you hollow out my hungry eyes

Stain sat against the wall, watching his mother’s with half-lidded eyes. She took a paisley printed scarf from her dresser and wrapped it delicately around her head. Wisps of butter-yellow hair escaped, and the lady laughed as if she was young again. She wore a denim dress and creamy stockings, looking lovely and simple.

“Darling, hand me my shoes, will you?”

Next to him, Stain reached over and grabbed a pair of burgundy flats. He handed them to her shyly before creeping back to his corner. Although his mother was bewitching, her room scared him. An old fizzy television was turned up loudly with brash dialogue spewing out. He tried to concentrate on only his mother strapping her shoes.

“Where are you going?” he asked.

“Nowhere,” she answered.

“But, you have to be going somewhere,” he insisted.

She held her chin, looking thoughtful. “Well, I suppose then I could be going anywhere.”

“Anywhere?”

She bent down and looked at her son. He was pale and small, like a whisper. She smiled and kissed his head. For a moment, she felt like a mother, but the feeling was quickly replaced by a denial.

“Anywhere,” she confirmed, getting up.

Without another word, she walked out of poorly air-conditioned house, grabbing a sequined clutch on her way out. He called out goodbye but she must not have heard him. He watched her from the doorway, wondering when she would return.

She never did, though.

A very feminine woman wearing satin gloves and red heart-shaped sunglasses posed in Stain’s drawing.

“Very interesting,” regarded his brother, “but you forgot her cigarette.”

“Mom never smoked.”

“You’re drawing Mom?”

Stain looked up. “Who else would I attempt?”

His brother smirked. “The girl in your art class.”

“Molly Connolly? Are you kidding me? That crazy bitch?”

“You say that, but you knew exactly who I was referring to when I assumed. And also, I’ve seen your stash.”

Stain plastered a look of incredibility on his face. “What stash?”

“The stash of pictures you have of her in your room,” his brother clarified. “And in every picture you draw, she’s holding a cigarette. What is she, a chain smoker? And hey, what are you, her stalker?”

Stain shook his head quickly, dismissing both questions.

“Do you like her?”

“No,” Stain answered truthfully. “I don’t.”

“So, you just feel compelled to draw her every day and store the pictures away?”

Narrowing his eyes Stain said, “Yeah, actually. That’s all.”

His brother walked away, shaking his head like a jellyfish, tendrils of dreadlocked hair swishing every which way.

Stain watched him go, and then returned to his drawing. Was this what his mother had looked like? She had been the only woman he had desired to draw before he had met Molly. Now, he stared at the picture and wondered if that was his mother’s face or Molly’s. Was he forgetting his mother’s face by replacing it with hers?

He erased the whole picture and drew the fizzy television instead as a distraction.

…

Emilia crossed her legs, uncrossed them, and then finally sat with her legs folded under her until she found comfort. Molly gave her an odd look that Emilia chose to ignore.

Emilia was fancy and rather futile for a friend. Her last name was a rich blend of Spanish syllables and her clothes spoke of wealth and couture. Along with her foreign glamour, Emilia was variably vicious and sweet.

Their friendship was more of a stench than a bond. They didn’t promise each other anything. There were no birthday present exchanges. No sleepovers. Definitely no talk of grades and gossip. The only thing that held them together was a need and an understanding. The girls were both neurotic and agitated. Both of them walked as if they were asphyxiated but immortal. Like queens or actresses cut out from a black-and-white film with faux fur coats and too many eyelashes, they held their bony shoulders high and sunk in their stomachs and strutted. Their faces however, were blank and apathetic. Emilia resembled painted porcelain. Molly was a broken kaleidoscope.

When they were together, they talked about the forbidden, the unanswerable, and the painful. They filled their heads with beautiful ideas and torturing facts. They talked about the things people can only talk about when they’re high. A joint rested between Molly’s forefingers like a teddy bear. Emilia dangled hers like she was holding a doll.

Molly had called Emilia to tell her about Stain. She was obsessing over him and assumed that if she finally poured her heart to someone, the obsession would fade away.

Emilia and Molly had never spoken about boys, relationships, or sex before. Emilia had all her petty, popular friends to discuss those matters with. And, Molly didn’t have any friends like that. Her friends were vague and worldly. They talked about art, film, and politics.

