settled his father stared at us. He said, “Your sister is a real cunt.”

I remember the shock racing through my belly, my heart pumping. Derrick giggled stupidly. I said nothing.

Five years later we were sixteen. We were still best friends. We went to different high schools: Me to the prestigious St. Andrew’s Preparatory and he to the public Ventura High. Most of his working-class friends knew me. They understood that I was a rich kid but they for the most part liked and accepted me. We’d dropped out of Kenpo years before. I’d started smoking pot. We both had begun drinking. We listened to early 80s hardcore punk rock. We were avid surfers, driving the 12 miles on Highway 33 to the Ventura beaches. When we weren’t surfing we were drinking; going to punk shows; waxing and un-waxing our surfboards; skateboarding; going on hikes; talking about the future.

When Derrick came to my house we ate everything. We swam in the pool, hurling quarters into the deep end and diving for them like deep-sea divers. We watched surf videos in my room, read Surfer Magazine, did prank phone calls on people we knew, and canned cars (stringing fishing line across the road attached to cans making a car’s axle catch the line and dragging it).

When we ate dinner with my folks it was strained. Though they never said it, my parents felt uncomfortable with my choices for friends. They’d tried to convince me to hang out with the St. Andy’s boys. But I found them pretentious, cold, detached, and boring. Even then I wanted excitement, and I located that within the framework of mystery and the unknown. These fellow rich kids lacked all mystery: They were lemmings, following predetermined paths, moving inevitably towards capitalistic slaughter. They left me bitter and disinterested. I wanted to know people who had blood coursing through their veins.

My mom—a master’s nursing instructor at UCLA, commuting three times a week—would push the pork chops and potato around on her plate and eventually would say, “How are your parents, Derrick?”

“Good,” he’d say, looking at her politely. I think he held dearly to his chest the peace and quiet here, the sense of safety which he lacked at home. Being at my house was like laying his head down on a woman’s bare warm breast.

My mother—her shoulder-length auburn hair, her cutting brown eyes, her sharp lips—would sip her Merlot from the goblet, place it back on the table with a ding, and say, not facing Derrick, “Well that’s good.”

Once my father asked Derrick, “What sort of things are you studying at school?”

Derrick stared at my father. I did, too. Was he mocking him? I couldn’t tell. Was it a game? My father’s bald head gleamed under the ceiling light above the table. My father wore his usual baby-blue collared, button-up shirt, Dockers, loafers. When he came home from work each day he set his black brief case down, kissed my mother briefly on the lips, and said, “Hi honey, how was your day?” And each time he did this routine a small part of me died; a small part of me wanted to flee my family and never return. I felt the anger redden my cheeks. If only my father actually saw me; if only my mother understood me.

“Oh,” Derrick said, puckering his lips, pushing a piece of torn pork chop around the barbeque sauce on his plate. He swallowed. I glanced in the other direction for a moment, out the French glass windows, seeing the back yard, neatly trimmed, the calm blue pool, the Jacuzzi, the tall iron gate surrounding it all, protecting the property, and the white statue of Buddha, arms up above his head, across the pool under the gate. Derrick cleared his throat. “I want to be a teacher.”

I squinted, turning to Derrick. I almost said, What? But then kept quiet, realizing the lie was self-protection.

*

Derrick’s sister bloomed into a young woman. Greta had fallen in with a bad crowd. Oak View was a strange place: Though it was a tiny town between two money-towns, and though it was primarily white working-class, it had also an odd mix of Latino gangbangers, tough bikers, and white-power skinheads who wore red-laced combat boots and coveralls over white T-shirts and had shaved heads. 

Greta had fallen in with one of these skinheads. A few times Derrick and I walked in on her and a small crew of the guys cooking self-made Special-K, a horse-tranquilizer which was like speed. She was starting to sleep around. Skip classes. Get high. Argue constantly with Derrick’s parents.

Greta was flirtatious. I noticed her every time I saw her and she would sometimes glance at me and seem to hook me with her eyes. I felt a strong desire to go to her. To her room. To talk with her. And more. But I never dared, of course. Derrick would kill me.

