Battleborn: Stories by Claire Vaye Watkins Page A

instantly sensitive to the persisting dampness of her underwear. She sees the Sheetrock bathroom in the back of the pizza parlor. Jeremy the delivery boy. Her stepfather. His long commute to job sites in Vegas. The empty and near-empty potato chip bags swirling around the backseat of his car like deflated Mylar balloons. Then, her memory lurching from shape to shape, there is her mother, hands shaking, unable to sit through a meal without popping up to get him seconds or refill his glass with milk.
    Lena heaves again. Our girl tucks Lena’s hair into her shirt collar. She quickly removes her own shoes, her pants, and then her still-damp underpants. She folds the panties in half and half again and tucks them in the paper-lined metal bin meant for soiled feminine hygiene products and their wrappings.
    Lena moans into the toilet bowl. I want to go home, she says.
    Naked from the waist down, our girl stoops and fishes the car keys from Lena’s purse.
    No, you don’t, she says, and begins re-dressing.
    As the girls wash and reassemble themselves at the sinks, their eyes meet in the mirror. Our girl nods and says, You’re fine. Let’s have a good time.
    Lena smiles weakly. I’m fine, she repeats. They return to the casino.
    •   •   •
    I n her bed, she’ll go on. The room, she’ll begin, remembering two queen-size beds with thin synthetic quilted coverlets in mauve and gold. All the lights turned on. No, the light was from the TV. Beer from cans in a torn box sitting on its side at the bottom of a small black refrigerator. But the sensible man will interrupt her.
    Was it all four of them?
    No. And she’ll see in his face relief, the excess of which will force her to turn from him, to the window and the pinkening dawn. One of them left to get pancakes, she’ll say. Allen. I gave him directions to IHOP.
    Three, then, he’ll say, his voice blank as a dead thing. And you two girls.
    We started watching a movie. Something with Halle Berry. Lena said she’d almost done it once with her boyfriend in Minnesota. But.
    Had she?
    No. I told her she had to get it over with.
    Had you?
    Yes, she’ll say. But not like that.
    What did they do to you?
    She will shake her head, a movement nearly imperceptible. It wasn’t like that. Afterward, mine asked for my phone number. Tom, I think. He said, I really like you. Or something.
    Did he ever call you?
    This question will surprise her, and she will have to pause, trying to remember. No, she’ll say eventually. I gave him the wrong area code. They thought we lived in the city.
    And your friend?
    Lena. She passed out on the other bed. I thought maybe she was faking. I don’t know why. During the movie the big one got on top of her. Brad. He took off her clothes. Her eyes were shut but she was mumbling something. I don’t know what. The other one spread her out, kind of. The big one spit into his hand. I remember that. I was on the other bed, with mine.
    Jesus.
    The other one put his dick by her face. He hit her with it, softly. They called her names. Drunk cunt. Fuck rag.
    Jesus Christ.
    Here, she will stop. Are you sure you want to hear this? she’ll ask. Though she won’t be able to stop even if he asks her to. He’ll nod, slowly.
    Lena woke up, she’ll say, during. She got out of the bed and stood by it. They didn’t try to stop her. She was naked, looking at the floor around her. For her clothes, maybe. Or the keys. But then she stopped and just stood there, looking at me. Tom—or whatever—was already inside me. She was just standing there.
    Now Lena is limp in the light from the hotel television, as though, underneath her splotchy skin, her bones are no longer adequately bound together. She stares at our girl from between the two beds, her naked body like a question she can’t ask, a prayer she can’t recall. Behind Lena, the two young men look to our girl. The big one is shirtless, with his pants splayed open. The other has removed his pants, though he still wears