The Slap, Act Three: Heads or Tails.

Inside the big ramshackle house people were dancing to TLC, making out on the sprung couches and playing “Beirut”, the island version of beer pong – lots of cans of Bud Lite, lots of red solo cups. I got a few casual nods, as if it was no big deal, me walking in with one of the hosts.

Mark Toland, I could tell he was already bombed, filmed my entrance, lowered the camcorder, and clapped me on the shoulder.

“Behold! The great explorer of the dark continent of female nudity! My first day at NHS I almost walked into the wrong locker room. Miss Hudlow said to me, ‘You can’t go in there! There are girls in there, young man. In various states of undress’. Sexiest four words in the language. Various states of undress. And I’m sure Miss Hudlow would agree with me, we know which way she swings, am I right? So give us a quote, Mr. Explorer! Something like -- ‘I am prepared to go anywhere, as long as it is forward!’ And that includes the janitor’s closet! I’ll be Henry Morton Stanley.” He peered at Todd with artful amazement. ‘Dr. Livingstone, I presume’.”

Ed shoved him. “Shut up and get the kid a beer.”

           

“You know nothing of Nineteenth century British colonialism, Ed. The good old days, when darkestafrica was a single word. Ignorance, my friend. Ignorance. That’s the bane of our civilization.” Ed shoved him again. “Fine, fine. Beer for the Hoi Polloi.”

           

Actually I knew all about David Livingstone, and the tabloid newspaper that financed the expedition to find him. I even knew that Hoi Polloi didn’t require a definite article.  But I also knew better than to upstage Mark Toland, especially that night.

The party started well. I mingled. I joined a game of “Asshole”, got a bunch of winning 2 cards – three out of four suits, hearts clubs and spades, and worked my way up to President and made everyone drink before they played their hands. I moved on, lost at beer pong, and was starting to feel the alcohol slowing me down when Mark Toland suggested a round of “Heads or Tails.”

He explained the game: Fifteen throws -- heads, you were safe, tails you lost an article of clothing. 

“Give these girls a chance to get even” he smirked. “If you’ve got the nerve.” He turned to the group sitting on the couches in front of the fire. “Anyone want to take their chances with our friendly neighborhood scopophiliac here? Don’t know the word? From the Greek – ‘scopia’, observation. Someone who likes to watch. Someone who gets off spying on naked people. Am I close, Toddie?”

“No, it’s not – I wasn’t -- ”

“Oh yeah it is. And oh yeah you were. You totally were.” He took out a silver dollar and flipped it. “Now you get another chance, fair and square. Who could turn that down? Anyone want to play?”

The Girl stood up.  Let’s finally call her by her name. I don’t know why it’s s hard for me to write it down. What’s wrong with me? Jane. Jane Stiles. Her name is Jane Stiles.

She said: “I will.”

She was wearing a strappy powder blue dress from the Delia catalog and the thought of her taking it off at a bad turn of the coin made me weak and queasy, the way I felt boarding a roller coaster or standing up in class to deliver a speech. The room seemed to expand around me. Or was I shrinking? Was it even possible? Would she do something so wild, surrounded by all these people, all these boys? Or maybe these girls did stuff like this all the time.

This was my chance. And my trap. I’d see her but they’d all see me, they’d see the hunger in my eyes, they’d read my face like a billboard, and not just my face. I already felt myself stirring. I’d would be naked – visible, exposed -- whether I won or lost. Okay, I got the joke. It was on me as always but this time I didn’t care.

So?” Toland brandished his camera. “What about it?”

I met his stare. “I’m in.”

“All right! Grace under pressure. You’re tails, because boys chase tail.”

“Fine.”

“Jane? Ready?”

“Whenever you are.”

She lifted an arm and touched her dress near the strap as if suddenly aware of how flimsy a barrier it was. My breath caught in my throat like a chunk of meat. I needed the Heimlich maneuver. Tolanxd lobbed the coin to Ed Delavane and stepped back, lifting his fancy camera.

Ed: “First throw of fifteen. Here we go.”