Then one night in the winter when I stayed at Derrick’s I woke up at 3am in his room, on the floor, and I got up to pee. I silently opened his door. The house was dark and totally quiet. They lived on a quiet suburban street so there was no noise outside. My street in Ojai was dangerous and busy. I stepped out into the open living room attached to the kitchen where the dinner table was. It had been cleared and cleaned thoroughly. The blue tile was cold against my bare feet. Moonlight beamed through the windows, glinting off a vase with flowers in the center of the table.

I stepped silently down the narrow hallway to the bathroom. To the right was his parents’ bedroom. I stopped for a moment and looked at the closed door. It seemed so mysterious to me, that door. Millions of times I’d done the same thing at my house, stopping in the middle of the night, gaping at my parents’ door. A door seemed to be a path; a portal. What door would I open as an adult? Where would that door lead me to? Would I like it? Would it be scary?

I swallowed and heard my heart beating softly in my chest. I found the brass knob of the bathroom door and opened it. I closed it and fumbled for the light switch. I found it and turned it on. I jumped suddenly, backing against the door. There was Greta, lying in the empty tub, her knees up towards her, a yellow legal pad on her knees, a pen in hand. She was naked.

She smiled, wide, and said, “Hey James.”

I looked her up and down in a fast scan.

“What are you—”

“Shhhhhhh,” she reprimanded. In a whisper she said, “Do you want to get us both caught?”

“Sorry. But what in the hell are you doing?”

She shrugged. “Sometimes I sit in here when I can’t sleep. I write.”

I rubbed my nose. “Don’t you worry about your parents walking in?”

She shook her head. “They have their own bathroom. In their room.”

I didn’t respond. Silence hung between us. I didn’t know what to do. I should turn around and leave this second, I thought. But, another voice said, You can’t leave.

Just as I started to turn Greta said, “Lock the door.”

I faced her. Her blue eyes were stern and fierce. The yellow legal pad covered a good portion of her. “What?”

She whisper-giggled. “You heard me.”

Derrick. What about Derrick?

I locked the door. I said, “What are you writing?”

She grinned again. It was strange, that grin. It seemed to hold supernatural power. I was starting to feel like a fruit fly caught in a much wiser spider’s web. I couldn’t resist this. It was an octopus’s sticky tentacles beginning to drag me down into the dark murky depths.

“That’s not important,” she said.

I took a big breath of air, held it, slowly released.

“Are you nervous, James?”

I swallowed the wad of saliva down my tight throat. I almost said, Yes ma’am. “I guess.”

Her blue eyes penetrated me. Looked right into my depths. I felt her eyes inside of me, in my guts. It scared me. It thrilled me. It drove me wild. I wanted to run.

Shocking me, she stood up. Her breasts were small and firm. I felt my erection stirring in my shorts. Her blond hair was straight and shiny. She held the yellow legal pad over her stomach and hips.

“Do you like what you see?” she said.

“I…” I stammered. “Well. I…”

She dropped the yellow pad. There it was. It was a thin line between her hips. It was the first time I’d seen one. I’d made out with a few girls. I’d gotten an over-the-pants hand-job once. And another time I’d “dry-humped.” I wanted to go to her. But I was afraid.

“It’s good, huh?” she said, still smiling, her nipples hard and erect.

I cleared my throat. It sounded loud in my ears. What if her father knocked on the door? He’d kill me. Derrick would, too.

I turned around and started fumbling for the lock to leave.

“James,” she said behind me. “Come here.”

I ignored her. I mumbled to myself. Go, go go, go, go. Fucking go!

But, just as I opened the door, her hand shot past me and shut it, loud; her fingers twisted down, thudding the deadbolt home. I was trapped. She stood right behind me. I faced the door still. I felt like the girl and she the bully boy.

“Let me out,” I said.

“Turn around, James,” she said, into my ear. Her warm soft breath tickled my ear canal.

“Greta…”

“Turn. Around. James.”

I waited, and almost hoped for an interruption. A yelling-at or even a beating might be better. And yet I was surging with desire.

I turned. She was two inches from me. Her breath smelled like stale beer. Her hair like conditioner. There was the feintest whiff of body odor. And yet all this drew me forward.

