Lisa Wants Everything

‘Better to reign than serve,’ the bright red letters burned into the black cast iron plaque on my pale pink bathroom wall remind me of everything that matters in life.

I scrutinize myself in the bathroom mirror. My hair needs more style, my makeup appears too light, I need a new white shirt, and my worn, scuffed, black shoes need to get tossed in the garbage. Only my plaid skirt looks ok. I clasp my silver Garmin sports watch on my wrist and yell at my father, “I need that phone number.”

“Lisa, we will talk about it after school,” Dad responds from my sister’s room. Since Mom left, he has spent every night in her room, sometimes late for work. We need a new house. I can’t keep sharing the washroom with my sister and my dad. Maybe I will move into his room and take over his unused washroom.

“I want the number today!” I yell and dab at my mascara. I remove the ugly shade of lipstick and throw the casing in the garbage.

“Let Dad finish. I can’t be late for work again,” my sister yells, grunts, and moans while her bed creaks through the thin doors.

Whatever. I find an acceptable shade, but I need better shades. I need more selection.

Dad opens the door, a drip on his limp dick, and walks in to use the toilet.

“Love you,” I kiss his forehead and leave lip marks. I know what he hates.

“Love you,” he calls as I sprint out the door. I grab a granola bar as I pass through the kitchen.

I slip into my cherry red convertible, my love, turn the key, and engage the V8 engine, which growls and sends powerful vibrations through the black, faded leather seats. The scent of others’ lives excites me. I imagine all the sex people had in the big back seat. The faint tobacco odor tells of a time when people acted as people, had vices, and did naughty things.

I hum to Springsteen’s song, “Glory Days, in the Wink of a Young Girl’s Eye.”

Gently, I back out of the driveway, still upset at the ding on my beloved chrome bumper.

Humming, I text Amara, ‘Have you done it yet?’

Amara texts, ‘No’

I swing into handicapped parking. All the other spots have ugly, generic modern cars. I give the hunched man with the little dog a smile and a just-a-second finger. The dog won’t shut up, but he doesn’t say anything. Daddy’s partially owned coffee shop has my triple espresso ready in a little paper cup on the deep red-wood counter, hot steam rises above the cup, and the strong coffee aroma promises hyperactivity and a sharpened mind.

I wave to Demi, real name Elysha, and thank her for the coffee. The university student’s purple lips smile while her yellow-capped fingers flicker a wave back.

Back into the landyatch and “Born in the U.S.A.” The finest album ever recorded.

I sip my coffee, text, yell at an erratic driving jerk, and arrive at school ready to learn.

Mrs. Fowelly attempts to hand me a flyer, but I give her my empty cup instead.

Ms. Barrett smiles, her bright white teeth convey warmth and seriousness as she says, ”Good Morning, lovely weekend?”

I give a half-wave and say, “Yes, Miss, thank you for asking.”

Amara waits for me in the classroom. She smiles with extra white teeth between her dark red lips, while her gaze glances at my imperfect shoes.

“Good morning, Lisa,” she says. I nod and sit.

Amara leans close, wrings her hands, and says, “I brought the carrot.”

“Good girl,” I say and pat the back of her hand. Dry skin, she needs to moisturize.

“What do you want it for?” she asks and clasps her hands together in her lap.

“After class,” I say and hum, “Another one bites the dust.”

Amara pulls out my school stuff and neatly places the gold-trimmed pen on the worn desktop. I rub my palm along the side of the old desk. Did the previous girl have a rich, crowded life, rebelling against the rules of our church? Or did she conform, contorting her nature to live a life of virtue for the promise of heaven?

“Why haven’t you done it yet?” I spin the pen on the desk-the gold glints and flashes in the classroom light.

Her eyes dart around before she leans closer. She smells woodsy with a cherry blossom scent.

”No,” she breathes stale air with a hint of citrus.

I raise my eyebrow and glare at her.

“Mom’s been home, and well, yeah,” Amara says with a frown, eyes wide, while her scent grows more metallic.

“If you can’t do it, that’s fine,” I dismiss her.

She sighs and sits straighter, her hands clasp and unclasp.

