The Girl in the Flammable Skirt_ Stories - Aimee Bender [29]
Snob queen. Hair green. Mine.
The mermaid got drunk off the beer. She had very low tolerance. There was no alcohol allowed underwater.
That day, she exited English class swaying. The imp picked it up right away; he thought: man, she’s a party girl, too! She’s perfect! Drunken Mimi!
He worried about taking off his clothes. He worried about her hand, grazing to his knee—what are these wooden poles doing where your shins should be? she’d ask. She’d have a puzzled look in those purpled eyes. Snob, he’d think. He worried, but still, he tracked her through the halls; the way she leaned, hard on this drunken day, was sexy. The way she trusted the crutch. He tracked her one huge boot.
It was lunchtime. The mermaid wandered off to lie down under the orange-red bleachers. Her head felt bleary. Her hair felt alive. When she let it stray out into the dirt, her hair coughed. She put her backpack under her head and that was better.
The imp found her there. He wasn’t sure what to say.
Did you hear the one about the man with one leg? he began. Then he felt stupid right away. Bad choice.
The mermaid looked up.
Excuse me? she said.
The imp sat down next to her, arranging his stilts.
So, he said. A guy walks into a bar.
She turned her head slightly toward him, but said nothing.
He lay down next to her. The dirt was flat and fine, and he picked up a discarded cigarette butt and began digging a hole to put it in.
The imp was nervous; he hoped no one was sitting above them, on the bleachers, eavesdropping. That tall guy? they’d say. He’s not nearly as smooth as he says he is.
I like your hair, he said then.
Thank you, said the mermaid. She paused. She looked at him for a long second. Then she said: You can touch it if you want to.
Really? The imp wanted nothing more.
Really, said the mermaid. She gave him a lip smile. Just be gentle.
The imp left the half-buried cigarette butt and reached his hand forward to stroke down the fine green strands.
Soft, he said.
The mermaid shivered. Each hair delivered a tiny note of murmurings all the way down through her.
The imp started at the root and let his hand ride the sheen all the way to the ends.
So did you hear the one about the dead cat? he said, giggling a little.
The mermaid didn’t answer; her eyes were closing.
See there’s this cat, the imp began, and it gets hit by a car. And when it goes up to heaven, St. Peter asks it why he should let it into heaven.
I know you’re an imp, said the mermaid.
His hand paused.
Don’t stop, she said. Please.
How did you know, he wailed, no one knows! He pictured the police. He pictured the PA announcement. He clutched her hair for a second, inadvertently.
Ouch, said the mermaid. Gentle please.
Will you bust me? asked the imp.
Of course not, said the mermaid. I like imps, she said.
You do?
Definitely, she said. Imps are sweet.
Sweet? Sweet? He touched her arm.
No, she said. Just the hair.
He twitched and coughed. Stroked her hair again, slower now. Her face was starting to flush, a slow reddening.
It’s my secret, he said. She said, I understand.
He said, I’m not so sweet.
Her hair was growing staticky; it clung to his fingers.
Okay, he said, and he giggled again. Okay, he said, so the cat, the dead cat, it tells St. Peter it’s been a good cat, it brought mice to its owner for many years, said the imp.
His legs turned in and out, the stilts brittle bones beneath his blue jeans. He kept stroking her hair. Root to end. Root to end.
St. Peter, continued the imp, so St. Peter sends the cat to hell because it’s a killer.
He paused, hand in the middle of her head.
Don’t stop, she said again.
Root to end. Hair curved around his fingers in soft coils.
Your hair is pretty, he said.
She was quiet. Her hair lifted off the backpack onto his hand, a cloth of pale pale green, a curtain rising.
The imp’s hand was steady but his fingers were trembling