He flipped the coin while Toland moved back to frame his shot. They all watched the silver dollar rotate up in the firelight, almost to the ceiling. Ed snatched it out of the air, slapped it to his forearm, and made an unnecessarily dramatic show of peeking at it from under his hand. “Tails.”

I toed off my sneakers.

Another flip: “Tails.”

And again: “Tails.”

I pulled off his socks and then my sweater. Every eye was on me. Jane Stiles stood five feet away, arms crossed in front of her chest, unreadable, untouchable, calm. Another flip, another furtive glimpse under the hand, another wolfish grin.

“Tails.”

I was trapped, strangled. Fight or flight kicked in. Pointlessly – I had nowhere to run and no way to fight. At least he had my pride now, I was playing the game fair and square. But were the others? The suspicion leapt up with a crack and a gust of sparks, like a knot exploding on a log. Toland had cheated me somehow. I took a step toward Ed Deavane. I was losing it, he could have knocked me out with one punch and it looked like he wanted to.

I said: “Let me see the coin.”

My voice came out in a pathetic squeak. Why hadn’t I cleared my throat first, as I always did before an important phone call? I coughed now, too late. “I mean it. I want to see the coin.”

Ed shrugged, then delicately lifted the silver dollar from his forearm. He held out the side that was showing, as a jeweler might display a gemstone.

Tails.

“Happy?”

No I wasn’t happy. I was miserable, and the misery was shredding to panic. I had stepped off the ledge, all I could do now was fall and fall and wait to hit bottom. I said nothing. I had to decide -- shirt or pants? Reveal my sad tighty-whiteys or my scrawny chest? At least the underwear was a form of clothing – not that different from a bathing suit, really. I unbuttoned, unzipped, pulled my pants down, kicked them away.

“Now it gets serious,” Toland said, crab walking around the perimeter for a full frontal angle. Everyone crowded around. The real fun was starting for them. Jane studied me quietly, still and remote -- a full length portrait of herself.

Ed flipped the coin, slapped it to his arm, lifted his hand. “Tails.”

No! Impossible! Five in a row?

This was a nightmare, literally, I had dreamed this same horrific situation so many times, in so many variations -- being suddenly naked in school or at a college interview … or at a party with the Girl, with Jane Stiles, with Jane staring at me. The memory of waking up, the physical relief like a cramp relaxing, pulsed through me, that whirling moment when you weren’t sure if it had happened or not.

Well, this was happening.

I pulled off my shirt and stood in front of everyone whose respect I craved, shivering in my fruit of the loom underpants. I couldn’t afford to lose again, I couldn’t lose again – what were the odds against a coin coming up tails six times in a row? If it had come up heads that many times Jane would already be nude, waiting for the next stage of the game. How did it go? Posing, touching. And then what? They could make you do anything. The pit was bottomless. The rules were non-negotiable.

The coin was in the air.

Somehow I knew what was going to happen, I could feel it like a memory, like a fit of PTSD in some ruined future. And I was right.

“Tails!”

I could hear the involuntary intake of breath, the quick gasp of excitement from the crowd. They wanted a show now. I was just a gladiator in the ring, the losing warrior with a broken sword, facing the lions. I ground my molars together, squeezed my eyes shut and submitted to the inevitable. The fabric hadn’t even hit my ankles when the laughter began.

“O my God he’s tiny! Look at him! What a freak!”

“Wait till he starts doing jumping jacks,” Toland crowed. “Plus hand stands! Ready for the next flip, Mr. Peanut?”

“Peanut, someone barked. “That’s perfect!”

“Mr. Peanut!”

I could feel myself blushing, my whole body roaring scarlet from my toes to my forehead, bright as a heat rash. Ed fitted the coin on his thumb nail, resting it  against the curl of his index finger. “Ready, Peanut?”

I covered himself with both hands. I felt tears coming. I would not could not let myself cry in front of these people, in front of Mark Toland  and Ed Delavane and especially Jane Stiles.

I would not.

“Listen, Ed, please, can’t we just --”

“I’ll take that as a yes. Here we go!”

The thumb made its miniature catapult, the coin spun upward and then down. Ed slapped it to his arm, pulled his hand away. “Tails! Jumping jacks?” There was a roar of approval. “Jumping jacks it is! Bounce for us, Peanut! Get going.”