I pull out my phone and text Morgan,’?’

She texts back immediately, ‘1113!’

Not enough, we need more help.

I text, ‘Vivian, help?’

‘No, but I may have someone,’ Morgan texts. She’d better. We will never reach my goals at this rate. By my calculations, we need at least 1500 a weekend this month.

In Math, I sit between Morgan and Vivian to force Amara to sit on the other side of Morgan.

Mrs. Waters instructs us in algebra.

“Mrs. Waters, can you tell us about Return-On-Investment today?” I ask and interrupt her in the middle of her explaining something. None of the girls mind the change in topic. Most of them claim they don’t need Math, which I love. Their ignorance gives me power.

She pauses, nods, and begins to talk about the equations.

“Morgan, who is it?” I lean over and whisper.

“I have three possibilities. All from the public school,” Morgan says, her fingers flutter on her desk.

“Tonight?”

“Wednesday morning.”

Interesting, before school means she takes this seriously.

In science, Mr. Ryan drones on about cell membranes. I sit between Morgan and Vivian with my phone calculator, calculating how much more money I need to set up my network. I repeatedly show Morgan the numbers. She rolls her eyes but nods.

At lunch, I ignore Amara’s frantically waving arm and drive away. I pick up pasta from Dad’s partially-owned restaurant. The new chef makes a great red sauce and does not over-sweeten the noodles.

I swing by the public school. My bright red car calls out to a few boys on the football team. One, Andrew, rushes over, gasps for breath, and says, “Lisa, I found one.”

“Excellent. Who?”

The boy points to a scruffy-faced man-child.

“Tell him - I want whatever he is selling.”

Andrew turns and rushes over, his white Chuck Taylor Converse shoes barely touch the ground-the two meet, and Andrew points to my car. I nibble on some pasta, savoring the spicy sauce.

The man-child saunters over. As he approaches, his grin turns down. Attempting a frown when secretly excited does not help uncover officers. I will have some fun with him.

“Hey, what do you need?” he asks. He has dirt under his manicured fingernails.

“Let’s talk in my car. Get in,” I say, motion to the passenger seat, and move the partially finished pasta container to the back. The guy slips around the car, bouncing and rushing slightly too much. As soon as his designer jean butt touches the seat, I slam the pedal down. The car roars into action, the door shuts, and he bangs his hand between the door and the car frame. I suppress a giggle.

“Shit!” he yells and brings a dirty finger-nailed hand to his pale pink lips and sucks on the finger tip.

“Sorry,” I say and laugh.

“So, what do you want?” He tries to act calm, but the eagerness slips out with a clipped ‘so,’ and an emphasized ‘you.’

I careen around the corner into a back lane between two old brown brick buildings and stop beside a full metal garbage bin. He glances around at the colorful spray-painted walls before he turns toward me. “I have everything you need,” he says. His tongue darts out and moistens his lower lip. His coffee-scented breath fills the space.

“Come around to this side. I need to show you something,” I say as my finger lightly touches his ear and traces down his smooth skin and through his sharp stubble. He glances behind us. I allow the silence to build, to push him to make a choice he already made when he entered the car.

My baby’s metal door creaks open before slamming shut. I open my door, twist, and place my feet on the edge of the door. He hesitates at the front of the car and stares at my profile. He remembers to hunch and saunters around to stand in front of me.

“I could use some relief,” I say while I pull up my skirt to expose my pink, heart-covered panties. He forgets his hunch, stands tall, and closes his hands. I rub the center of my panties, and liquid seeps through the thin fabric. His stare does not leave my panties while his tongue darts in and out. “Drugs, I’m here to sell drugs,” he stammers as he bends at the neck for a better view.

I continue my caress. “Ok, officer,” I coo. His eyes grow while his pupils shrink. He turns and sprints from the alley. Shit, I pushed too hard. I need better finesse in the future.

After school, as I stride out the front doors, Amara rushes up, breathless, ”You didn’t wait.”

“You didn’t do it,” I say. I hate it when people do not follow through with their commitments. Only our word matters in this world.

She slumps, stops as I keep walking, and says, “I will.”