I shrug. “So then I’ll be back before you’re even done. It’s fine, Jackson. Relax. And get back in line. That dude just cut in front of you.”
He spins with a growl, and shoves the line-cutter to the side with such force that I feel bad for him. He did cut line – sort of – but only because Jackson was half in, half out.
While he’s distracted with the scuffle he just started, I turn on my heels – which are actually sneakers tonight – and move toward the massive brick structure that is, by and large, the only building in a twenty-mile radius.
It’s like, somewhere in the last couple decades, the women got sick of peeing in the shadows. They got sick of the dirt being so dry that their pee bounced back up and marked their shoes. So someone built something that I’m certain never received engineering approval.
Single layer bricks, a little wonky, and as I walk toward it, I vow to never pee when it’s windy. Someday, someone will die while pooping. And that’s not how I want to go down.
I make my way toward the building, and though I keep my eyes peeled for anyone that might like to mess with “Jackson’s girl”, I make it to the block without having to stop even once. My bag remains secure over my shoulder, the strap nestled comfortably between my breasts. The compartment is zippered closed, its contents safe, as I rush into the single unoccupied toilet stall, and pass women trying to check their makeup without a real mirror.
Someone installed steel cutoffs to the wall. Shiny steel, reflective steel, but still, they’re not mirrors, and applying makeup using them as an aid is out of the question.
I wanted to get away from Jackson and the crowd because I needed space. Because Bryan’s appearing and vanishing act wigged me out. But I really do need to pee too, so I lock the flimsy door, and drop my pants.
The noise outside the stall is loud. Women giggling. Men catcalling. Cars roaring. The women drink and either bitch or build each other up with sentiments like, “You’re the hottest chick here tonight, Lara. And if he can’t see that, then he doesn’t deserve you!”
Track bathrooms are much the same as bathrooms in a club, I suppose. Loud noise, drunk women, and prowling men. It’s a universal truth that I have zero inclination to join in.
None of the drivers are allowed to drink. It’s a hard rule, apparently. Which is great and all, except that rule doesn’t apply to spectators. Which means this place is filled to the brim each weekend with drunk women and sober men. It would be a fine combination, of course, if all men were honorable. But alas… my cynical side insists many are not.
Finishing up, I wipe, pull up my jeans, fix the button, and try my damnedest not to touch anything.
It’s like I can feel the germs on me. The filth of thousands of other people’s uncleanliness. So I touch only what I must, I elbow the door open, move to the filthy sink, and do my best with the bottle of antibacterial soap and a cold tap.
I wash up so thoroughly that the other people in here begin to stare, then I shut the tap off and go in search of the tiny bottle of sanitizer I tucked into my bag before I left the house tonight. I learned last weekend that the bathroom was a cesspool of ick, so I planned ahead.
When I’m done, I slide the tiny bottle back into my bag, only to zip it up with a last glance at what’s inside.
Lara and some other chick whose name I didn’t catch continue to discuss “Derek’s” intentions with “that other chick” as I step out of the brightly lit space.
From concrete, to dirt, to nothing, my feet come off the ground with a fast sweep. My breath is knocked from my lungs, like I’ve accidentally stepped onto a football field, and the two-hundred-pound defensive tackle dude has mistaken me for the other team.
A shoulder digs into my stomach as I’m thrown upward, then my back slams to the outside of the toilet block, but now I’m in the dark. I’m in the space we’re told not to go.
“Madilyn.”
I still. My stomach threatens to revolt, and my heart pounds so heavily that I worry it might completely stop. My hat sits askew – his hat – but even in the dark, his eyes bore into mine.
He pins me to the wall, his chest pressed to mine, his hips pressed to mine. His leg is between mine so I’m essentially straddling him, but he doesn’t lift his leg. He doesn’t touch what he’s not supposed to touch.
His nose is just inches from mine, and his breath – minty – plays over my lips. “You didn’t return my fuckin’ hat,” he seethes. “Your week is up, and I have no hat.”
With shaking hands, I reach up, but he stops me. Wraps his broad hand around my wrist like a cuff, then slams my arm back against the brick until the coarse exterior bites into my skin.
“Not that one,” he growls. “You know which one I want. I told you I wanted it, and I’m reasonably confident I used my manners.”
“You didn’t.” I lick my lips, not to be seductive, but to moisten them. And yet, when his eyes flip down, my stomach warms. “I’m not sure you possess manners. You’re rude, obstinate, obnoxious, and grating.”
“Such pretty words.” He comes closer. Closer. Closer until the tip of his nose touches mine. “Fancy words for a fancy girl.”
I shrug. Or at least, I try to shrug. “I went to college.”
He snorts. “And I didn’t. You’re so fancy, Madilyn. Is that what you want? To be made to feel superior? Does your soul thrive, knowing that you’re too good for everyone around you? Is that why you date Fuckface? Because his family has money?”
“I date no one for their money, I have my own. And despite what you think you know about me, I know how to live on canned food and rationing portions. Despite my fancy words, I’m just a person. Just like you. Just like everyone else.”
He scoffs. “You’re nothing like me. You’re a spoiled fucking brat that doesn’t know when to sit your ass down and shut the hell up.” He presses harder against me. So hard that my lungs struggle to fill. “Where’s my hat?”
“Ya know, my family tried to train me to sit down and shut up too.” I push back against him. It achieves nothing, but the fact I can do anything right now, while this man touches me from toes to head, means something to me. “They want pretty little women who know their place in the world. They want us to be knowledgeable on all things current; fashion, gossip, politics, and business. Because if, god forbid, we’re asked to speak, we’re not allowed to sound stupid. But the general consensus is that we shouldn’t speak.” I try to shove him back. “It’s the way it is in my world.”
“Yeah? In my world, the women won’t shut the fuck up. They’re current too; on sass, on family gossip, on whatever bullshit makes them laugh. Seems you’d fit right in. Now, where’s my fucking hat?”
“Who was that girl last week?”
He scowls. “What girl? I went home alone last week. I had to ice my balls, because this stuck-up bitch that literally didn’t know me, knocked them into my throat.”
I laugh. It’s definitely not a ha-ha laugh, but something more. Something dangerous.
“That’s twice in one week I’ve been called a bitch,” I hiss. “Soon I’m going to snap, and I’m warning you, you don’t wanna be the dude that catches two decades of attitude after so much repression. Who was the little girl?”