Page 11 of Bad to the Bone

“My mom would set her up, bully her. I don’t know if Aunt Kim was too stupid or too forgiving to see that their relationship was a love-hate relationship at best.” Shannon looks off into the distance, taking a deep breath before falling silent. I don’t know what to say, so I say nothing. Sometimes silence is better than bullshit.

“How do you know all of this?” I ask, after several minutes.

“When my mom died, Aunt Kim gave me her journals and diaries to keep. Something to remember her by. I don’t think Aunt Kim read them. She was just trying to do the right thing, like always,” Shannon says, bitterness in her voice.

“She wrote those kinds of things?”

“It’s amazing how your whole perspective can change once you find out what kind of person your parent really is.”

“I know the feeling.”

Without thinking I stick the swab in my mouth and rub it against the inside of my cheek.

“Here,” I say, handing the sample back to her. She puts them both into a small box and fills out the label before handing it back to me.

“You mail it when you’re ready,” she says, standing up and walking back into the building.

The DNA test kit feels like a grenade in my hand. No matter what I do, there is sure to be collateral damage. I think about my mom, struggling to keep her head above water while living next to a man who is indifferent to her existence. I think about all of the women who have made the trip to a clinic to get rid of the evidence of his infidelity. I think about his career and all of the people who know him and love him. There doesn’t seem to be a way to pull the trigger on this without hurting people who don’t deserve it.

I stick it in my bag and head into the building, my appetite for anything but Kim’s mouth, completely diminished. As I turn the corner I hear a commotion coming from the girl’s bathroom. At first I consider walking by and ignoring it, but the sound of my name being screeched by a girl inside stops me in my tracks.

“He’s mine, bitch. Zayne is MINE!”

The voice sounds familiar but I can’t identify it. The sound of thumping and doors being crashed into make me feel anxious. This is the opening shot of every man’s wet dream. Behind that door are two teenaged girls, ripping each other to shreds over me.

“You’re crazy,” says a much more composed voice. Shannon’s voice. Shannon!

I burst into the restroom and catch Shannon in the middle of a maneuver that looks like it came right out of a Kung Fu movie. The floor and both girls are wet and what looks like a tampon dispenser has been pulled off of the wall. A third girl holding a leather belt is plastered against the far wall, looking dazed. The wet fish on the ground, screeching in anger sits up to see who has ruined her ambush.

“Denise?” The sound of my voice gets her attention and she immediately changes her tactic. The hissing viper from a moment ago is replaced by a weepy kitten, pointing her finger at Shannon and whimpering something about being attacked.

She stands up on unsteady legs, looking as pathetic as she can, and wobbles over to where I am standing. Shannon looks up and rolls her eyes, just as put off as I am by Denise’s damsel in distress act.

“She attacked me as soon as she found out that we had a thing last year,” Denise says softly, laying her head on my chest.

“We had a thing last year?” I ask innocently.

“We did, silly. Don’t you remember?”

“I remember you blowing me a couple of times, but that doesn’t mean there was anything else to talk about.”

“But, bu-”

“Besides, Shannon isn’t like that. Are you Shannon?”

She bares her teeth in a grotesque mockery of a smile and shakes her head.

“See? I’m sure this is just a misunderstanding,” I say to Denise’s shocked, ashen face.

“I’m glad you said that. I’m sure you won’t mind coming down to the office to explain everything to the principal,” says a gruff voice behind me. I don’t have to turn around to know who it is. Mr. Brandt’s official position is head of the Sports and Physical Education program, but most of his time is spent working in the equipment shed and patrolling the halls. The rumor is he wanted to be a cop but couldn’t pass the test. Now, he takes special pleasure in busting “punks” and dragging them into the office.

By this time the dizzy girl in the corner has come back to her senses and immediately begins to cry. I don’t recognize her at all, which probably means that she has never been in any trouble before. If she crumbles this fast it’s not hard to see how Denise could manipulate her into trying to pull off a hit in the ladies’ room.

“Ladies first,” I say, ushering Denise through the door with an exaggerated bow. I wait, bent at the waist, until all three wet girls slosh past me and follow them down the hall. I wait in the lobby while the three girls are marched into the Principal’s office. Being the cause of a chick fight isn’t actually an offense. At best, I’ll get an afternoon of detention for being in the wrong bathroom.

“It was only a matter of time before that Macmillian girl caused trouble,” one of the office staff whispers to another.

“I knew there would be trouble eventually,” says the other.

They’re right. There will be trouble, sooner or later. The postal worker walks into the office with her mail cart and I understand that it’s now or never.

“Can I add this to the outgoing mail?” I ask, holding up the DNA kit.

“Does it have a stamp or whatever already on it?”

“Yup, see,” I point to the No Postage Necessary tag in the upper right hand corner.

“Okay, just drop it in the box,” she says with a smile, and I do.

Bombs away.

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