Thirsty - M. T. Anderson [17]
His fingers grab just below my wrist and guide my hand down. “Okay, you can let go now,” I say, slightly annoyed. He pulls away, and the razor slips just a fraction. I say, “Ow.”
He’s saying, “There, now you’ve cut yourself.” But what I’m noticing is the obvious thing. I can smell the steely tang of my blood.
I dive to the floor. I cry, “Blood!” I can feel my thirst rising. In a few seconds, I won’t be visible in the mirror.
“What’s wrong?” Dad asks.
“I dropped the razor,” I say. “Can I do this alone? I think I need to learn to do this alone.”
“Why? This is just the first time. You’re bound to cut yourself once the first time.”
I rise up halfway and start pushing him to the door, but I’m hunched over, below the level of the counter. “Get out,” I whine. “Could you get out, Dad? I want to do this alone.”
“Hey, okay, okay,” he says, backing out. “What’s the problem?”
“I’d rather do this myself,” I say. “That’s enough bonding for now.”
He steps out and I slam the door behind him and press the lock in with my thumb.
When I am alone, I recite five times, “Shit shit shit shit shit.”
I step over to the mirror, where of course my reflection no longer appears.
“What’s the matter with him?” my mother asks.
“I don’t know,” my father answers, sounding weary. “It was only a little cut.”
I consider what to do. My face is slithering with shaving cream. But not in the mirror. The foam is dropping on my shirt. I hold up my hand right next to the mirror and press it against the cool glass. It leaves a baby’s breath trace of mist. Otherwise, nothing.
I’ll have to fly this thing blind. It’s like one of those airplane disaster movies.
“Just remember,” my father is saying through the door, “up and down, but never sideways.”
“Are you okay, Chris?” my mother pleads.
“What’s his problem?” I hear Paul ask.
My hand is shaking; I raise my razor to my face again. I am surrounded by the accusatory stares of the wall cockatoos.
Carefully, I drag the razor down my lip again.
I touch it with my finger.
More red. I start licking. The shaving cream is not as sweet as it smells. The blood is good and salty. There isn’t much from just two wounds.
So I take another couple of exploratory scrapes with the razor. Without the mirror this is just a joke. I am cutting the hell out of my face.
And I’m loving it. I’m licking and licking like I am one big happy Fudgsicle; and pretty soon, I’m laughing, and the jazzy cockatoos and cockatrices are laughing with me.
Mom and Dad and Paul are still calling in to me, “Chris, are you okay?” “Chris, is it going all right?” “Hey, Chris, you done? I gotta whizz.” But I can barely contain myself. I’ve dropped the razor in the sink, and I’m standing there, as light as invisibility, and licking, and laughing, and licking.
I laugh and laugh.
“This is . . . I mean! Oh! Can you . . . ?” I hoot, and no one understands.
I need to wait for the bleeding to die down before I can unlock the door. I have to wait for the blood to clot.
“What’s taking you so long, Chris?” asks my mother.
Paul snorts, “Like it’s shaving he’s doing for the first time in there.”
“Paul!” says my mother. “You apologize to Chris! When he comes out.”
When the blood clots, which is quickly, and I reappear, I have a couple of small triangular cuts that don’t amount to much. I have three thin red lines on my upper lip, like a mustache drawn with a ruler in red pen.
That is the story of my first shave.
The day after my first shave Rebecca Schwartz and I talk. I am feeling very sleepy because I didn’t sleep much the night before.
She says, “Oh, Chris, what happened to your face?”
I instinctively flip my tongue up to feel the three crusted lines.
I shrug and look at the metal leg of a desk. “I, you know. I had this shaving accident,” I say.
She winces. “Looks like it hurt,” she says.
“Yeah,” I say. We stare at each other.
She suggests, “Next time leave the rototiller outside.”
Then someone calls for her, and she excuses herself and walks away.
She floats above the