She stared at me and in her blue eyes I witnessed something near to murder. I saw the pain she knew deeply, that I would never know. The pain of a dysfunctional family. Not that mine was healthy and whole. But this one was especially vacant and empty and wounded. It made me want to hold her, help her, protect her. Like a coyote protecting its young.

She leaned over and kissed me. Her lips were velvety and soft. Her mouth tasted like an ashtray. The kiss was soft at first, but then she pried my mouth open and laced her tongue into my mouth, and our tongues danced, slathering around each other. I felt like a serpent, an animal. Something desirous and fowl. I felt bad. Which somehow felt right.

Greta reached down and grabbed my hand. 

She lifted it to her breasts. She placed my hand on one.

“Rub it,” she said.

I started to and then my mind began to go wild and white. My thoughts raced. Heat rolled down my body. My throat was suddenly dry as a desert. I thought I might pass out.

“No,” I said.

I turned around, unlocked the door, and fled.

*

It was a year later. Derrick was nearly eighteen. He’d graduated from Ventura High two months prior. I was still a senior at St. Andy’s. Derrick continued to work at Lake Casitas but he’d risen higher in the ranks: Now, instead of washing the boats and instructing the tourists how to use them, he was in charge of taking the tourists’ money and telling the dock boys what to do. He made a higher wage and enjoyed it.

We still hung out a lot but it was beginning to dwindle. I knew change was coming. We were growing out of and away from each other. We’d made it as friends going to two different high schools which was rare enough, but now we were nearing that time when young adulthood would begin to rip and tear at our hearts and minds. No one survived that together. Especially not young men going out into the world. Neither of us knew who we were, really, but we did know that he was not going to be a teacher, and I was not going to be working-class. Adventure seemed to call to me. Routine and his parents’ path seemed to call to him. Alcohol had beckoned to us both. We had that in common.

Surfing and skateboarding had largely been replaced by drinking, smoking pot, and chasing girls. A few times Derrick had slept with younger girls and each time he told me about it in detail, and each time I felt resentful and desperate and intrigued. I’d nearly had sex with one girl, Olivia, from school, but ultimately it didn’t happen. Her brother walked in on us. Now I wasn’t allowed over. 

I still thought of Greta sometimes, of that night in the bathroom. I never told a soul. I imagined us going farther than we had. I imagined bending her over the tub.

Greta still lived at home. Derrick did, too, but he’d already found a room in a house to rent. In Ventura. But he wasn’t moving in for another two weeks.

*

Derrick called me one Saturday. He asked if I’d be willing to help move a few things. His dad would pay us twenty bucks each. His father needed two couches and a few other big things in the living room moved.

I walked up the driveway passing his father’s white Honda truck. I remembered that morning he drove us when we were young. That felt like an eon ago. I knocked on the royal-blue door. Derrick answered. He looked down at me from his height, with his brown hair combed to one side, his yellow T-shirt that said, Quicksilver, long-sleeved, his blue jeans and Van’s shoes. He still dressed the part of a surfer.

“What up James?” he said. We slapped skin.

I jerked my chin at him. Southern California bro-speak.

I entered the house. Derrick closed the door behind us. First we went into his room. He closed his door. I glanced around, at his twin double mattress with no frame on the floor in the corner; his stacks of punk CDs; his old Santa Cruz Johnson Warrior skateboard; some scattered hardcover books (mostly about surfing and skateboarding); his open closet filled with junk.

He pulled out his bong. Opened his window. He used a red bic lighter to tamp the bud down and covered the airhole and lit up, inhaling, puffing his cheeks like a chipmonk. He held it, then blew out his mouth. The skunky stink of pot wafted, filling the room. 

He held the clear glass bong out to me.

“I’m good.”

He tilted his head, silent.

“I’m good,” I repeated.

We sat in silence a minute and then Derrick said, “Remember when I used to tell your folks I wanted to be a teacher?”

I nodded.

He grinned. “What horse shit.”

“Yeah.” I felt anxious for some reason.

Derrick glanced out his window onto Turner Street, the steep hill we used to ride our skateboards down.

“We both know what I come from. And what you come from.”