Unsure of how Emilia was going to react, Molly waited for a few minutes. She supposed Stain was an exception. She wasn’t obsessed with him because she liked him or anything. She just…it just…she didn’t know. He was compelling. He was an asshole. He wouldn’t leave her alone. Inevitably, he confused her.

With simple, blunt sentences, this was how Molly revealed to Emilia the boy. In the aftermath, she also revealed the “night incident.”

Emilia listened, fascinated.

“Well?” Molly asked afterwards.

“Well, what?” Emilia echoed, lazily. Molly couldn’t help but think of a cat when she saw Emilia’s eyes. Green and honey-brown hues waltzed around her pupil, creating a deep rich hazel that had the ability to look amused, irritated, and sleepy simultaneously.

“What do I do?”

“You don’t know?”

Molly glared. “Listen, I wouldn’t have told you about him if I didn’t know.”

“I guess not.”

“Well?”

“Well, well, well. Is that all you ever say?” Emilia said with a moody accent. “I don’t know what you should do. If I was in your position, I would get rid of the boy. But you’re not me, Molly, so I’m not sure what to do. By the sound of it, Stale sounds like a creeper. You like ‘em, creepy?”

“I don’t like creepers!” Molly objected. Shyly, she added, “And his name’s Stain. Stain Kershaw.”

“Oh, excuse me. You’re just intrigued by him—Stain Kershaw.”

“Yeah.”

Laughing, Emilia leaped off of Molly’s bed and turned to leave. She tossed her dark mane over her shoulder and raised her eyebrows. “Little Molly,” she cooed, leaning against the doorway. “You want to know what I do to boys when I’m not sure about them?”

“What do you do, Em?”

“I screw them.” Emilia shrugged and gave a sinister grin. Molly was reminded of her old cat Mildew who left mice carcasses on their front step every morning. Mildew was a mess, always waiting for Molly to come out so he could strut around proud of what he’d done. Mildew and mice. Emilia and men.

“You mean, like…like, sex?”

This cued another laugh. “Maybe I shouldn’t advise that to you, but that’s what I do, and afterwards, I always have a good, solid answer.”

She walked out, only stopping to wave a faint goodbye.

Molly couldn’t help regretting Emilia’s abrupt leave, but it was unavoidable. Emilia always had plans after plans after plans.

And in the end, it hadn’t done Molly any good to call Emilia anyways, had it? Emilia had laughed at Molly and her temporary infatuation, making her feel childish and obvious. And she wasn’t going to screw Stain. The idea felt like metal in her mouth. It wasn’t that Stain was ugly or repulsive. She just couldn’t imagine it. After all, he was almost her rival, although it had always been him playing the part of the bully. Molly had attempted to defend herself, but when she really thought about it, her attempts had been halfhearted. She told herself it was because she was a pacifist, but a part of her couldn’t help but wonder if it was because she secretly agreed with everything he had said.

Molly was full of wonder. Her thoughts became circles and threads. The last thing she remembered wondering about was if Stain’s hands were as callused as hers.

The days after the incident went by with tension but no words were exchanged again in the art class. Stain had kept his promise, leaving Molly alone. It was Molly that tried to speak to Stain. She tried to describe to him how much she loved the Durer picture. She had dubbed it a masterpiece. He had only said, “Of course.” She tried small talk and his answers were so mocking and lame that she was forced to stop. And so, without realizing it, they began to ignore each other. It wasn’t that they were beginning to forget. Oh, that was impossible. They had just simply begun stalling their repartees and meek commentaries until their overall contact was on hold. Of course, there were still the occasional—one might even say, ritual—splashed glances or secret glares even though they both inwardly swore they were trying to forget the other’s face. Molly, especially. She was so embarrassed and confused. She tried to force herself to stop staring at his face all the time. Instead, she got in the habit of doodling it. First, over her binders and textbooks and notes. Then, in the midst of her room, she accidently painted him.

It was as if the more she tried to forget him, the more she thought about him. They had to find a balance. Molly was strewn everywhere. Her secrets were broken like eggshells and cheap jewelry.

She wasn’t sure about anything these days.