Bogeywoman

whole minutes with the Regicide, but she had stopped somewhere to paint fresh rings around her eyes and white lipstick on her mouth. She looked calm, she specialized in that. But there was sumpm funny about her eyes besides their being a little crossed, so that you wondered if they weren’t a hair closer together than they ought to be. They looked sore, scheming and goofy all at the same time, like Ol’ Witch Hazel’s niece Little Itch in Little Lulu.

“Could I talk personal to you?” O said, squinting into my face. “You mean me?” I said. I had dreamed she would come to me and say that, but this had the feel of a grenade under her clothes and I scrunched back in the corner against a tennis racket. Suddenly I remembered O was in the bughouse like all the rest of us. And there was some story, sumpm scary, sumpm with love and a knife.

“Aaaay, you made it, ace bad job, Sidekickette,” said Bertie. She just stood there, looking up at him from the bottoms of her black-ringed eyes. “Don’t call me Sidekickette,” she said, and Bertie scratched his chin, thinking. “Hey Dion, who was that bleach-blond sidekickette on the tube who walked on knives? Busting through that paper ring with her flaming batons? Bowls of nickels pennies and quarters, right? She was a ringer for O, maybe she was O, did you maybe used to walk on knives, O, besides throwing em?” “Mary Hartline, Super Circus,” I muttered. “Hey yeah-Mary Hartline. So have a huff, Mary Hartline. We haven’t done any yet. We were, er, like, waiting for you.” “You were?” “Sure.” Just then Emily leaned around the door jamb, looking like a cross between a virgin picked for sacrifice and a unicorn, her long white hospital gown dragging on the floor and a big dab of purple merthiolate on her forehead, with the lump of unicorn horn beginning to stick out of it. “Aaaay- boss good deed, Sidekickette. Mission accomplished. We were waiting for you. How’s the dreambox?” “Don’t call her Sidekickette,” O spooky-fluted, but then they both sat down. “You start, Mary Hartline.”

But O passed and anyhow Bertie never quite opened his hand to leggo the apparatus-instead he gave a lecture demonstration. He impaled the red nose mask on a pinky and pointed to the tube the laughing gas went through. He fingered in a nasty way a little red nub of valve hanging next to it: “Know what this is for? Huh? Everybody listening? No, you don’t know what this is for. Oxygen which we don’t have, sidekicks, so don’t go too long without breathing.” And then he showed us, and Dion tried it, and Emily touched her little nose to it, and Bertie showed us again. And while he was busy showing us, O leaned over to me:

“I ain’t no bull dagger,” she whispered.

It’s a good thing I didn’t know what a bull dagger was, I mean I was the Bogeywoman, the toughest girl possible, but I’d never talked knowingly to another in my life, and Bull Dagger sounded to me sort of like a character from Oliver Twist, so I figured it was sumpm to do with parting fuddies from their bankrolls and I said, “That’s okay. I know you’re not,” although I knew she was. “I’d do it for you, though,” she let go a hot gust of some kind of spirits in my ear. I stared at her. Now I thought she was saying she had oinked Reggie for me and I was scared it might be true. “Don’t you do sumpm like that for me.” She squinted back suspiciously out of her huge, raccoony eyes and said, “Ain’t you one?” “Hump no.” “So how come you did me like that?” “Huh?” “Under the sheets.”

I was beginning to see my mistake and I felt the sweat glittering on my temples, which was sheer fear of being found out. “I didn’t do you like that,” I hissed, “you did me like that.” She thought this over. She didn’t go for it. “I oughta kill you for lying,” she spooky-fluted, “but I’d still do it for you,” she offered again, sorta fiercely, “because I like you better, you ain’t like a fuddy, you ain’t like nobody, but then you have to be mine, you colly?” “Yours?” “Mine. All mine. M-I-N-E mine.”

I was looking, just looking, at that gleaming, half-cracked, poison bait in her slightly crossed eyes, and Bertie put the red pig mask in my hand and I buried my nose in it just to get away from that look. I needed her so bad, or let’s say I needed someone so bad, I was going to say yes now and pay later whatever the bill was, I mean who cared, I was in the bughouse, what worse could happen. She could kill me lit up my dreambox, and I almost remembered that story about just how O got into Rohring Rohring, but even so I was going to say yes if what happened next hadn’t happened-I mean if Zuk hadn’t come out of nowhere to save me.

