Fake Slap
Fake Slap
Outside the car window is sunny—the clouds are below us, sitting on the water. My mom says that she hopes the tourists are enjoying it, the sunny day, and her boyfriend, Al, snorts and turns his head like he always does. The tourists are our bread and butter, my mom says. Not just ours, but the whole town’s, ever since the mill where my grandpa worked closed down. But I still see big clouds of smoke that look like all kinds of stuff hanging over its smokestacks. It doesn’t seem closed down, but my mom says it might as well be.
Today we’re going to the store to get stuff for camping—we’re supposed to be going camping, me, my mom, and Al. Me and my mom have gone on plenty of trips before and they were real fun. But we never went with any of her boyfriends before, and Al’s the worst yet. I’m gonna stay with my grandma and grandpa while they’re gone, and I said so last night, but everyone just got mad and even today it hasn’t worn off. My mom doesn’t want to hear anything about how I’m not going. Al doesn’t care one way or the other; he’s just mad all the time anyway.
My mom and Al are out of the car before the engine even dies. I want to stay in the car, but a second before my mom’s going to hit on my window I get out too. My eyes fuzz up when the real sunlight hits them, like they always do when I don’t sleep and just lie in bed thinking stuff that’s nowhere near as good as having a dream or something. Come on, my mom says. Al’s already in the store.
We’re all standing in an aisle and instead of looking at candles and bug spray, we’re looking at rows of cardboard boxes that have pictures on them—kids having a great time on the air mattress or blow-up animal that’s stuffed inside. We had an air mattress a couple of summers ago, and just the smell of the plastic makes me remember me and my mom packing up to go to that cool lake across the mountains where they had paddleboats and a big slide that shot you right into the water. Whoa, look at this, my mom says, pointing to a picture of a purple cartoony dragon. Yeah, we’d own the lake with that thing, Al says, but not like he believes it, or even cares anything about a lake. Right after he says we’d own the lake, my mom says she has to go to the bathroom and is gone.
Me and Al hate it when we end up alone around each other, without my mom to talk to us, and now that she’s gone he’s putting his detective eyes all over the selection of boxes like he needs to pick one out fast. The first time I ever saw Al was on the TV, in a movie that had my mom laughing before it was even in the VCR. She made us popcorn with yeast and butter and chili powder to watch it with, and there he was, a worn-out looking detective with the dark chin and bags under his eyes. He was on to something big; people tried to kill him, and he killed them instead. He looks like that detective in real life, too, even looking at air mattresses.
Like he knows what I’m thinking, he asks me out of nowhere if I remember him slapping that guy in his movie. I do remember and he asks if I want to see how they do it, how they slap each other in Hollywood. I guess, I say. He puts the side of my hand, the thumb side, up to my cheek and says to hold it open, palm out, so that it’s waiting for him to slap it down– kind of like waiting for a high-five right next to my cheek. When he slaps my palm I should turn with the slap’s direction, hold my mouth, and maybe whimper some. He says to not flinch and to keep my hand right where it is. I do and he slaps it hard away, so that it cracks and makes my palm sting, and I turn and put my head down and whimper. I can tell it comes off perfect and that people would have been fooled. Now you do me, he says. It’s weird, but I jump up and slap his hand from his face and he turns away from me with a moan. It’s something—it really looks and even feels like I jump up and slap him. C’mon, he says, and we leave the aisle and start looking down others. We get to one that has a couple in it—they look like tourists. Al gives me a look and we walk a little way towards them and then stand looking at whatever’s on the shelves in front of us. After a second Al gives me another look and a nod. My hand goes to my face and his face goes real mean and pissed-off looking like I’ve seen it plenty of times before. “I told you to shut up!” he yells, and slaps my hand away even harder than before. This time I really go for it and cry out while turning with the slap and cupping my mouth in both my hands. My head’s hanging down towards the floor and I sneak a look up above my fingers to the tourist couple. Their eyes are all on me and Al, back and forth, like they don’t know what to do. They even look kind of afraid. I should tell them it’s fake, but I just keep my hand on my mouth, and Al’s not saying anything either. The scene’s over, but I’m not gonna be the one to break it, so we’re just there, stuck, holding onto our roles.
by Chainblade Livingston