Then suddenly, Jane’s voice, icy and authoritative: “No.”

Ed turned to her. “What the fuck?

“I said no.”

Toland lowered the camera. “Hey, you know the rules, baby. Peanut here is ours to command.”

Jane stepped forward. “Give him his clothes back.”

“No way!”

“Just do it.”

“Oooo, I think we have a little romance happening here.”

That got a laugh, and the laugh distracted him and in that flash of divided attention Jane grabbed the underpants out of Ed’s big paw and kicked the pile of blue jeans from between his feet over to me. In another second she had scooped up my shirt and sweater. She chucked the mass of clothing across the room. I flailed out and clutched it to my chest

Ed was stunned – not even angry yet.

Toland jabbed a finger at her. “Hey – you can’t do that.”

“The game is over.”

“Are you kidding? He has nine more throws to go!”

She turned to me. “Get your socks. By the couch. Now.”

I dropped everything else and thrashed myself into my underpants, then snatched up my socks with the rest of the pile. Everyone else stared, dumbfounded and immobilized. Even Toland was speechless for once; but he had the presence of mind to lift the Handycam and start filming again

Jane grabbed my free hand. “Come on. We’re getting you out of here."

She yanked me through the parlor, where jackets and parkas were piled on the couch, some of them spilling onto the hooked rug. “Get your coat.” She grabbed hers as I tossed the heap of nylon and canvas and leather and fur. “Come on!”

Finally I found my pea-coat and she pulled me across the kitchen and out the door. It was colder now, and windy. I was dazed but she kept me moving, across the lawn, down the dirt track to the swaying dock and into the Ed’s Boston Whaler

We climbed aboard the tilting unstable little boat, hands on the gunwales to steady ourselves, and I watched her fumble for the throttle. She pushed the electric tilt button to lower the motor into the water as I turned to stare behind them for some sign of pursuit. Nothing.  And apart from the lights in the Delavane house, the little island was deserted. The whine of the lowering outboard seemed to go on forever, but finally it was done. Jane squeezed the gas bulb, pushed the button under the throttle, pressed the ignition key in and turned it. The boat roared to life and she eased back on the throttle.

“Untie us from the dock,” she told me. “Todd! The rope. Come on, wake up, we have to move.” She helped me cast off the lines, bow and stern, and then eased us away from the pier. We were fifty yards out into the dark choppy water of Tuckernuck Bank and angling toward Madaket Harbor before either one of us spoke again.

“That coin was a magic show prop,” She said finally. “Tails on both sides.”

“I kind of guessed that.”

“I’m sorry, Todd. It was a shitty thing to do.” The sound of her voice speaking my name made my stomach flip. God, I was in such bad trouble. I stared away at the dark water and the Madaket lights, few and far between in the off-season. The shore looked lonely and abandoned. Or maybe I was just projecting. “I’m sorry,” she said again.

“Then why do it?”

“It was just – payback, I guess. For that peeping tom stuff in the locker room.”

“But I wasn’t peeping! I didn’t even look! I was only there because Delavane forced me to use the girls’ shower and the field hockey team came back early and I had to hide.”

“He’s a jerk.”                          

“That’s a nice way to put it.”

“Boy most likely to spend the bulk of his adult life in prison.”

“Let’s hope.” I couldn’t quite let it go. “Did you think it would be fun? Putting me through that? Making me do all those things?”

“Well you didn’t have to do most of them. I got you out of there, remember?”

“But you thought it would be fun.”

“At first.”

“So that’s a lesson for you. My Mom always says that. Every bad thing is a lesson.”

“Hopefully.”

The boat droned along, pushing through the inky water, i studied the small bow wave as the beach approached. Knowing what I was going to do, my decision made, I felt real fear for the first time. It felt like the high dive. I was ten years old, perched  at the bouncy far end of the plank, three miles above the speck of blue. Everyone was watching, you couldn’t back away and climb down that metal ladder. There was nothing to do but jump. But this time I wanted to jump. I needed to jump. Even if the pool was empty.