Anyhow those giant popcorn balls were sailing by, ball by huge slow ball, and I said I wonder why this is fun and Emily, refusal was her middle name, said Maybe it’s not fun, and O, who’d been skipping the gas and pulling now and then on a little two-ounce snort bottle of white rum I think it was or maybe peppermint schnapps, snatched the red gas mask and stared at me balefully and buried her nose in the thing like it was the last rose of summer. And never came up for air again. We all looked at each other, helpless doomed looks were going around like yawns, and the next thing we knew she was thrashing about in Bertie’s tennis rackets and shoes and Marvel comics and 45’s, having a convulsion.

“Cheese, what are we gonna do?” cried Emily. (Because she was eleven years old and Miss Dying Popularity, Emily was exempt from the laissez faire of Bug Motels in trouble.) The rest of us looked blank. “Aaaannh, she’ll come out of it,” Bertie crooned at last, delicately unhooking O’s fine blue fingers from the red rubber mask and hose and ferrying the appliance from her small nose to his big one, a princely triangle, shiny and freckled like a blintz.

O’s teeth were still chattering but some little bubbles that stuck to her lips showed me she was breathing, or trying to, and I remembered from Lake Sci at Camp Chunkagunk that you’re supposed to make sure the girl’s tongue isn’t stuck in her throat and there’s no plug of Double Bubble in there and she didn’t go down chewing her noseclips. (As if any tough girl in paradise, any girl whose life was worth saving, would wear noseclips!) And so I leaned over and slid two fingers through her lips, and felt around the wet satin of her mouth and over the faint callous of her tongue-which was a lot like kissing, kissing without being kissed first, and right in front of the Bug Motels too. And then I bumped along the backs of her teeth and the ridges of her palate-it seemed like everything was where it ought to be, but somehow I couldn’t stop.

And wherever she was, maybe she thought it was kissing too. (Maybe O dreamed she was lying washed up on the scratchy pebble beach at Fort Smallwood, where she once saw a drowned black girl whose bathing suit was gone, and her raspberry lips wrinkled up like a kiss that hurt, and somebody had draped a white towel across her crotch like a label they forgot to fill out.) Anyhow all of a sudden her teeth clamped down hard, so hard on my fingers I wanted to howl out loud and I could hear myself howling, far far away. But I didn’t want to scare her and of course I wasn’t howling in front of the Bug Motels, lemme die first. Finally her eyes popped wide open inside their blackened portholes and maybe she saw me, maybe she didn’t-“Sufferin cheeses,” she shrieked, at least spitting out my fingers, and leaped halfway up and threw herself with one great hand-puppet flop out of Bertie’s private closet and into Bertie’s private bathroom, and somehow her head got stuck fast, face up, between the toilet and the lead pipe that filled the tank.

And now she screamed bloody murder, and soon she really was bleeding from banging her head over and over against that pipe, bong bong bong. Emily superfluously screeched: “She’s bleeding, she’s bleeding, can’t none of you guys see she’s B-L-E-A-T-I-N-G bleeding”-I’ll never forget her spelling it like a lamb. “I’m getting a royal,” she threatened. “Don’t do that,” said Bertie smoothly, “we can take care of this-hey, easy, O, easy, be cool, don’t jump around.”

Dion tried to hold O steady-for after her shriek I wouldn’t have laid a hand on her again for a million dollars, lemme die first-and I stared at her long white throat and the flawless prow of her chin underneath (where I had a coupla black wires even then) and those flying drops of blood spattering the wall where she kept banging her forehead on the bolt that holds the tank to the toilet. Finally she held still.

Her neck stiff, her eyeballs swiveling around the room, she spooky-fluted: “Sufferin cheeses, Ursie! What the hump happened?” She looked at me pleadingly. “Could I please talk to O in private?” I said. “Like dat’s gonna help!” objected Dion delicately, “like you can muscle her dreambox outa dere all by yourself.” “Get out,” I shrieked and they finally went. After all they only had eight feet to travel back to Bertie’s private closet, where they had the whole H bomb of laughing gas to console them-and I kicked the door shut between us and the boys and said into O’s ear:

“We shouldna fed you to the Regicide.” “Aaaa who gives a gum wrapper,” she muttered. She wouldn’t meet my eye and suddenly I could tell she’d lost her way for love-didn’t I know the signs?-and of all people, right now it was me she loved. She loved me a little, that automatically put me above her, made me her boss or was it her pimp-I mean she’d take from the others and give to me-that was the way she thought. The tears were sliding backwards down her temples into her hair. And I was even more scared of her, like hanging by my fingernails, but kinda touched. “Gimme a smoke out my pocket, would ya?” she spooky-fluted. “Reggie gave me his Luckies, ya want one?” I thought it would be, er, unchristian, not that I pass myself off as a christian, not to smoke her swag, I mean