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Authors: Martha O'Connor
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Or would you consider Cuba a better example?”
“Old argument, Cherry. I don’t think I have to explain that the dictatorship of the proletariat . . . ” And he goes on, and on, and on, and I tune out and watch his face instead. Someday I’ll reach way inside him and pull out that little boy I see in his eyes. Someday I’ll make him care.
I half-listen, but mainly I’m ticking away time until I can fall into bed with him. Really, what would solve things is if the Russians dropped a half dozen nukes on us and we’d have to start from scratch. When I saw
The Day After
I was only twelve and terrified out of my skull, but if they show it again, I’ll cheer. Better to blow up the whole sick planet than try to fix what’s unfixable. It’s just too late for stuff like communism. I used to believe in anarchy, but to tell you the truth, that idea scares me too. If there were no laws, what would keep people from hurting each other? Anyway, anarchism’s an ism too.
Yeah, I know what I’m
against,
all right.
I just don’t know what I’m
for.
Probably nobody does. “Come on, Sam, the concept is dead.”
Animal hunger flashes in his eyes. This is the hot, sexy moment when he’s angry, when the hard cast to his gaze sends chills up and down my legs. Sam really thinks we’re on the verge of revolution, that his essay matters, matters more than the papers he doesn’t write for Psychology 203, Shakespeare, whatever classes he’s cutting today, all the “capitalist bullshit” he’s supposed to be studying, and why he’s on academic probation. But it’s endearing in a way—hell, at least he thinks I’m worth discussing this with. I kick off my shoes, pull my sweater over my head, sit up and shrug off my bra. “Give me the fucking schnapps.”
“Where did those pretty tits come from?” Pie hands me the bottle, and I take a long swig. I just want to get so drunk that I forget how pissed off Sam makes me, that the dirty dishes lie unwashed in his sink. It’s never that I buy into his bullshit philosophy, but part of me feels sorry for him. Hell, his parents can’t stand him, he doesn’t have anybody either.
As peppermint’s clearing my nostrils, Rennie pops into my head. Something’s worrying her. Her face was creased Friday night with some kind of frustration, and it’s probably school because Rennie freaks out over a B-plus, a grade that would thrill me and most people I know. I vow to coax it out of her later and do some Cherry-therapy, which usually involves a great big ol’ fatty in my room and some fuck-the-world music like the Dead Kennedys. I love that kind of music nobody likes, except lately it’s occurred to me that even the Dead Kennedys have press people, a marketing campaign. I try not to think that way, but I know in the end I’m just another consumer and it doesn’t really matter which cassette I buy as long as I buy one. Which is why I try to shoplift as much as I can.
Yeah, I think I’ll have the girls sleep over tonight. No one everwants to go home, and even though I don’t either, at least we can have the room to ourselves and Marian won’t annoy us about getting so stoned we fall asleep.
Sam pinches my breasts, and I choke on the schnapps. “What the fuck’s that about?”
“You’re not paying attention.”
This is his challenge; we’re just getting started now. “You’re such a dumb fuck.”
He grabs my wrists. “Bitch.”
I sink my nails into the fleshy part of his forearms, slicing open the skin, and he squeezes my wrists harder. “You bet I am.” He grabs my tits again and squeezes them so hard it feels like he’s ripping them off me. And it feels good to hurt, to be hurt. I feel real.
My lips tremble, but I’m not scared. Just to prove it, I slap my open hand across his face. He looks a little surprised but grabs my hair and pulls the curls near my ears, hard. He presses my lips to his, and they’re searing hot. I want to reach the top with him, to kill
“Old argument, Cherry. I don’t think I have to explain that the dictatorship of the proletariat . . . ” And he goes on, and on, and on, and I tune out and watch his face instead. Someday I’ll reach way inside him and pull out that little boy I see in his eyes. Someday I’ll make him care.
I half-listen, but mainly I’m ticking away time until I can fall into bed with him. Really, what would solve things is if the Russians dropped a half dozen nukes on us and we’d have to start from scratch. When I saw
The Day After
I was only twelve and terrified out of my skull, but if they show it again, I’ll cheer. Better to blow up the whole sick planet than try to fix what’s unfixable. It’s just too late for stuff like communism. I used to believe in anarchy, but to tell you the truth, that idea scares me too. If there were no laws, what would keep people from hurting each other? Anyway, anarchism’s an ism too.
Yeah, I know what I’m
against,
all right.
I just don’t know what I’m
for.
Probably nobody does. “Come on, Sam, the concept is dead.”
Animal hunger flashes in his eyes. This is the hot, sexy moment when he’s angry, when the hard cast to his gaze sends chills up and down my legs. Sam really thinks we’re on the verge of revolution, that his essay matters, matters more than the papers he doesn’t write for Psychology 203, Shakespeare, whatever classes he’s cutting today, all the “capitalist bullshit” he’s supposed to be studying, and why he’s on academic probation. But it’s endearing in a way—hell, at least he thinks I’m worth discussing this with. I kick off my shoes, pull my sweater over my head, sit up and shrug off my bra. “Give me the fucking schnapps.”
“Where did those pretty tits come from?” Pie hands me the bottle, and I take a long swig. I just want to get so drunk that I forget how pissed off Sam makes me, that the dirty dishes lie unwashed in his sink. It’s never that I buy into his bullshit philosophy, but part of me feels sorry for him. Hell, his parents can’t stand him, he doesn’t have anybody either.
As peppermint’s clearing my nostrils, Rennie pops into my head. Something’s worrying her. Her face was creased Friday night with some kind of frustration, and it’s probably school because Rennie freaks out over a B-plus, a grade that would thrill me and most people I know. I vow to coax it out of her later and do some Cherry-therapy, which usually involves a great big ol’ fatty in my room and some fuck-the-world music like the Dead Kennedys. I love that kind of music nobody likes, except lately it’s occurred to me that even the Dead Kennedys have press people, a marketing campaign. I try not to think that way, but I know in the end I’m just another consumer and it doesn’t really matter which cassette I buy as long as I buy one. Which is why I try to shoplift as much as I can.
Yeah, I think I’ll have the girls sleep over tonight. No one everwants to go home, and even though I don’t either, at least we can have the room to ourselves and Marian won’t annoy us about getting so stoned we fall asleep.
Sam pinches my breasts, and I choke on the schnapps. “What the fuck’s that about?”
“You’re not paying attention.”
This is his challenge; we’re just getting started now. “You’re such a dumb fuck.”
He grabs my wrists. “Bitch.”
I sink my nails into the fleshy part of his forearms, slicing open the skin, and he squeezes my wrists harder. “You bet I am.” He grabs my tits again and squeezes them so hard it feels like he’s ripping them off me. And it feels good to hurt, to be hurt. I feel real.
My lips tremble, but I’m not scared. Just to prove it, I slap my open hand across his face. He looks a little surprised but grabs my hair and pulls the curls near my ears, hard. He presses my lips to his, and they’re searing hot. I want to reach the top with him, to kill
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