I waited until we had pulled the boat up on the sand. Cold water flooded into my shoes as I yanked at the gunwale and the bottom scraped over the pebbles and dry seaweed. 

Cold feet – perfect.

But I couldn’t afford to think like that, my mind all scattered and running loose making useless connections. This was my last best and only chance with her. She had declared her allegiance tonight – stood up for me, rescued me, spared me from God knew what further mortifications.

And the look in her eyes after that catastrophe with the rope climb. That had been true compassion, true connection. That was undeniable. That was real.

And it had led us here, brought us to this moment.

We had crossed the harbor together, spoken as equals, shared our feelings. She understood what happened in the locker room now, she had seen me and heard me, recognized me as a human being, a boy, almost a man, with thoughts and feelings and desires. Of course I desired her! She had to know how beautiful she was, how could anyone not desire her? I was in love with her – how could she not feel that? It was obvious, it was condensing around me, like the steam coming off a horse in the early morning.

And now, at the apex of this strange new community between us, alone in the middle of the might, with no smirking friends and mocking acquaintances to judge her. At this moment, alone among all the moments of our intersecting lives, she might kiss me back if I kissed her. She might regret it, she might avoid me and ignore me the next day in school, she might pretend it never happened, but she  would know it happened, and I would know it happened and I would know that fact forever.

She caught her breath at the prow of the little boat, smiling – Landfall! This was the moment, the open door, already closing. Now.

Do it now!

I stepped awkwardly around the front of the Boston Whaler, grabbed her waist and pulled her to me. She tripped on the gunwale and we staggered off balance and I almost fell backward with her on top of me. But I stepped back, secured my footing and moved in for the kiss. She was struggling against me, the length of her body pressed to mine. She jammed her lips closed against my mouth, reared back and away.

           

“Get off me!” She was screaming

           

“Come on,” I said, and slipped my hands down below her waist, pulled up her skirt, kissing her neck, my hands on the thin fabric as she twisted against me. My fingers on her underwear seemed to send an electric shock through her.

“What are you doing! Stop it!”

           

But I couldn’t stop. I found her mouth again, tried to push past her clenched refusal with my tongue. She lunged backward, she knocked me sideways.

“Get away from me!”

I recovered, pushed forward. Then she slapped me. She slapped me hard. It sounded like a gun shot. 

“I mean it! Get away from me!” I couldn’t move, I couldn’t step away from her. She brought her knee up into my groin. The glassy wave of pain doubled me over. She was still shouting. “Are you insane? Are you out of your mind? What is your fucking problem?”

I tried to answer but she wouldn’t let me.

           

“Shut up! Don’t move. Never come near me again. Don’t talk to me don’t look at me, leave the room if I come in. You’re as bad as everyone said! You’re worse. I can’t believe I gave you the benefit of the doubt, you fucking pathetic little freak!”

She was convulsively wiping her mouth with the back of her hand as if I had thrown a glass of sour milk in her face. She pushed the boat back in the water, splashed to the side and climbed in, and gunned the throttle. The outboard howled, over-revving and then she was gone, speed lifting the bow, leaving nothing but the faint phosphorescence of churned water  behind her.

I listened as the engine note faded. In a few minutes the beach was silent except for the little waves lapping on the pebbles and the wind in the trees. I tried to stand straight but the pain kept me doubled over.

I was broken. I was castrated. I was debased. I was exiled, dead except for the hate that pulsed through me. So many kinds of hate, so many people to hate -- myself and Toland and all the others, but most of all I hated her. I would never forgive her for this. I had shown her my soul, and she had crushed it under her heel like a cigarette butt on the sidewalk.

My thoughts spun out of control – suicide, murder, some grisly combination of the two, some ultimate fiery lesson in the folly of human cruelty. I had to think, I had to plan. But all I could do at that moment was sit down on the wet sand and cry – gasping, chest-twisting sobs that disappeared into the indifferent night like they never existed.

When the silence settled again and the wind picked up, I stood and brushed the sand off my pants and started the long walk home. All I could think was, this isn’t over, this isn’t over. And it still isn’t. That’s what I learned after twenty years in the fucking hellhole of Bridgewater State Hospital.

It won’t be over until I end it.