It was strange, hearing him name the unnamable. There’d always been an uneasy, nonverbal tension between us. I’d known intrinsically that it’d been wrapped around class, like a heart being suffocated by bad, constricted veins. Choking the heartbeat out, slowly.

“Yeah,” I said. I didn’t know what else to say.

Derrick faced me intensely. “We both know you’ll succeed in life. You’ll have property and go on vacations and will inherent a lot from your folks.”

“And you?”

He laughed sarcastically. “Me? Well. I’ll struggle. I’ll be like my parents. Probably have a kid or three. Marry a woman I hate. Drink too much. Get fat. Work hard my whole life. And for what?”

I hadn’t realized he harbored this type of rage. It scared and fascinated me.

Finally I said, “Maybe it won’t be like that at all. Maybe you’ll be happy and rich.”

Derrick laughed at me. His eyes seemed to say, Fuck You Rich Boy. “Maybe.”

*

Mr. Reed knocked on Derrick’s door and we came out. We stood gazing at the couches in the living room, cream-colored and old. One had some white stuffing poking out of a tear. I felt embarrassed by this. I felt ashamed for feeling embarrassed.

Mr. Reed wore a red plaid long-sleeved shirt. His dark brown hair was too long. He needed a shave. His eyes were slightly bloodshot. He reeked of his Marlboros; the smoke wafted off him. He held a brown bottle of Pilsner. He swigged.

He nodded at us. “Alright. C’mon. Let’s get it done.”

Sunlight glared through the sliding-glass doors into the living room, onto the couches. As we bent and lifted I felt the warm sun on my skin. We marched together, a small team, carrying the heavy, awkward thing down the hallway and outside to the curb, leaving it on Turner Street.

I wondered if he was just going to leave it there, see if anyone would take it.

As we walked back inside, towards the living room, Greta appeared. When I saw her my heart started pounding. I sensed the blood in my ears. She looked like she’d just woken up. She wore pink furry short-shorts and a low-cut white blouse. It left little to the imagination.

Greta smirked, her eyes squinting, lips clamped. “Dad. Where’s mom?”

He turned to her. He scanned her up and down. “Jesus. Put something on. You’re practically naked.”

“Where’s MOM?” she said, an edge in her voice, cutting hard like a serrated knife.

Mr. Reed crossed his arms over his chest. He sighed. He glanced at me briefly, and then at his son, and finally rested his eyes once more on his daughter. “Greta. I swear to Christ. If I have to say it one more time I’ll—”

“You’ll what?” she said, shifting her left foot forward, as girls did, and planting her palms at her thin waist. Suddenly she looked over at me, as if just realizing I was there. Her eyes glimmered with some secret.

Mr. Reed clenched his lips. “Just. Get. Dressed.”

“Ughhhh,” she said, annoyed. She threw her hands up in the air and chugged back down the hall to her room. She slammed her door.

Mr. Reed laughed. He shook his head. “I do not understand the female brain. Never have. Never will.”

“That’s cause they’re insane,” Derrick said.

I thought of my bond with my mother, my female friends. I trusted women more. Greta made me feel different though: I was drawn to her and yet terrified of her. She was like a slippery switchblade; gorgeous, but it could cut you if you weren’t careful.

As we lifted and carried the second couch, Mr. Reed grunting, I felt pulled, almost dragged towards Greta’s room like a magnet. It seemed irresistible. Of all girls, why her? She was my best friend’s little sister for one thing. And for another: She was trouble. She hung out with white-power skinheads; she did serious drugs. She had nearly dropped out of school. No, better to leave her alone.

*

After, we retired once more to his room. He smoked. We listened to Black Flag. We each rifled through old Surfer magazines. Sometimes I wanted to tell him about my desire to write. Like my mom, who’d once written a magazine column. But I knew Derrick wouldn’t understand. He’d call me a faggot. Already I grasped that there were things you could say and things you could not say. Especially as a male. And even more so when dealing with the working class. I was separate and distinct among these people; I was the freak.

Derrick, glancing at his magazine, said, “How many fucking championships is Kelly Slater going to fucking win? Jesus H. Christ.”

He was in one of his pointless cussing moods.

I didn’t answer. I couldn’t take the pull anymore. I had to leave or make a move.

