Then, in her mind, while the two men kiss and touch her, is Miss
Stubin.
Telling her something.
Janie struggles to listen. She remembers liking that old lady for some reason.
Cigarette, Miss Stubin says in Janie’s mind.
“I need a cigarette,” Janie whispers.
Use your lighter, Miss Stubin says. In your pocket.
“I need a cigarette,” Janie says louder. “Now.”
Coach Crater goes inside and comes back with a joint. “How’s this, Buffy?”
“Okay.” Janie takes the joint with a shrug and reaches into her pocket.
She didn’t know she had a lighter. Maybe the old maid put it there.
And then the words register, from what Coach Crater just said.
Janie.
Does not like.
To be called.
Buffy.
Janie reels back against the deck’s handrail, stumbling, grabs Coach’s arm off her breast, wrenches his elbow around so he twirls and faces the other way, and she kicks him, hard, in the kidneys. “Don’t call me
‘Buffy,’” she says mildly. “Ever again.”
His feet splay sideways and he lands with a thud on the wet deck, moaning.
Janie pulls the lighter from her pocket as Mr. Wang stares. She examines it, puts the joint in her mouth, and pulls back the lid.
She tries lighting it.
No fire comes out.
She tries it again.
Mr. Wang is confused, looking at Coach Crater, who is groaning and barely moving on the deck.
“Get me a fucking lighter that works, or I’ll beat the shit out of you, too,” she says to Mr. Wang, and sinks to the deck, exhausted. When her hip starts buzzing, she just figures it’s one of those weird things that have been happening all night.
She looks at Coach Crater. He’s sprawled every which way. His hands are reaching. Reaching for her leg. She watches them, like it’s not happening to her. She focuses on his fingers, thinking how weird fingers are. Like little animals, all their own.
He’s wearing a strange, square ring. She wants it, sort of. It looks cool, like he belongs to something.
Mr. Wang returns with a lighter just as Janie’s hip buzzes again. Maybe she’ll have to have her whole leg amputated, she thinks sadly. That would really suck.
She lights the joint and inhales the smoke. Holds it in. Lets it out slowly. Mr. Wang falls to the deck next to her and starts kissing her cleavage.
She doesn’t like that, she decides. He’s in her way. She’s trying to smoke a joint here.
She makes a peace sign with her fingers, marveling over them. Then, when Mr. Wang grabs her nipple in his mouth, she stabs him in the eyeballs.
She learned that somewhere.
She doesn’t know where.
Mr. Wang swings his fist wildly, crying out in pain. He catches her on the jaw, her head flies back and hits the deck’s rail, and she blacks out.
The joint burns down between her fingers.
NOT ALL RIGHT
March 5, 2006, 6:13 a.m.
Janie is dreaming. She’s dreaming Stacey’s dream, over and over again, and she’s dreaming that she can’t pull out of it. She tries. Hard.
But she’s stuck on the rapist in the backseat.
Over and over again, the dream pauses on the rapist’s hands. And then she sees it.
She gasps awake and sits up wildly, even though she’s numb. “Oh god,” she croaks, her voice gone. She can’t see. But someone is talking, rubbing her hands, her arms. Soothing her with his voice.
She’s breathing hard, in and out, and she cries hot tears, because all she wants is to open her eyes. But they feel open.
“I need my glasses,” she cries out in a broken voice. “I can’t see.”
“Janie, it’s me, Cabel. I’m right here. I have your glasses, and you’ll be able to see in a few minutes. You’re safe.” His voice breaks and he pauses. “You’re safe. Just sit back and rest. Wait for it. You’ll see shadows in a minute, and then everything else will come back, okay?”
Janie slumps back.
She shudders, but she can’t remember why.
She tries to breathe, in and out.
“What time is it?” she whispers.
“Six fifteen.”