hated it in movies and plays, the woman who is ripped open by violence and then asked to parcel out redemption for the rest of her life.
"I forgive you," I said. I said what I had to. I would die by pieces to save myself from real death.
He perked up. Looked at me. "You're a beautiful girl," he said.
"Can I take my purse?" I asked. I was afraid to move without his permission. "My books?"
He went back to business now. "You said you had eight dollars?" He took it from my jeans. It was wrapped around my license. It was a photo ID. New York State didn't have them yet but Pennsylvania did.
"What is this?" he asked. "Is this one of them meal cards I can use at McDonald's?"
"No," I said. I was petrified of him having my identification.
Leaving with anything other than what he had: all of me, except my brain and my belongings. I wanted to leave the tunnel with both of them.
He looked at it a moment longer until he was convinced. He did not take my great-grandmother's sapphire ring, which had been on my hand the whole time. He was not interested in that kind of thing.
He handed me my purse and the books I'd bought that afternoon with my mother.
"Which way you going?" he asked.
I pointed. "All right," he said, "take care of yourself."
I promised that I would. I started walking. Back out over the ground, through the gate to which I'd clung a little over an hour before, and onto the brick path. Going farther into the park was the only way toward home.
A moment later.
"Hey, girl," he yelled at me.
I turned. I was, as I am in these pages, his.
"What's your name?"
I couldn't lie. I didn't have a name other than my own to say. "Alice," I said.
"Nice knowing you, Alice," he yelled. "See you around sometime."
He ran off in the opposite direction, along the chain-link fence of the pool house. I turned. I had done my job. I had convinced him. Now I walked.
I didn't see a soul until I reached the three short stone steps that led from the park to the sidewalk. On the opposite side of the street was a frat house. I kept walking. I remained on the sidewalk close to the park. There were people out on the lawns of the frat house. A kegger party just dying out. At the place where my dorm's street dead-ended into the park, I turned and started to walk downhill past another, larger dormitory.
I was aware I was being stared at. Party-goers coming home or grinds taking in the last bit of sober air before the summer. They talked. But I wasn't there. I heard them outside of me, but like a stroke victim, I was locked inside my body.
They came up to me. Some ran, but then stepped back when I didn't respond.
"Hey, did you see her?" they said to one another.
"She's really fucked up."
"Look at the blood."
I made it down the hill, past those people. I was afraid of everyone. Outside, on the raised platform that surrounded Marion Dorm's front door, were people who knew me. Knew my face if not my name. There were three floors in Marion, a floor of girls between two floors of boys. Outside now it was mostly the boys. One boy opened the outer door for me to let me pass through. Another held the inner one. I was being watched; how could I not have been?
At a small table near the door was the RSA—resident security assistant. He was a graduate student. A small, studious Arab man. After midnight they checked ID's of anyone trying to get in. He looked at me and then hurriedly stood.
"What has happened?" he asked.
"I don't have my ID," I said.
I stood before him with my face smashed in, cuts across my nose and lip, a tear along my cheek. My hair was matted with leaves. My clothes were inside out and bloodied. My eyes were glazed.
"Are you all right?"
"I want to go to my room," I said. "I don't have my ID," I repeated.
He waved me in. "Promise me," he said, "that you will take care of yourself."
Boys were in the stairwell. Some of the girls too. The whole dorm was still mostly awake. I walked by them. Silence. Eyes.
I walked down the
"I forgive you," I said. I said what I had to. I would die by pieces to save myself from real death.
He perked up. Looked at me. "You're a beautiful girl," he said.
"Can I take my purse?" I asked. I was afraid to move without his permission. "My books?"
He went back to business now. "You said you had eight dollars?" He took it from my jeans. It was wrapped around my license. It was a photo ID. New York State didn't have them yet but Pennsylvania did.
"What is this?" he asked. "Is this one of them meal cards I can use at McDonald's?"
"No," I said. I was petrified of him having my identification.
Leaving with anything other than what he had: all of me, except my brain and my belongings. I wanted to leave the tunnel with both of them.
He looked at it a moment longer until he was convinced. He did not take my great-grandmother's sapphire ring, which had been on my hand the whole time. He was not interested in that kind of thing.
He handed me my purse and the books I'd bought that afternoon with my mother.
"Which way you going?" he asked.
I pointed. "All right," he said, "take care of yourself."
I promised that I would. I started walking. Back out over the ground, through the gate to which I'd clung a little over an hour before, and onto the brick path. Going farther into the park was the only way toward home.
A moment later.
"Hey, girl," he yelled at me.
I turned. I was, as I am in these pages, his.
"What's your name?"
I couldn't lie. I didn't have a name other than my own to say. "Alice," I said.
"Nice knowing you, Alice," he yelled. "See you around sometime."
He ran off in the opposite direction, along the chain-link fence of the pool house. I turned. I had done my job. I had convinced him. Now I walked.
I didn't see a soul until I reached the three short stone steps that led from the park to the sidewalk. On the opposite side of the street was a frat house. I kept walking. I remained on the sidewalk close to the park. There were people out on the lawns of the frat house. A kegger party just dying out. At the place where my dorm's street dead-ended into the park, I turned and started to walk downhill past another, larger dormitory.
I was aware I was being stared at. Party-goers coming home or grinds taking in the last bit of sober air before the summer. They talked. But I wasn't there. I heard them outside of me, but like a stroke victim, I was locked inside my body.
They came up to me. Some ran, but then stepped back when I didn't respond.
"Hey, did you see her?" they said to one another.
"She's really fucked up."
"Look at the blood."
I made it down the hill, past those people. I was afraid of everyone. Outside, on the raised platform that surrounded Marion Dorm's front door, were people who knew me. Knew my face if not my name. There were three floors in Marion, a floor of girls between two floors of boys. Outside now it was mostly the boys. One boy opened the outer door for me to let me pass through. Another held the inner one. I was being watched; how could I not have been?
At a small table near the door was the RSA—resident security assistant. He was a graduate student. A small, studious Arab man. After midnight they checked ID's of anyone trying to get in. He looked at me and then hurriedly stood.
"What has happened?" he asked.
"I don't have my ID," I said.
I stood before him with my face smashed in, cuts across my nose and lip, a tear along my cheek. My hair was matted with leaves. My clothes were inside out and bloodied. My eyes were glazed.
"Are you all right?"
"I want to go to my room," I said. "I don't have my ID," I repeated.
He waved me in. "Promise me," he said, "that you will take care of yourself."
Boys were in the stairwell. Some of the girls too. The whole dorm was still mostly awake. I walked by them. Silence. Eyes.
I walked down the
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