“Be back.”

Derrick tugged his magazine down. “Where ya goin?”

He looked skeptical.

I shrugged. “Bathroom. Where else?”

I stepped slowly, carefully down the hallway. It was semi-dark and quiet. It felt cold all the sudden. No sound emanated. Down towards the end was her door, to the left, and Mr. Reed’s door, to the right. Both doors scared the shit out of me. Facing me was the bathroom door. Choices.

I reached out for the bathroom door, stopped, turned around. No one there.

I stepped to her door. I pressed my ear to the white wood. I heard very feint music. Smelled pot.

I swallowed hard. My pulse was up in my ears and throat. This was a bad idea. I turned around. Bathroom. C’mon, James.

But then her door opened.

“James?”

I flipped around. I tried to smile. “Hi.”

She smirked. Her blue eyes radiated energy. You could almost see through them into her viscera. “What are you doing?”

“I…” but I couldn’t finish.

She smiled. She grabbed my arm. She pulled me into her lair.

She closed the door behind her. She locked it. The stench of pot hit me strongly, and of ammonia, and of some other mysterious scent. She herself smelled of cigarettes and weed. She wore the same thing still: The pink shorts and low-cut white top. Eliott Smith played in the background, his smooth low voice and acoustic guitar. It gave the room a somber air. Her eyes, I saw, were drooping a bit.

Her room was smaller than Derrick’s. White walls. Covered in posters: Courtney Love, flipping the viewer off, sloppy red lipstick and chaotic blond lion’s mane of hair; Nirvana, the Nevermind album cover; Stone Temple Pilots; Marilyn Manson in his full black leather getup and all his makeup and face paint; Eminem; Marilyn Monroe with the billowing dress over the grate. A queen-sized bed was in the corner, ruffled gray sheets. A yellow drawer was near the bed, drawers pulled open. From the top drawer several pairs of panties hung off the side.

Greta walked to her bed and sat. She faced me from across her room. She giggled. She patted the spot on the edge of the bed next to her. “Come.”

I glanced behind me for an instant, as if someone would save me. What would happen if Derrick walked in? Mr. Reed? Her mother?

I came to her, sat down. We sat side by side.

She reached into her bosom and pulled something out. A tiny baggie. She unzipped it and extracted four white pills. She looked at me. I wanted to kiss her.

“Want one?”

I was as nervous as I’d been in my Speech 101 class at St. Andy’s. “What is it?”

She grinned. “Vicodan.”

“I’m good.”

“You sure?”

I nodded.

“James?”

“Yeah?”

She leaned over, kissed my cheek. Her lips were soft. I wanted her to be better, to be safe, to get off the drugs. She was so soft and pretty and young. She still had a chance. She had things in front of her.

“Do you want me?” she said. Her voice was sensuous and high, almost with a tinge of despair.

I wanted to speak. I kept trying to. I heard a knock across the house at the front door.

“Yes,” I said finally, breathless with desire.

I heard footsteps down the hall. Then there was a hard knock on Greta’s door.

“Who is it?” Greta said, loud, annoyed.

“Who the fuck do you think it is?”

Greta flushed crimson red. It was Henry, her skinhead boyfriend.

“Fuck,” she whispered to me. “Shit.”

A wave of heat rushed down my body. My arm tingled.

I scanned around. There was literally nowhere to hide.

Henry pounded harder on the door.

“Just a second babe,” Greta said.

“What do I do?” I whispered, nearly crying.

She shrugged. “I don’t know.”

Then the door burst open; Henry had kicked it with his black combat boot. He stood there, looking pissed and crazy. He was tall, thick, had a shaved head, and wore red-laced combat boots, tight blue jeans, and a white T-shirt with red overall straps. His eyes were a cracked, fissured brown. His vibe reminded me of every bully I’d ever dealt with.

He pointed a finger at me. “Who the fuck are you?”

I licked my lips. I felt blank; empty. What could I say?

“Babe, this is James. He’s my brother’s—”

“Did I ask you?”

She stopped. She shook her head. “No.”

He faced me once more. “Who are you?”

“Like she said. I’m James. A friend of her brother’s.”

Henry stepped into the room. He closed the door. It wouldn’t lock now. He stood ten feet away. He glared at me with such righteous rage that I thought he might murder me. I just wanted out of this room. Forget Greta. Forget everything.

“Are you screwing my girl?” he said.

“No. Jesus, no.”

He stepped closer.

“Babe,” Greta said. “I told you…he’s—”

Henry leaped forward and slapped her hard across the cheek. Her head slammed to the right. I was shocked. Did Derrick know about this behavior?

I stared at Greta. She looked scared and bullied and cowed. Her cheek was bright red. Henry’s eyes were wide with rage.

He faced me again. “Now.” He rubbed sweat off his bald dome. “I’m only going to ask you one last time. You better tell me the truth.” He paused. His eyes gaped into me so intensely that I almost begged him to forgive me. “Did. You. Fuck. My. Woman?”

My thoughts swirled anarchically in my mind. There was no escape.

“No. I didn’t.”

Henry ogled me a moment and then smiled. It was a wide, harrowing smile. His teeth were cracked and yellow and mangled.

He reached behind him and pulled out a handgun. It was steel and black. He came at me and suddenly had the barrel of the gun at my temple. The steel was cold against my skin. I didn’t want to die. My mind went blank. Numbness surged through my body. This couldn’t actually be happening. It was all too surreal; strange; nightmarish. Wake up! 

Greta started yelling. Henry screamed louder, back at her. I couldn’t even decipher what they said; I was at the deepest bottom of the ocean.

“SHUT THE FUCK UP BITCH!” he screamed. He was sweating again, beads dribbling down his bald head. His hands shook. The barrel gyrated slightly because of it. I felt it like a dull knife against my forehead. He looked at me. “Prepare to meet your maker, you white-traitor.”

Right then the door to her room burst open again. This time it was Mr. Reed. He flew at Henry. Henry had turned but too late. The two men crashed onto the bed. Greta and I leapt up. We moved back. We watched them struggle. Mr. Reed was on top of Henry but Henry had the gun still; he was trying to point it at Mr. Reed. 

Then Mr. Reed grabbed Henry’s arm and flung it hard several times. The gun fell out of Henry’s hand and clanked onto the floor, sliding a few inches. Greta ran over and snatched it. She came back to where I stood. She handed me the gun. Where was Derrick?

She fell into my chest, holding me. I leaned down, smelling her hair. Her whole body trembled. Blond and reeking of pot and cigarettes and conditioner. The two men wrangled. I heard grunts and cursing and the noise of fists and hands and knees hitting each other and the wall. She was crying. I held the gun in my hand. 

Then Derrick was there, behind us, holding the house phone. She and I disengaged. He didn’t seem to notice.

“I called the cops,” he said.

Mr. Reed punched Henry one last time in the face. Then he stopped. Mr. Reed grunted, getting off the skinhead. Henry lay there motionless. Mr. Reed stood next to the bed. He wiped his hands. He pulled his tangled, loose hair back on his head. He sniffled. He was panting.

“Is he dead?” Derrick said.

Mr. Reed laughed. “Jesus, no. Just knocked him out. Tough little fucker. He’s fine.”

“That was quite something,” Derrick said.

Mr. Reed glanced at his daughter. “Are you done with this racist white trash, Greta?”

She nodded. I wished more than ever that she was still buried in my chest. 

I wanted her so badly. I craved her. But what was it, really, that I craved? 

“Yes.”

Mr. Reed looked at me. He jerked his head. “Hand me the gun.”

I walked to him, handed it over. He easily, expertly popped the magazine out. He emptied the bullets into his palm. He glanced back at Henry on the bed. Still motionless. He looked dead.

The door bell rang. The cops.

“Alright,” Mr. Reed said. “Show’s over.”

As we all walked out I felt Greta pull my arm. Derrick had walked down the hallway to the front door. Mr. Reed passed us and followed his son. Neither seemed to notice or care.

She pulled me backwards with her. She opened the bathroom. I felt conflicted: Part of me wanted to see the cops; watch what would happen, see how they’d handle Henry. But another part needed this.

She locked us inside. She pulled her top off. Then her shorts.

And then she lunged at me.